The man and the boy hike their way across a post-apocalyptic America in "The Road".

(John Hillcoat, 2009)

November 29, 2009

by Joel Crary

The other day I was opening a container of butterscotch pudding and glanced at the expiration date on the side: June 25, 2010. If the world ended tonight and everybody died but me, the freshest pre-packaged pudding would last about another eight months. I started thinking about all the parts of the world that would go berserk because I’d have no idea how to fix or maintain them. Electricity would fail. Forest fires would consume the landscape. And yes, I’d have to go roaming for food, though if I were alone, the non-perishables in supermarkets from town to town would keep me alive for years.

If I weren’t alone, and earthquakes and fire had forced humanity into survival mode, things might start to look a lot like Pennsylvania in “The Road”. Director John Hillcoat and cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe offer stunning and thoroughly bleak landscapes that appear completely bereft of wildlife. The ground is covered in volcanic ash and the few humans still clinging to life are filthy, forced to live like vagrants on the run from a lack of human decency. Humanity seems to have been ravaged by tornadoes and other natural disasters. The phrase “as the crow flies” has lost all meaning to members of the next generation.

If there’s anything that Don McKellar’s “Last Night” taught me, it’s that the end of the world needs no explanation. Explaining the how and why behind the apocalypse is a screenplay additive that should be left with cyberpunk Mad Max knock-offs from the 1980’s, the type of film that starts with a narrator or opening placard detailing the nuclear war that will happen in the year 20XX. The one element from those films that carries over into “The Road” is the wandering gang of nogoodniks with a bizarre affliction; in this case, putry-mouthed cannibals on the hunt for gasoline and weapons. Food is scarce and everyone starts acting like their soccer team’s plane has crashed in the Andes.

Nothing in Hillcoat’s film can be taken at surface value. Its characters, few in number, are nameless. They are representations of ideas, not living and breathing people. Like the Coens’ adaptation of “No Country for Old Men”, “The Road” holds tight to author Cormac McCarthy’s grim metaphors for the loss of institutions. In the former, law and order are sacrificed. This time around, it’s family – a man and his son walk to a destination that seems as sensible as any: the coast. Like “Zombieland” (yes, like “Zombieland”) released earlier this year, the coast represents a last stand, the closest thing to paradise in chaos left, an idea that instills sanity while the rest of the world crumbles.

The man is played by Viggo Mortensen, who is consistently proving himself as the Harrison Ford of the “Lord of the Rings” films. Mortensen appears dangerously thin and appropriately haggard in the role, using his eyes and crow’s feet packed with dirt to express helplessness and desperation. The boy is Kodi Smit-McPhee, a choir boy being shown the harsh realities of the world. His mother (Charlize Theron) is also seen in flashback, abandoning the men, walking out into the cold desolation and dying somewhere.

Death is thick in the atmosphere. The man sleeps with a six shooter, originally loaded with two bullets, then with one. He teaches his sons how to kill himself, viewing death by his own hand as vastly preferable to capture. They scavenge farms and roadsides on their way to the coast, sometimes finding food, sometimes not. They discover a horde of malnutritioned victims kept in a makeshift meat locker. A woman and her young child are pursued across a field and killed by a bloodthirsty mob. We’re the good guys, the man has explained to his son, who doubts that he can tell the difference anymore.

The film is about fatherhood, I think – the pain and unanswered questions that a father experiences in trying to raise a son into the world, making honest efforts to protect him in spite of the badness, the seemingly relentless nature of a society to pick apart innocence and leave only the fragile bones behind. He “carries the fire” in transporting his son, the narrative’s only source of warmth and compassion, the truth of all of which we are capable. Screenwriter Joe Penhall brings forward the moments in McCarthy’s text that test his characters morally. Their decisions colour whether or not the entire world gets any worse. Nick Cave, who wrote the screenplay for Hillcoat’s “The Proposition”, here supplies music that turns the production into a melancholy tone poem.

The man sees his own goodness in his son, completely transferred and gone from himself, crushed under the realities of the harsh environment. He trusts with his eyes and ears, keeps watching his son, listening for his voice. “He is my warrant,” the man explains in voice-over: “If he is not the word of God, then God never spoke.” They encounter an old man (Robert Duvall) with cataracts who understands the burden of keeping the only remaining evidence of God alive. “If there’s a God, he’s turned his back on us,” he chuckles into the dead night with vomit on his lips.

When the Good Samaritan encountered the suffering man on the road, he was stripped naked and robbed. There is a scene in “The Road” that shows these circumstances reversed – a man is forced to strip naked by the Samaritan, who has one bullet left in his gun. The son of the man, the emblem of his only remaining compassion, implores his mercy. They cannot find the man again but leave his clothes and a tin of food where he stood. Mistakes are made in the cold, cruel world that cannot be unmade. They coat the heart in ash and we are left to wander, in search of the infinite, hoping that it will have mercy on us.

Pongámonos en antecedentes:

Soy estudiante de Traducción. Vivo en Valencia. En la Universidad de Valencia sólo está el segundo ciclo de la licenciatura de Traducción e Intepretación, pero no el primero. ¿Y cómo hago el segundo sin hacer el primero? “Ah, eso ya no es problema nuestro”, dirían los responsables.

Por lo tanto, las opciones se reducen a las siguientes:

- Estudiar en la Universidad Europea de Madrid: Lo hice durante un año, luego hubo ciertos cambios en la enseñanza y en el plan de estudios y hui.

- Ir a estudiar a la Universitat Jaume I, en Castellón: Cosa que estoy haciendo actualmente, pero sin tener piso allí, por lo que voy y vengo cada día. Yuju.

Por cierto, en ambas opciones se estudia con el Plan Bolonia. Sí, Bolonia, el Anticristo de la educación y blablablabla. No es tan malo como lo pintan. Os lo digo yo, que de esto sé de aquí a Lima. O no.

Volviendo al apasionante tema de mis desplazamientos, si por casualidad os encontráis en mi misma situación, sabréis de lo que hablo. Si no, no sabéis la suerte que tenéis, mangurrianes.

Para ponernos a tono, clicad aquí para escuchar Train Long Suffering, de Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. No os preocupéis, se abrirá en una ventana nueva, porque si se abriese en ésta, no podríais seguir leyéndome, ¡y eso sería terrible!

