is open.
I *will* enter this year so expect to see some of my own crap on here in the near future...
Saturday 17 April 2010
Friday 16 April 2010
Love You to Death by Type O Negative
Yesterday I discovered that Peter Steele, the vocalist and bassist for Type O Negative, had been confirmed as dead from Heart Failure. Normally when famous people die I'm not that affected by the whole thing but this case is an exception. I have linked Type O Negative to so many things in my life...
First getting into them at secondary school. Unable to sleep as per usual so I would be listening to October Rust all the way through to Haunted at night. Each day wandering down to school mumbling along to 'We Hate Everyone' and meaning it most of the time.
'My Girlfriend's Girlfriend' makes me think of my second year of Uni as Secretary of the Rocksoc. I'd got in touch with Corp and managed to book the main room for our own club night on Halloween. We the committee did fucking well that night, bringing in 500 people. I played MGG in the middle of my DJ set and although it was clear a number of people didn't know it, it was completely worth it for each face in the audience which immediately went 'HELL YES!' as soon as the intro drum beat kicked in.
Those little touches about Type O which made them all the more awesome, like releasing a 'least worst of' rather than a 'best of'. Reminding me you can still get far despite disliking yourself.
Twice I saw them play at the London Astoria, one of my favourite venues and a key part of my adolescence which has now been torn down.
The moments they kick into pure heavy metal with a wicked sense of humour, the 'Slow, Deep and Hard' album is worth it just for the song 'Unsuccessfully Coping With the Natural Beauty of Infidelity'. Steve and I heard it for the first time at the first Type O show I went to and for weeks afterwards we were bellowing, "SLUT, WHORE" in Steele's accent.
My excitement about the first new album they released since I got into them, 'Life is Killing Me'. When they released 'The Dream is Dead' as a promo I had that on repeat for hours.
'Die With Me' was mine and Krysia's song and always will be. The number of couples that must have their own Type O song. The number of people who must have used Steele's beautiful voice and at times erotic bass lines to romance their love interest. Seriously we all owe a massive debt.
'Wolf Moon' recently developed a new link in my mind...
Then there is 'Black No.1'. I have yet to meet anyone that did not find this song truly epic and the only song I properly learnt in my brief period trying to be a bassist.
The fact that he's gone doesn't inspire a fear of mortality but feels like some sort of attack on my life. Something that has clearly been a key part of it and helped shaped what I've become, as base and ineffectual as it is, is now gone. 'Attack' is definitely the right word.
So let's return to this blogs normal transmission
Love You to Death and the song if you haven't heard it
Made me laugh that as I found that youtube video the top comment said 'The Ultimate love song', now I'm sure that's a massive argument waiting to happen but this is a definite contender for the title.
The music itself is incredibly seductive, definitely the sort of song you would want to fill the background of a date or other romantic encounter.
The way he sings the lines like Her hips move and I can hear what they're saying, swaying always leaves me thinking of those moments where you are with your lover, so close that you can feel their breath, sense the minute movements of their body, that shiver of anticipation for what is to come running through you both... the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, yeah...
Then there is the line I am your servant, may I light your cigarette which I find such an incredibly romantic and evocative image. The thought of a gentleman leaning toward the girl, sinking into her personal space and yet the only thing connecting them being the flame from the lighter, a flame that perhaps burns in both of them. Strange that the only person I've been out with who smoked was Anne-Marie and yet this line never came to mind at the time.
The lyrics finish with that trademark Type O self-loathing, am I good enough, for you? A feeling that I have shared with them for a long time. I imagine I'm not as bad these days but that sense of contempt will always be there. I'm often frustrated that there isn't a better word for it, something distinct and ugly.
R.I.P. Peter Steele, hope you really are 'Free at Last'.
First getting into them at secondary school. Unable to sleep as per usual so I would be listening to October Rust all the way through to Haunted at night. Each day wandering down to school mumbling along to 'We Hate Everyone' and meaning it most of the time.
