Despite the papal canonisation today (broadcast in 3D to select cinemas and News channels, anyone catch that, did they have that swinging, incense lantern flying out atcha?), I feel like I should eschew the subject since I kind of already did the Holy Song Poem last Sunday. Not only that, but try as I might I couldn’t find a Song Poem for a Pope, which I find hard to believe having encountered a fair few about Richard Nixon, Elvis, Christopher Columbus, and Sexploitation actors turned male midwives. So instead I decided to just go straight for the crazy, literally in today’s case. – See more at: http://joup.co/sunday-song-poem-9-feeling-beside-buddy-raye/#sthash.UjekUZsG.dpuf
if you condensed every Metalhead’s efforts at creating the most unnerving dirge the Universe has ever heard, they probably couldn’t outdo the efforts of the unknown musicians who conjured-up today’s Song Poem. While we know its lyrics were penned by a Sgt Kenneth E. Green, this composition, discombobulating warped-vinyl or not, likely out-ugly’s anything he ever witnessed on the battlefield. Behold… – See more at: http://joup.co/the-sunday-song-poem-8-the-man-called-jesus/#sthash.cD9Tw8M9.dpuf
According to the ‘Malleus Maleficarum’, a 1484 tome on Witchcraft, the ‘Midwife’ was the most dangerous sub-category of harridan, insinuating itself into the confidence of a burgeoning family and wreaking unspeakable havoc on the fruit of their loins before, during and immediately after delivery. Sure as a mucus plug something had to give, and that’s when man stepped in. After much experimentation into their hounding, torture, buoyancy and flammability yielded the groundbreaking discovery that witches didn’t exist, it was deducted that the pestilence of their machinations could be attributed instead to the devilishness and ineptitude inherent in women in general…
“Oh God. I was just a boy.
I saw him in my dream.
He said he wanted to play.
He opened me and I invited him and he came inside me.”
~ Leland Palmer
The red curtains of my bedroom do just enough to shield the dying summer sundown from the screen of my portable TV. There’s nary a hair on my balls and a Teenage Mutant ‘Hero’ Turtle poster beams at me from each of four walls. It’s entirely likely I’m wearing white High-Tops and a T-Shirt depicting Bart Simpson ‘hanging ten’ upside down in a “tube”. Through a blizzard of static I stop tuning as I suddenly discover a man in a beige trench coat stepping delicately through a pitch black forest, before being caught in a spotlight with no logical point of origin and confronted by the impossible manifestation of softly swaying red drapes among the sinisterly lilting boughs. He approaches the curtains cautiously, then quickly, inquisitively slips between them whereupon they both vanish completely, leaving only the heavily populated desolation of those introductory dark woods.
‘Gretchen’s New Dish’ is no opus, but like any great work of art, demands of you an engagement, a participation, there is within contained a world to be discovered beyond Dick Kent’s frenzied attempts to dab in the backdrop with his theatrical channeling of a benevolent Bavarian. When first I heard ‘Gretchen’s New Dish’, I was transfixed. When it ended, I put it on again. Sometimes, I would listen to it multiple times. I’d play it for friends, hunched up and grinning, arms squeezed tightly to my sides, index fingers playing air piano. They’d look at me like I’d just masturbated on their wedding cake.
Its detractors bemoan that this ‘future’ is merely an amplification of now, that Gilliam is showing his age, and his criticisms are too on the nose. As a champion of this film, I laud it for the same reasons. – See more at: http://joup.co/joup-movie-review-the-zero-theorem/#sthash.TVPlryPO.dpuf
Jim Muir’s ‘The Moon Men’, whether intentional or not, is an undertaking as epic and perilous as the Apollo 11 mission that it chronicles. Muir launches with bravado, realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew, but has to hold on tight for dear life on this one way ticket ride to oblivion. All good Song Poems are measured on it’s performer’s ability to swagger and to a certain degree ‘sell’ the ramblings of the anonymous song poet, here Jim Muir gets cocky, and beats his waxen wings too close to the sun. – See more at: http://joup.co/the-sunday-song-poem-5-john-muit-the-moon-men/#sthash.pQUjVhHQ.dpuf