Yo vivo en Valencia, por lo que para ir a Castellón he de coger el tren. Y para coger el tren (una hora de trayecto, más o menos) he de levantarme pronto. MUY pronto. Tan pronto como las cinco de la mañana. Bueno, las cinco y doce, para ser exactos. Y os aseguro que levantarse a las cinco de la mañana es horrible. Coger el autobús para ir a la estación no es que sea una actividad agradable, pero es mejor que caminar. Y, eh, ¡ya me conozco a los conductores y a los pasajeros! ¡Bien!

Pero el tren… Aaaay, el tren. Al principio pensé “bueno, no está tan mal… Podré escuchar música, leer, ultimar mis planes para conquistar Europa… Estará bien”. Eso fue la primera semana. Exclusivamente. A partir de la segunda semana, empecé a odiar a la locutora que grazna “Cercanías RENFE, destino: Castellón. Vía 1, sector 1. Salida inmediata.” “RENFE les desea un feliz viaje”. ¿Feliz viaje? ¿Feliz viaje? A las seis de la mañana (el tren de las 6:10, concretamente) no existe la felicidad.

De todos los horrores que me han acosado, a la RENFE he de culpar

Ahora que vamos acabando, clicad aquí para escuchar otra canción sobre trenes (qué festival), 2:19 de Tom Waits. Escuchadla. Que está bien. Que sí, hombre, que sí. Que está bien. Escuchadla, ché.

laro, algunos diréis “¡No te quejes, pedazo de estúpido! ¡Siempre puedes echar una cabezada/doblar el gorro en el tren!”. Ya lo he intentado, pero a ver quién duerme con el traqueteo, el ruido, la sirena de aviso de cierre de puertas, los anuncios de “próxima parada: la infelicidad” y todo lo demás. Bueno, a decir verdad, hay gente que puede. Ya lo creo que puede. Hasta babean mientras duermen y balbucean cosas como “hrrrrrrnnnnn llegotardemevanadespedirquébuenaestálasecretaria…”

Lo peor es que los trenes me han arruinado la vida. Es oír el vocablo “tren” y venirme abajo. Ni siquiera puedo decir ya “no eres más tonto porque no te entrenas” porque me lloran los ojos, me falta la respiración y el brazo izquierdo se me agarrota.

De momento he demandado a la RENFE por daños psicológicos. Ya os contaré cómo va.

“I just want you to be happy
That’s my only little wish”

Just The Right Bullets, Tom Waits
 
 

“You ain’t got no money?
He’ll get you some
You ain’t got no car?
He’ll get you one
You ain’t have no self-respect,
you feel like an insect
Well don’t you worry buddy,
‘cause here he comes”

Red Right Hand, Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

 
 
 
Hi, it’s me, Javi! Since I started writing this blog –excuse me, Mr. Paws, since you and I started writing this blog, I’ve received tons of e-mails, from “What is this stupid piece of shit? It looks like it has been written by a chimpanzee! Oh, it has? Then it’s terrific!” to “This is the most marvelous piece of literature I’ve ever read! You should apply for the Nobel Prize!”. Well, I once was, but I didn’t win it. It’s all politics, you know.
I’ve also received a mail offering me discounts for buying Viagra, but it had little or nothing to do with the blog (I hope).
 
Anyway, everybody told me that the songs weren’t playing. It is true. I was using a server which does not work if you aren’t logged in from MY computer or whatsoever. Anyway, from now on CLICK on every blue word you see. It will take you to a new world of color, imagination, music and apes! C’mon, click on the songs at the beginning of the post if you haven’t done it yet!
Oh, and the web from which I extracted the lyrics from the Tom Waits’ songs has been closed. That’s a shame, because the lyrics had annotations explaining each reference and everything. But, on the good side, Tom Waits’ official website has been remade, and now it has audio and video player, quotes, and LYRICS TO EVERY SONG, so, thumbs up!
 
And now, let me tell you the story of how I came to use WordPress instead of Blogspot, the most common choice when it comes to blog writing. It is a story which I named:
 
 

 
 
Once upon a time, there was a young, handsome, intelligent, witty and extremely charismatic boy. This marvelous example of human being (let’s call him, I don’t know, Javi, for example) was a Translation student, and one day, as he went home, he found a massive block of stone in front of his home which read:
 
 

“THOU SHALL WRITE A BLOG”

 
 
Astounded by the size of the stone and by the fact that one could accomplish such an example of good calligraphy when writing on granite, he decided that it was time to become a man and start doing whatever the giant stones that he may find told him to do. He rushed to his bedroom, screaming “GET OUT OF MY FREAKIN’ WAY, THE GIANT STONE TOLD ME TO WRITE A BLOG!!” to whomever dared to step on his way and turned on his computer.
 
“Oh, I’m so excited!” said Javi “I’m going to have a blog! Now everybody will be able to read the brilliant ideas that cross my mind every second!”
 
 
**Meanwhile, inside Javi’s brain…**
 
“Hey, John, where’s Wilbur?” asked a lonely neuron, “John? John? Wilbur? Graham? Eric? …Anybody?”
 
 
 
**Back to Javi’s bedroom**
 
“But, where to host my blog? Blogspot or WordPress? WordPress or Blogspot? Blogspot? WordPress? BLOGSPOT?! WORDPRESS?!” wondered Javi annoyingly.
“STOP THAT SCREAMING!” howled a growly voice.
“…God? Is that you?” asked Javi, knowing that God may had a personal bone to pick against him.
“Guess again” said the voice, and, from a cloud of black smoke, appeared Tom Waits.
 
 

“Guess again”

 
 
“Tom Waits?!” cried happily Javi “this is the best day of my life! I’m your biggest fan!”
“I don’t think so, kid, you’re just about 1’77. Anyway, I’m here to help you.”
“Help me? Tom Waits is going to help me? This is the best day of my life! I’m your big–“
“Shut it! You said that before!” said Waits, angrily “I’ve come to tell you to choose WordPress. It’s cleaner, it’s more professional, it begins with a W, like Waits, what more can you ask for?”
“You’re right,” said Javi “count me in”
“Not so fast, kid” said a somber voice
“…God? Is that you this time, right?” asked Javi
“Well, you could certainly say that ‘God Is In The House’”, said the voice, and, in a flash of light, Nick Cave appeared.
 