'My Girlfriend's Girlfriend' makes me think of my second year of Uni as Secretary of the Rocksoc. I'd got in touch with Corp and managed to book the main room for our own club night on Halloween. We the committee did fucking well that night, bringing in 500 people. I played MGG in the middle of my DJ set and although it was clear a number of people didn't know it, it was completely worth it for each face in the audience which immediately went 'HELL YES!' as soon as the intro drum beat kicked in.
Those little touches about Type O which made them all the more awesome, like releasing a 'least worst of' rather than a 'best of'. Reminding me you can still get far despite disliking yourself.
Twice I saw them play at the London Astoria, one of my favourite venues and a key part of my adolescence which has now been torn down.
The moments they kick into pure heavy metal with a wicked sense of humour, the 'Slow, Deep and Hard' album is worth it just for the song 'Unsuccessfully Coping With the Natural Beauty of Infidelity'. Steve and I heard it for the first time at the first Type O show I went to and for weeks afterwards we were bellowing, "SLUT, WHORE" in Steele's accent.
My excitement about the first new album they released since I got into them, 'Life is Killing Me'. When they released 'The Dream is Dead' as a promo I had that on repeat for hours.
'Die With Me' was mine and Krysia's song and always will be. The number of couples that must have their own Type O song. The number of people who must have used Steele's beautiful voice and at times erotic bass lines to romance their love interest. Seriously we all owe a massive debt.
'Wolf Moon' recently developed a new link in my mind...
Then there is 'Black No.1'. I have yet to meet anyone that did not find this song truly epic and the only song I properly learnt in my brief period trying to be a bassist.
The fact that he's gone doesn't inspire a fear of mortality but feels like some sort of attack on my life. Something that has clearly been a key part of it and helped shaped what I've become, as base and ineffectual as it is, is now gone. 'Attack' is definitely the right word.
So let's return to this blogs normal transmission
Love You to Death and the song if you haven't heard it
Made me laugh that as I found that youtube video the top comment said 'The Ultimate love song', now I'm sure that's a massive argument waiting to happen but this is a definite contender for the title.
The music itself is incredibly seductive, definitely the sort of song you would want to fill the background of a date or other romantic encounter.
The way he sings the lines like Her hips move and I can hear what they're saying, swaying always leaves me thinking of those moments where you are with your lover, so close that you can feel their breath, sense the minute movements of their body, that shiver of anticipation for what is to come running through you both... the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, yeah...
Then there is the line I am your servant, may I light your cigarette which I find such an incredibly romantic and evocative image. The thought of a gentleman leaning toward the girl, sinking into her personal space and yet the only thing connecting them being the flame from the lighter, a flame that perhaps burns in both of them. Strange that the only person I've been out with who smoked was Anne-Marie and yet this line never came to mind at the time.
The lyrics finish with that trademark Type O self-loathing, am I good enough, for you? A feeling that I have shared with them for a long time. I imagine I'm not as bad these days but that sense of contempt will always be there. I'm often frustrated that there isn't a better word for it, something distinct and ugly.
R.I.P. Peter Steele, hope you really are 'Free at Last'.
Friday 9 April 2010
What is given to friends is not lost by Martial
So this Saturday just gone, I had the Northern Oak crew over for our second feast. Catie created some delicious goats cheese tarts, I produced a damn fine lamb roast if I do say so myself and Rich charmed us all once more by making sure his apple crumble had a penis sculpted onto the top...
Sharing a meal with good friends had me thinking of some of the poems I studied in Latin, in particular one of Martial's Epigrams about giving to friends. So I found some translations here.
Unfortunately I can't find the original Latin so you won't be able to appreciate how it originally looked or sounded (or how difficult it can be to write, making sure you follow the specific syllable pattern and slipping a caesura in...)
Waffling aside here is a translation of the specific epigram and someone's attempt to put it into a poetic format similar to the original.
EPIGRAMS. BOOK V. - XLII. WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST.
A cunning thief may burst open your coffers, and steal your coin; an impious fire may lay waste your ancestral home; your debtor may refuse you both principal and interest; your corn-field may prove barren, and not repay the seed you have scattered upon it; a crafty mistress may rob your steward; the waves may engulf your ships laden with merchandise. But what is bestowed on your friends is beyond the reach of fortune; the riches you give away are the only riches you will possess for ever.
