Monday, July 05, 2004

Here's my inadequate attempt to memorialize Lizzy Mercier Descloux. I heard about Lacy and Quine after the piece was filed, hence the poor integration. And no, I don't write the titles.

I expect I'll respond to number 3 on the countdown later, but I just did 3 show picks and my next Phx column in the last 9 hrs., so I'm all coherenced out. But, on a tangent: OK, I entirely get that neither Gretchen Wilson nor any other "Redneck Woman" has to actually be Southern to point to her Kid Rock poster -- though the (great) line about the baby makes the autobiographical reading available, in the light of "Pocahontas Proud" -- but what I don't get is why, if she's actually from Illinois, her publishing company is called "Hoosiermania." Another funny thing about the song is the fussy prosody -- "Ol' Bocephus" in the third chorus to match "Charlie Daniels" and "Tanya Tucker" in the first two, rather than a little fudging: "Bo-whoa-cephus" would have worked. The inserted "old" is a hoary Tin Pan compromise, most often stuck in front of faraway places w/ strange sounding names -- e.g. Algiers. But it's hardly a dead practice:"Old Bombay" actually has a referent; not as sure about Saigon.)

By the way, I know "Ready For the Party" is probably the next single, but I hope the Dwight-styled (and -namechecking) "When It Rains" makes it onto the radio at some point -- the harmonized upsweep on "more" is fantastic, and no doubt pitch-corrected as all get out. "Chariot," one of the tracks Wilson didn't co-write, is great as well, though probably too complicated to succeed on its own.

Ready Agape Agape (mark over the first 'e') Saturday night -- I've been skipping bbqs all weekend, just to rest up for this week's work. I've never found time for Gaddis, and this, despite the advantage of brevity, was not the place to start. What a sad, bitter book -- it's minimally dramatized, technically a mix of Thomas Bernhard (quite explicitly) and Gordon Lish (or maybe Stephen Dixon), but addresses the reader so directly that it's nearly impossible not to read it as Gaddis' own apoplectic, presnidone-addled last words on various subjects, including the fact that his own books are going to be forgotten on the shelf with the other 'dead white guys' because too many literary prizes are given out these days. My empathy is limited. I think he badly misunderstands Benjamin's conflicted views on popular culture, and 'his' own (it started w/ player pianos, not sheet music) are virulent and inhumane:

"...been to the movies lately? Listened to their lyrics?! Man I mean like I've heard it you dumb asshole give this muhthrfuckr a blowjob every man his own artist in this democracy of the arts...."

Fuck you, and Steve Allen. Hell, yeah.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?