 

“Well, you could certainly say that ‘God Is In The House’”

 
 
“Nick Cave?!” cried happily Javi “this is the best day of my life! I’m your biggest fan!”
“I don’t think so, kid,” said Cave “you’re just about 1’77. Anyway, I’m here to help you”
“I think I’m having a déjà vu…” said Javi
“Yes, me too” growled Waits
“Shut up, Waits! I will win this time! You’ll never drag this kid into WordPress!” screamed Cave with a profound, dark voice “Javi, I want you to choose Blogspot. You can add tons of widgets, and it begins with a B, like Nick Bave, what more can you ask for?”
“I thought your last name was ‘Cave’, not ‘Bave’, Nicky” teased Waits
“…Touché. Anyway, Javi, what do you say? If you choose Blogspot, you will be able add an automatic audio player that will activate automatically each time a visitor enters your blog!”
“But I thought that blog readers don’t like automatic audio players,” said Javi “in fact, every time I enter a blog and a song begins to play without me wanting it to, I curse the author’s name”
“He calls upon the author to explain, Nicky!” laughed Waits. “You see, kid, that’s why you should choose WordPress. Sure, it does not allow you to add widgets, but you can always add a link to an external server to play the song”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right…” said Javi “I’m sorry, Nick, but I choose WordPress. But don’t worry, you’re still my second favorite artist!”
“Second? SECOND? Who’s first?” asked Cave, furious.
“Well… Tom Waits.”
“HA! Put that on your pipe and smoke it, Nick!” said Waits with a wicked grin.
“This is not over yet, Tom!” screamed Cave “If I can’t take this kid with me, I’ll take another! You will never win!” and, in a blink, he disappeared.
 
Astounded, Javi asked Waits what did Cave mean.
“Well, you see, when we aren’t songwriting, we like to get people to write blogs. Nick is a Blogspot man, while I prefer WordPress” explained Waits
“Wow… You must be REALLY bored!”
“Hey, it’s a way as good as any other to spend your time. You should try it” proposed Waits
“Er– Maybe later, thank you” declined Javi “Anyway, when do I get to sink my teeth in my brand new WordPress blog?”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot. Let there be a blog!” exclaimed Waits, and a stream of golden powder flowed from the palm of his hand.
 
 

“Let there be a blog!”

 
 
“…That was really nice, but where the heck is my blog?” asked Javi
“Your blog isn’t anywhere yet. Go to the WordPress website and fill the registration form to create your damn blog!”
“And all the golden powder thingy?”
“Oh, that was just for show.” smiled Waits “And now I must be leaving, ‘cause I sail tonight to Singapore!”
“Oh, can I go with you?” asked Javi with hope shining in his eyes
“Of course not. So long, Javi! Good luck with your blog! And remember, there is no Devil, there’s only God when He’s drunk!”
“But I thought you played the Devil in the film “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus” asked Javi
“Oh, did I?” and, in a cloud of smoke, he disappeared, grinning.
 
 

 
 
And that’s how I got my blog. True story. One day I’ll tell you the story of how I met Mr. Paws (or how he met me).
 
Cheers!
 
 
P.S.: The song “God Is In The House” is satirical. That means that all the homophobic comments are NOT to be taken seriously. There was some controversy when the song was released and Cave explained that he thought that it was clear that he was being satirical.
And listen to the songs! I have spent ages uploading them! D’you hear me? AAAAAGES!!

They are celebrated as great vocalists, but can the likes of Bob Dylan and Tom Waits really sing? Neil McCormick writes in the Daily Telegraph:

Bob Dylan: “A voice like sand and glue” in Bowie’s memorable phrase. Contrary to what many of his critics would assert, Dylan actually sings in tune but his harsh, barbed-wire timbre & attacking delivery has been inspiration for every tone deaf poet with a guitar. But with songs like these, who cares whether he can really sing or not?

Lou Reed: His half talking, half singing drawl with the Velvet Underground created a new rock template.

Tom Waits: Started out gruff and soulful but deliberately ravaged his vocal chords with whiskey and cigarettes to sound older and more lived in. In the history of vocals, I am not sure anyone has ever done more with less.

Johnny Cash: Even as a youngster, his voice was shaky and low, but he sang in time and in tune and like he had lived every word.

John Lydon (Johnny Rotten): His ranting style, high and tuneless, led the attack of the Sex Pistols then took us on dub metal journeys with Public Image Limited.

Ian Dury: Unrepentantly cockney speak-singing, frequently completely flat but utterly alive in the playful lyrics.

Leonard Cohen: A low, shaky monotone that has, somehow, grown in authority even as it reduces in range.

Nick Cave: A stiff baritone beset by tuning problems, Cave invests his apocalyptic blues with spine chilling conviction.

Siouxsie Sioux: A lone female entrant on our chart of errant singing stars, Siouxsie’s limited range and gravelly tone only added to her lustre as la grande dame of punk and goth.

Jarvis Cocker: OK when he keeps it to a whisper but as soon as he sings out he turns into some tuneless geek in a karaoke bar, which perfectly suits his vignettes of ordinary life.

Durante una época de mi vida (digamos, los últimos 10 años) mi familia más cercana (mis hermanos sobretodo) se empeñó en regalarme camisetas con mensaje.

En este momento, sin pensar mucho, recuerdo los siguientes estampados: monkey business, your mother loves you!! (but everyone think that you are a tw**t), extravagancia, la vida dura de la gallina, pause, web under construction, al porquiño polo que vale.

Y ahora me pregunto ¿la imagen que mis hermanos (basada en su opinión si aceptamos que ésta corresponde con el mensaje de sus regalos) han proyectado sobre mí, ha sido la imagen que, vistiendo esas camisetas regaladas, yo he proyectado sobre los demás (sobre aquellos que he conocido más superficialmente, que es la gran mayoría, en casi todos los casos) para que éstos generaran, a su vez, su opinión sobre mí? ¿podría haber hecho algo al respecto? ¿podría haber transformado la literalidad en ironía? o ¿el mensaje escrito (aunque lo esté sobre una camiseta festiva con vivos colores acompañado de simpáticos dibujos) es tan poderoso que, inconscientemente, yo nunca podría (ni sabría) contradecirlo? ¿Es por esto por lo que nunca he hecho (nunca hago) nada?

¿La solución radicará en comprarse camisetas lisas?

Bunny Munro har höga tankar om sig själv. Han menar att han kan sälja vad som helst till vem som helst. Att han är stilig och karismatisk nog att få vilken kvinna som helst i säng.

Och han gör verkligen sitt bästa för att leva upp till sin självbild. Han är resande säljare av hudvårdsprodukter och är notoriskt otrogen mot sin fru.

Men när hon tar livet av sig och han plötsligt står ensam med sin nioårige son, Bunny Junior, rasar hans värld och självbild samman.

Han tar sonen med sig och flyr hemmet för en resa på jakt efter sitt gamla jag och liv.

———————————

Jag ville verkligen tycka om den här boken. Men hur mycket jag än försöker går det inte riktigt.

Att läsa den här boken är som att se världen genom ett fisköga eller en flaskbotten. Det går att urskilja vad saker och ting föreställer, men allting är förvrängt, vissa aspekter förstorade, andra förminskade.

Bunny Munro är en riktig mansgris som fantiserar om kvinnors kroppar och könsorgan. Han super, använder droger och röker som en borstbindare. Som han beskrivs, hans kläder och hans pomaderade frisyr, får jag ibland för mig att boken utspelar sig på 50-talet. Men några av de kvinnor som Bunny är fixerad vid är Kylie Minogue och Avril Lavigne.

Språket i boken är i min mening för överdrivet. Till att börja med tycker jag att det är underhållande, men efter ett tag känns det sökt. Uttryck ska skrivas om: i den här boken räcker inte uttrycket “the shit hit the fan” utan “the excrement had it’s inevitable assignation with the fan”. Saker och ting, även människor och kroppsdelar ska beskrivas med komplicerade och ibland långsökta liknelser.

Boken har nominerats till ett pris för sämsta sexskildring i bokform. Jag tycker inte boken innehåller några direkta sexskildringar alls, varken bra eller dåliga. Däremot är det ett evigt tjat om kvinnors könsorgan och Bunny drar i och klämmer regelbundet på sitt eget.

Jag kan tillstå att det finns en kärna i boken om förhållandet mellan fäder och söner och om förlust, men det drunknar i allt det andra. Jag är glad att jag läst boken bara för att den är skriven av just Nick Cave, men jag tycker inte att den är tillräckligt bra för att vilja rekommendera den.

Men alla tycker inte som jag:

Johan Werkmäster i GP tyckte att “Nick Cave har skrivit en provocerande berättelse, nattsvart och galghumoristisk”

Fróði Midjord för Tidningen Kulturen tyckte att “…faktiskt levererar Cave en oerhört välskriven berättelse om ett tragiskt människoöde”

I bloggen Little Room of Tinyfeist läser jag:

Jag kan inte bestämma mig för om jag tycker att boken är bra, eller om jag bara fascineras av den. Jag tror faktiskt att det är det senare, men jag skulle fortfarande rekommendera den.

Officiell hemsida för boken

Boken ges ut på svenska av Forum Bokförlag

Bunny Munro har höga tankar om sig själv. Han menar att han kan sälja vad som helst till vem som helst. Att han är stilig och karismatisk nog att få vilken kvinna som helst i säng.

Och han gör verkligen sitt bästa för att leva upp till sin självbild. Han är resande säljare av hudvårdsprodukter och är notoriskt otrogen mot sin fru.

Men när hon tar livet av sig och han plötsligt står ensam med sin nioårige son, Bunny Junior, rasar hans värld och självbild samman.

Han tar sonen med sig och flyr hemmet för en resa på jakt efter sitt gamla jag och liv.

———————————

Jag ville verkligen tycka om den här boken. Men hur mycket jag än försöker går det inte riktigt.

Att läsa den här boken är som att se världen genom ett fisköga eller en flaskbotten. Det går att urskilja vad saker och ting föreställer, men allting är förvrängt, vissa aspekter förstorade, andra förminskade.

Bunny Munro är en riktig mansgris som fantiserar om kvinnors kroppar och könsorgan. Han super, använder droger och röker som en borstbindare. Som han beskrivs, hans kläder och hans pomaderade frisyr, får jag ibland för mig att boken utspelar sig på 50-talet. Men några av de kvinnor som Bunny är fixerad vid är Kylie Minogue och Avril Lavigne.

Språket i boken är i min mening för överdrivet. Till att börja med tycker jag att det är underhållande, men efter ett tag känns det sökt. Uttryck ska skrivas om: i den här boken räcker inte uttrycket “the shit hit the fan” utan “the excrement had it’s inevitable assignation with the fan”. Saker och ting, även människor och kroppsdelar ska beskrivas med komplicerade och ibland långsökta liknelser.

Boken har nominerats till ett pris för sämsta sexskildring i bokform. Jag tycker inte boken innehåller några direkta sexskildringar alls, varken bra eller dåliga. Däremot är det ett evigt tjat om kvinnors könsorgan och Bunny drar i och klämmer regelbundet på sitt eget.

Jag kan tillstå att det finns en kärna i boken om förhållandet mellan fäder och söner och om förlust, men det drunknar i allt det andra. Jag är glad att jag läst boken bara för att den är skriven av just Nick Cave, men jag tycker inte att den är tillräckligt bra för att vilja rekommendera den.

Men alla tycker inte som jag:

Johan Werkmäster i GP tyckte att “Nick Cave har skrivit en provocerande berättelse, nattsvart och galghumoristisk”

Fróði Midjord för Tidningen Kulturen tyckte att “…faktiskt levererar Cave en oerhört välskriven berättelse om ett tragiskt människoöde”

I bloggen Little Room of Tinyfeist läser jag:

Jag kan inte bestämma mig för om jag tycker att boken är bra, eller om jag bara fascineras av den. Jag tror faktiskt att det är det senare, men jag skulle fortfarande rekommendera den.

Officiell hemsida för boken

Boken ges ut på svenska av Forum Bokförlag

[embed]http://www.upload-mp3.com/files/124533_xehs5/Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds-Loverman.mp3[/embed]

with some Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds!

This song is called Loverman and it is quite possibly one of my favorite songs by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

L is for LOVE, baby
O is for ONLY you that I do
V is for loving VIRTUALLY all that you are
E is for loving almost EVERYTHING that you do
R is for RAPE me
M is for MURDER me
A is for ANSWERING all of my prayers
N is for KNOWING your loverman’s going to
be the answer to all of yours

What are you thankful for?

Me?

Today, I’m thankful for R.E.M.

For Elbow.

For Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.

And for Regina Spektor.

Sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the little things.  But that doesn’t mean I ever forget.

Existen muchas organizaciones secretas, Los masones, La mano negra, Los canteros o Los hijos de Lee Marvin (Sons of Lee Marvin). Esta última es una organización fundada por el director de cine (para mí uno de los mejores en la actualidad) Jim Jarmusch. Para ser miembro de este “club”, necesitas tener una fisonomía similar a la del gran actor Lee Marvin y la verdad es que encontrar una estructura facial semejante a la del señor Marvin es jodidamente complicado.

El genial actor de "Uno rojo: División de choque", "Los doce del patíbulo" o "Delta Force"...

Por esa razón es una hermandad de difícil acceso para los seres humanos de a pie, solo unos pocos privilegiados, todos ellos amigos, son los que forman la hermandad, gente que conforman un groso contracultural bastante firme, los personajes son:

El propio Jim Jarmusch: El injusto adalid del cine “gafapasta”. A veces creo que mi misión en este planeta es destruir a todos esos intelectuales del cine.

El fundador es probablemente quien más se parezca

John Lurie: El tremendo músico y amigo de Jim, trabajó con el por ejemplo en “Bajo el peso de la ley” aparte de un par de cintas más.

El genial músico de viento

Os regalo un video de Lurie junto con el buenísimo percursionista Naná Vasconcelos, en el mítico show americano “Night Music”.

Nick Cave: Ya he hablado aquí del señor Cave, amigo de Jarmusch y del resto de miembros.

Como podeís ir viendo el parecido físico es brutal...

También os regalo una de las mejores canciones de Cave, “Red right hand”

Tom Waits: En fin, pues dios, digo Tom, digo dios no podía faltar en este club. Espectacular músico y actor en varias pelis de Jim.

Una foto de dios, digo Tom, digo dios...

Siguiendo la rutina, lo que es probablemente mi canción favorita de este señor “Heart Attack and Vine”

Iggy Pop: El que faltaba… ¿Os dais cuenta de la calidad que tiene este club? Solo verdaderos amos que compartan, en cierto modo, la fisonomía de Marvin pueden entrar en él.

No es el que más se parece a Lee Marvin, pero quizas si tenga los rasgos faciales necesarios

Como estoy que lo tiro, os pongo lo que para mí es una de las canciones más románticas jamas escritas.

Neil Young: Pues otro más, bastante amigo de Jarmusch y creo que no debo decir quien es… ¿Verdad?

Es el mismo caso que Iggy.

Venga va, pues una de sus canciones más famosas, “Old Man”.

Thurston Moore: El frontman de “Sonic Youth” también está en este exclusivo club.

Como Young y Pop, es más la forma de la cara, la boca o los ojos que un parecido físico...

No sabía si poner un video en directo de la ruidosa “Kool Thing” o el video dirigido por Spike Jonze “100%” en el que el actor Jason Lee hace una de sus primeras apariciones en pantalla… me he decidio por “100%”

Richard Bose: Lo siento mucho pero no tengo ni idea de quien es este señor. Lo siento de verdad.

Bueno, pues esto es “Sons of Lee Marvin”. Curiosa hermandad de esa cantidad de artistas frikis y extravagantes.  Me encantaría formar parte del “club” de estos dementes artistas, pero creo que no me parezco a Marvin, como mucho en la boca, pero creo que no me aceptarían…Espero que os haya culturizado un poquito…

The Cat Piano: A City of Imprisoned Singing Cats

The Cat Piano is an award-winning 8-minute animated short film directed by Australian filmmakers Eddie White and Ari Gibson, featuring narration by the iconic Australian musician Nick Cave. The film is a remarkable animation, a visual marvel that’s a perfectly executed narrative, seamlessly coalescing its gothic influences into a hypnotically sinister aesthetic that is never at odds with itself.  The Cat Piano was named last week as one of 10 films to advance in the Animated Short Films category for the 82nd Annual Academy Awards.

The story opens in a city of musically talented singing cats, where a lonely beat poet falls for the call of a beautiful musical siren.  However, a mysteriously dark and evil human soon emerges and begins kidnapping the town’s singing cats to imprison them inside of a cat piano, intent on carrying out his depraved musical plans to perform a twisted feline symphony.  At that point, the poet realizes that he must save his muse and put an end to the nefarious tune that threatens to destroy the entire city.

The Cat Piano: A City of Imprisoned Singing Cats

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The Cat Piano by Eddie White

Long ago my city’s luminous heart, beat with the song of four thousand cats.
Crooners who shone in the moonlight mimicry of the spotlight.
Jazz singers. Hip cats that went ‘Scat!’
Buskers with open-mouthed hats hungry for a feed.
Parlours paraded purring glamorous songstresses.
Smoky hookahs and smoking hookers.
Strays strummed string and sung a cocktail of cat’s tails.
A decadent party of meowing sound.
A bohemian behemoth, post-midnight soiree.

Amongst the chorale ‘o tuneful ones was one fair queen who drew me from o’er the way.
Her fur, an amorous white and a voice that made all the angels of eternity sound tone deaf.
Blind with love at first sight, touched by the taste of her sound,
I longed to be the microphone she cradled near her breast.

‘Twas our Shang-ri-la of sound,
A paradise found where nothin’ could stop us.
Or so it seemed.

Singers began to vanish like sailors lost at sea.
Snatched from stage alley way
Shanghai’d from behind scarlet curtain.
Into thin air they disappeared without a single cry.
Police study the clues.
Foot-prints from human shoes.

So you’ve heard of every instrument but?
Torn from your history books is this pianola,
This harpsichord of harm.
The cruellest instrument to spawn from man’s grey cerebral soup.
The Cat Piano.

Confined were the cats in a row of cages.
With each note struck upon it’s ivory tusks,
A sharpened nail would pierce each cat’s tail,
Forcing a note from each pitch on the scale.

I ran my cursed writer’s run to tell her beware.
She wasn’t there.
My soul capsized.
Like a fish, paralysed.
On a chopping board, its spinal cord ripped forth from its body,
Her vocals the last the thief had needed,
A rare celestial pitch that would complete his collection.

The city in unrest.
Fights broke out in its sleep.
I couldn’t dream anymore.
There was a hole in my heart and everything fell out of it.
All music forbidden.
Keep your lullabies hidden.
And your A and E minors off the street after dark.

My town grew cold and bitter.
In icy hibernation was the once thumping heart.
Now seizing up.
Freezing up.

Katzenklavier.
The torturous worm of sound burrowed deep into my ears.
Le Piano du chat
I thought of Van Gogh.
Neko Piano.
I’d put an end to this incessant, inescapable drone.
Mao Gang Qin

I enlisted an army of the brave and I their general declared war.
Poised with tooth and fire in paw.
We would finally settle this musical score.
Eyes with fierce intent that glowed.
Through tempestuous waters we rowed.
Storming the shores,
Swarming in scores,
Scaling its walls with well-sharpened claws,
We invaded the tower through all its doors.

Up the winding stairs,
To meet him with blinding stares.
There he sat.
The organ grinder.

He turned, we pounced, we scratched and bit.
He stumbled.
Fell through the window.
Screaming into the indigo waters below.

We freed the chain gang from their jail.
Cremated the piano.
And for home we set sail.

The city had reclaimed its vestal muse.
It would live again.
Beat again.
Cats would sing in the street again.
And I in anonymity as I had been long before this soliloquy,
Could sit and listen from afar.
The Cat Piano, now a healed over wound.
And this ode its fading scar.

The Cat Piano

Questo articolo è apparso sul Manifesto.

di Luca Briasco

Finzioni DOPO LA FINE
Una messa a fuoco delle espressioni più recenti che la letteratura ha dato alle nostre paure, tra fantascienza e nostalgie del presente. Fredric Jameson ha parlato di «un millenarismo invertito» e James Berger ha osservato come alla fine del XX secolo alcuni romanzi ci abbiano fornito «una retrospettiva prospettica».
«Sono finito, pensa Bunny Munro in quell’attimo improvviso di consapevolezza riservato a chi ha i giorni contati. Ha la sensazione di aver commesso un grave errore, ma è una sensazione che passa in un lampo terribile e sparisce, lasciandolo in una stanza del Grenville Hotel in mutande, solo con se stesso e la sua fame». In questo incipit c’è già tutta la strana grandezza che fa di La morte di Bunny Munro, secondo romanzo del musicista e compositore rock Nick Cave, forse l’opera narrativa più importante del 2009. L’inconsapevolezza e il senso della fine, una fine in qualche modo sempre già avvenuta, sono i due perni intorno ai quali Cave allestisce una sorta di Everyman postmoderno, molto più vicino allo spirito del morality play medievale di quanto non abbia saputo o voluto esserlo il romanzo di Philip Roth che ne mutuava il nome. Ed è probabilmente nel quadro di una letteratura ossessionata dalla fine come dato di fatto epocale e già compiuto che il romanzo di Cave va misurato, per scoprirne l’originalità e la capacità di tracciare scenari nuovi e inediti.

Un millenarismo invertito
Dieci anni fa, James Berger intitolava After the End un saggio interamente dedicato al post-apocalittico, che spaziava dalla letteratura al cinema, ai media. Concentrandosi in particolar modo sulla scena americana tra la fantascienza – punto di riferimento quasi ovvio – e la fiction postmoderna, Berger osserva come «nella fase finale del ventesimo secolo abbiamo avuto l’opportunità, prima accessibile solo attraverso la teologia o la finzione narrativa, di vedere oltre la fine della nostra civiltà, di scorgere, in una strana sorta di retrospettiva prospettica, come si presenterebbe la fine: come un campo di sterminio nazista, o un’esplosione atomica, o una wasteland ecologica o urbana. E se siamo stati in grado di vedere queste cose è solo perché esse sono già accadute». Le visioni distopiche della grande fantascienza degli anni Sessanta, da Dick a Ballard, non possono fare altro che replicare le vere catastrofi storiche del ventesimo secolo. «Si dice spesso», conclude Berger, «che la modernità è preoccupata da un senso di crisi e vede sempre come imminente, o addirittura arriva ad agognare, una catastrofe finale. Questo senso di crisi non è scomparso, ma coesiste con un’altra sensazione, quella secondo cui la catastrofe finale è già avvenuta (forse non sappiamo esattamente quando) e l’attività incessante dei nostri tempi – l’informazione, con la sua processione quasi indistinta di disastri – è solo una forma complessa di stasi».
Il quadro disegnato da Berger porta quasi naturalmente a tracciare una distinzione tra una narrazione apocalittica e una post-apocalittica; tra una modalità di racconto (spesso cinematografica più che letteraria, tradotta nella visibilità quasi «oscena» degli effetti speciali) che si concentra nel declinare all’infinito una «processione indistinta di disastri» e un’altra che tenta di individuare gli scenari possibili di un mondo che è già post-apocalittico, e che più che del disastro (dato come acquisito e sempre già avvenuto) intende parlare di ciò che a esso fa seguito, di cosa significhi vivere e raccontare «dopo la fine».
La tendenza a teorizzare una condizione «postuma» della letteratura, dell’arte, del pensiero, è uno degli elementi portanti della riflessione sul postmoderno: per usare le parole di quello che rimane forse il suo più grande teorico, Fredric Jameson, nel definire la narrazione postmoderna esemplare si potrebbe parlare di «un millenarismo invertito, nel quale le premonizioni del futuro, che si presentino sotto forma di catastrofe o di redenzione, sono state sostituite dal senso della fine».
Naturalmente, è sempre possibile e del tutto ragionevole criticare il postmoderno prima di tutto a partire dal paradosso che lo fonda: dare la fine come fatto acquisito o addirittura già avvenuto. Le conseguenze che ne possono derivare sono di due tipi, entrambi perniciosi. Se parte dall’assunto che la fine sta per arrivare e non vi è modo di evitarla, la narrazione apocalittica tenderà a concentrarsi esclusivamente sul quando e il come, replicando all’infinito un ennesimo modello catastrofista la cui ultima incarnazione, nelle sale proprio in questi giorni, è 2012 dello specialista Ronald Emmerich. Se invece si dà la fine come già avvenuta, è concreto il rischio di ripiegare su un modello narrativo fondato su quella che lo stesso Jameson ha definito «nostalgia del presente». Rievocato a partire da un futuro in cui la catastrofe si è già verificata, il nostro oggi acquista un valore, se non altro residuale, che si rischia di dare come acriticamente acquisito. È quanto in fondo accade in La strada, l’ultimo romanzo di Cormac McCarthy, del quale La morte di Bunny Munro rappresenta un (probabilmente voluto) controcanto.
Nel mondo post-apocalittico in cui un padre e un figlio sono condannati a errare, la sopravvivenza prima di tutto morale è legata all’elemento più antico e fondante di ogni consesso civile: il nucleo famigliare e i legami di sangue come cinghia di trasmissione dei valori che ci rendono umani. Un messaggio che McCarthy aveva già cominciato a declinare in Non è un paese per vecchi, incanalandolo nel conflitto tra l’antica etica western, incarnata nell’anziano sceriffo Bell, e l’assoluto disinteresse per la vita umana dell’uomo-macchina Chigurrh. Un messaggio che reagisce alla condizione postuma teorizzata dal postmoderno non negandola o dialettizzandola, ma ripiegando nostalgicamente verso ciò che la precede e pre-esiste a essa, in cerca di un nucleo incontaminato che torni a farci sentire «umani».
Attingendo ai temi e all’immaginario della fantascienza, McCarthy ne fa un uso deliberatamente retro, che ci riporta agli scenari degli anni Cinquanta e della grande paura atomica. Scenari dai quali i maestri della science fiction postmoderna, da Dick a Ballard, avevano preso le distanze proprio rifiutando quella «nostalgia del presente» che Jameson aveva teorizzato (con un’accezione negativa) e McCarthy torna a fare propria. In Cronache del dopobomba, l’unico romanzo in cui affronta in modo diretto il tema della catastrofe nucleare, Philip K. Dick proietta gli effetti del disastro su una comunità piccola e chiusa, illustrando la continuità degli atteggiamenti e degli stili di vita, la difesa ostinata di un sistema di valori che è però tutto residuale, e che tenta vanamente di nascondere gli effetti di un’apocalissi ben più profonda e duratura: lo sfaldamento dei rapporti sociali e di un modello di vita comune, travolto dalla brama di profitto, dalla tecnologia, dal razzismo ancor più insidioso perché ridotto allo stato latente. Il dopobomba di Dick è il nostro presente, e nient’altro: la retrospettiva prospettica di cui parla Berger nel suo saggio è un gesto d’astuzia attraverso il quale la narrazione può parlarci, dalla giusta distanza, esattamente di ciò che siamo. Un processo che trova la sua estremizzazione e il suo compimento negli ultimi romanzi di Ballard (forse, l’autore più vicino a Cave): Cocaine Nights, Super Cannes, Millennium People, con la loro parata di luoghi futuri che invadono il nostro presente perché ne sono, in fondo, l’incarnazione e la visualizzazione più compiuta.

Senza inseguire un riscatto
In La morte di Bunny Munro, la fantascienza postmoderna di Dick e Ballard torna a essere il vero orizzonte di riferimento, ben più della «operazione nostalgia» tentata da McCarthy. La scommessa mirabilmente vinta da Cave consiste nello scavare a fondo dentro l’umanità degradata e terminale del protagonista, senza cercare facili riscatti, portando alla luce il dolore che cova sordo dietro il suo stupore di erotomane alcolista, di eterno bambino in fuga dalle responsabilità. E nel proiettare la vita errabonda di Bunny e di suo figlio, Bunny Junior, sullo sfondo di un mondo marchiato a fuoco dalle catastrofi quotidiane, popolato di assassini che si esibiscono davanti alle telecamere a circuito chiuso dei centri commerciali, di famiglie distrutte, di moli che bruciano quasi per autocombustione, di locali squallidi e alberghi in disarmo.
Il romanzo di Cave è in fondo il perfetto compimento della frase che lo apre: la storia di un uomo in mutande in un albergo di quart’ordine, immerso in un perenne stupore alcolico; un Mefistofele degradato che vende l’eterna giovinezza sotto forma di creme per il corpo, e che solo a tratti, per lampi terribili come quello che finirà per ucciderlo, intuisce la misura dei suoi errori. E di un bambino che accompagna il padre nella sua vita errabonda, perdendo gradualmente la vista, aggrappandosi al fantasma della madre morta e a un’enciclopedia dalla quale, per vie del tutto arbitrarie, distilla un residuato di saggezza. Nella storia di Bunny e Bunny jr., l’apocalisse torna ad assumere il suo significato più autentico: non una catastrofe, ma un lampo che, in pochi momenti di bruciante fulgore, illumina a pieno giorno il dolore del mondo.

You may be surprised at the scope of this week’s topic because when it comes to Elvis Presley, well nearly everyone’s got an opinion. The iconic nature of Elvis Presley in music and popular culture, has often made him a subject of, or a benchmark, in numerous songs. We launched the show with CALLING ELVIS by Dire Straits. Written by Mark Knopler and released in 1991, the song is about an Elvis fan that can’t believe that Elvis Presley is dead. Based on some of the bizarre ’sightings’ over the years, I fear he is not alone.

A song from one of my favourite films followed: Public Enemy’s groundbreaking FIGHT THE POWER from the soundtrack of DO THE RIGHT THING, directed by Spike Lee in 1989. Like the film, the song broke at a crucial period in America’s struggle with race. Unabashedly political, FIGHT THE POWER was confrontational in the way that great rock has always been. It attacks a whole roster of American icons including Elvis and John Wayne in what amounts to a virtual flag burning. Because who better embodies the American ideal than the King? The song goes so far as to call Elvis racist. I don’t agree with that. But what I do know from the National Archives is that in 1970 Elvis wrote a six-page letter to Richard Nixon asking him to make him a ‘Federal Agent-At-Large’ in the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. And amongst the gifts that Elvis presented to the then President was a Colt-45 pistol. So what do we make of all this? Maybe only that, like a lot of his countrymen, Elvis was a misguided patriot who defended the nation’s order – an order from which blacks, in particular, had been routinely barred. The irony, of course, is that Elvis was the first artist to successfully blend black and white music: country music and the blues. And didn’t he do it well?

It was time for a change of tone: The very whimsical and wonderful Kirsty McColl with THERE’S A GUY WORKS DOWN THE CHIP SHOP SWEARS HE’S ELVIS. The song made an appearance on the FAMOUS PEOPLE show, but definitely deserved another spin. We followed with Richard Thompson’s FROM GALWAY TO GRACELAND.

Robbie Williams’ ADVERTISING SPACE is a song not only about Elvis but, also, about the price of fame.  Emmylou Harris followed with BOY FROM TUPELO. In case you weren’t aware Elvis was born in Tupelo Mississipi on January 8, 1935. And then it was the great Roy Orbison with HOUND DOG MAN.

Living Colour funked it up with their critique of the tabloids. The song  ELVIS IS DEAD ups the ante with an appearance by Little Richard. Check it out.

We dived into the second hour of the program with Ann Margret singing the title song of the film BYE BYE BIRDIE. Based on the stage musical of the same name, the story was inspired by Elvis Presley being drafted into the US Army in 1957. Jesse Pearson played the role of teen idol Conrad Birdie, whose character’s name is a wordplay on another singer of the era, Conway Twitty.  The film is credited with making Ann-Margret a superstar during the mid-1960s, leading to her appearing with Elvis Presley in Viva Las Vegas in 1964.

A couple of great songs were suggested to me by BayFM’s very own Cowboy Sweetheart, Carrie D. First up, Bap Kennedy with GLADYS & VERNON about Elvis’s parents and the night that Elvis was born. And then it was the great Waylon Jennings with the very entertaining NOBODY KNOWS.

I absolutely adore BLACK VELVET by Allanah Myles and have played that before. But, hey, when a song’s as good as this one it deserves a replay!

U2’s song ELVIS ATE AMERICA illustrates the many personas of Elvis, both good and bad. And then it was the romantically delusional Scouting For Girls with ELVIS ISN’T DEAD: ”Elvis isn’t dead ’cause I heard him on the radio….. and you’re coming back to me.”  Yeah, sure guys.

Time to get serious: First up, Kate Bush with her hit song about Elvis – KING OF THE MOUNTAIN. And then, Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds transported us into a disturbing world with their song about the night that Elvis was born. Elvis was a twin but his brother was still-born. The song is TUPELO from the album THE FIRSTBORN IS DEAD. Here’s the totally mesmerising clip:

John Fogarty likens Elvis to the BIG TRAIN (FROM MEMPHIS). Neil Young reminded us that it’s “better to burn out than to fade away “, with his song MY, MY, HEY HEY.

Another of my faves followed: Cowboy Junkies with BLUE MOON REVISITED, otherwise known as SONG FOR ELVIS. And then it was Paul Simon’s song about travelling to Elvis Presley’s home, GRACELAND, with the Everly Brothers helping out on vocals. Don’t have a clip with the Everlys in it, but you can’t do much better than this concert performance of the song in Zimbabwe. Enjoy.

There was time for a little more mjusic dedicated to Elvis before signing off and what better than ELVIS HAS JUST LEFT THE BUILDING by the one and only Frank Zappa. And, of course, I had to play some of the King himself so we went out with BURNIN’ LOVE. Here’s what all the fuss is about:

Next week’s show will be dedicated to the patron saint of Theme Park, Roy Orbison, who died 21 years ago this December 6. So songs by Roy Orbison, The Travelling Wilburys, duets with Roy and covers of Roy Orbison songs. Anything connected to Roy Orbison qualifies. Personally I can’t wait!

Here’s this week’s playlist:

This is getting Oscar buzz for best animated short.  It also happens to be narrated by musician Nick Cave (one of the coolest people on earth).  It’s pretty awesome, give it a look:

What am I doing? Certain Someone hasn’t replied. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was too honest. Maybe I scared him. Perhaps he hates me.

This is quite a lonely feeling.

~~~~~

And no more shall we part
It will no longer be necessary
And no more will I say, dear heart
I am alone and she has left me

For no more shall we part
And no more shall we part

This limited edition CD was only for sale at the 1998 Australian and US tours of The Dirty Three.

Tracklist of the CD:

1. Obvious Is Obvious
2. Two Am
3. Rope
4. Running Scared (live with Nick Cave, at The Zoo, Brisbane, in January 1995)

Pics of the CD:

This is the only officialy released live version of “Running Scared”. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds covered that song (written by Roy Orbison) on the album “Kicking Against The Pricks” in 1986 (the song was included on the CD version of the album but not on the vinyle LP, and is also available on the remastered CD released in 2009). They never played it live, but there’s another live version by The Dirty Three with Nick Cave available on the bootleg of the show at Bordeline in London on May 4, 1995.

Download the 2 live versions here:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=UAAEJ1N6

Warren Ellis loves music! People, not so much

PREVIEW: VISIT Warren Ellis’s website/blog

This was news to me, but apparently when Warren Ellis isn’t lovingly insulting half the world on Twitter or writing some of the most acclaimed comics of the past two decades (Astonishing X-Men, Planetary, Transmetropolitan, The Authority, Stormwatch, etc.), he’s critiquing relatively unknown music for the benefit of the greater blogosphere.

For anyone who’s initiated in any way to Ellis’s writing (notorious for meticulously layered plots, course dialogue and biting social commentary), it comes as no surprise that he would have just as strong opinions on music in 2009 as he does on everything else he writes about.

In his latest blog post, some highlights he discusses include Zola Jesus (“a beautiful ghost moaning from the shadows of a bombed-out cathedral”), High Wolf (“wet lo-fi tropical dreamstates”), British Sea Power (“the best piece of classical building/soaring postrock I’ve heard since ‘Raise Yr Skinny Fists.’ I mean, flat fucking out…”) and Gary War (“A gorgeous gurgling gargoyle of a thing”).

Sometimes it’s just cool to know that a 40+ year-old misanthrope — who introduced you to higher science fiction and colored your opinions of establishment politics — digs some of the same genres of music.

To ape Ellis’s own words and his tendency to close with brevity: “It is really bloody good, yes.”

– Eric Vilas-Boas, Managing Editor

[NOTE: This post pertains to Warren Ellis the writer. There is another Warren Ellis, a musician and composer who has collaborated with Nick Cave, info on him here]

In prima parte a cartii – Gigoloul -  moartea anuntata  a lui Bunny pare aproape neverosibila. Bunny e un tip energic, crede ca-si iubeste nevasta si cam tot ce misca. Pur si simplu nu-si poate tine prohabul inchis. Nici nu-i lipsesc ocaziile. E comis-voiajor de produse cosmetice, adica aplica lotiuni pe pielea clientelor si noteaza comenzi pentru o firma distribuitoare.

Lucrurile se mai schimba cand nevasta-sa se sinucide si ramane cu un pusti de 9 ani, Bunny Jr., care-si idolatrizeaza tatal. Ca sa scape de fantoma sotiei si de cea a smintitului cu coarne de drac care umbla nestingherit prin oras, Bunny alege sa stea prin hoteluri cu Bunny Jr.,  nestiind ce sa faca.

Bunny ajunge de toata mila. Venind dupa o noapte frenetica in holul hotelului, batut si mirosind a voma, i se adreseaza receptionerului:

“-Asculta, dobitoc batran ce esti! Sotia mea tocmai s-a spanzurat de grilajul de la fereastra, chiar in dormitorul meu. Fiul meu e sus si eu n-am nici cea mai vaga idee ce dracu’ sa fac cu el. Batranu’ meu e pe cale sa dea coltul. Traiesc intr-o casa unde mi-e prea frica sa ma intorc. Oriunde ma uit, vad doar niste futute de fantome. O lesbiana imputita mi-a spart ieri nasul si am o mahmureala de nu poti sa crezi. Asa ca imi dai odata cheia de la camera 17 sau trebuie sa sar peste tejghea si sa-ti bag cacata aia de proteza pe gat?”

“Moartea lui Bunny Munro” este al doilea roman al lui Nick Cave si a fost lansat in septembrie 2009. Primul roman se numeste “And the ass saw the angel” – sugestiv, nu? Chiar daca “Moartea lui Bunny Munro” nu face parte din categoria romanelor culte, ramane placut, detinand genul de mesaj greu de uitat.