Thieves may break locks, and with your cash retire;
Your ancient seat may be consumed: by fire:
Debtors refuse to pay you what they owe;
Or your ungrateful field the seed you sow;
You may be plunder'd by a jilting whore;
Your ships may sink at sea with all their store:
Who gives to friends, so much from fate secures;
That is the only wealth for ever yours.
Hay.
So yes the poem starts off particularly grim by pointing out that at any point life can empty its bowels upon you from whichever height it desires. However that which you give to your friends is outside the evils fate may have in store for you. That good deed is yours and their appreciation is yours.
So myself and 2010 are not exactly seeing eye to eye at the moment and the good times at Chaise Pizza now have a date at which they will end. One Saturday I gave some of my time and money to prepare some food for good friends to enjoy and for me to take delight in their company. Whatever happens, that happy memory is mine.
Sharing a meal with good friends had me thinking of some of the poems I studied in Latin, in particular one of Martial's Epigrams about giving to friends. So I found some translations here.
Unfortunately I can't find the original Latin so you won't be able to appreciate how it originally looked or sounded (or how difficult it can be to write, making sure you follow the specific syllable pattern and slipping a caesura in...)
Waffling aside here is a translation of the specific epigram and someone's attempt to put it into a poetic format similar to the original.
EPIGRAMS. BOOK V. - XLII. WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST.
A cunning thief may burst open your coffers, and steal your coin; an impious fire may lay waste your ancestral home; your debtor may refuse you both principal and interest; your corn-field may prove barren, and not repay the seed you have scattered upon it; a crafty mistress may rob your steward; the waves may engulf your ships laden with merchandise. But what is bestowed on your friends is beyond the reach of fortune; the riches you give away are the only riches you will possess for ever.
Thieves may break locks, and with your cash retire;
Your ancient seat may be consumed: by fire:
Debtors refuse to pay you what they owe;
Or your ungrateful field the seed you sow;
You may be plunder'd by a jilting whore;
Your ships may sink at sea with all their store:
Who gives to friends, so much from fate secures;
That is the only wealth for ever yours.
Hay.
So yes the poem starts off particularly grim by pointing out that at any point life can empty its bowels upon you from whichever height it desires. However that which you give to your friends is outside the evils fate may have in store for you. That good deed is yours and their appreciation is yours.
So myself and 2010 are not exactly seeing eye to eye at the moment and the good times at Chaise Pizza now have a date at which they will end. One Saturday I gave some of my time and money to prepare some food for good friends to enjoy and for me to take delight in their company. Whatever happens, that happy memory is mine.
Thursday 1 April 2010
Liberty Bodice by Sian Hughes [entry for The Hippocrates Prize competition]
So back two Wednesdays ago there was this article in The Independent
Verse that will make you feel better.
About a poetry competition which is focused on medical themes, with the winner being announced at a symposium on Poetry and Medicine next week at the University of Warrick. Both of the short listed poems in the article are very good but this one really stands out [I've typed it out in the format from the paper as it is more pleasing to the eye than the version in the online article]
Liberty Bodice
by Sian Hughes
A few days after the operation
the nurses let you in the shower room
alone. The one with the mirror.
The dressing on your left side
is felted, fixed like old fashioned vests
you wore to boarding school-
from this angle, you're twelve,
embarrassed, packed away.
From the other, you're a woman.
You turn one way, and back again.
The nurses listen outside. But it's later
you cry, in your sleep, secretly.
like homesick girls in the dormitory,
down both sides of your face
into your brand new, flatter pyjamas.
I assume that the poor woman has had to had to have a breast removed but by not explaining exactly what has happened or giving a reason for why it makes the poem all the more striking. By removing the disease from the equation you're forced to focus upon the woman's sense of loss, experience the horror of something key and irreplaceble being taken from her.
The nurses listening outside not only speaks of how and why we conceal our personal pain from others but on the flipside we question why they are listening. Has other peoples' suffering become so commonplace to them that it is now a game to guess if she will cry?
Then there are the regular comparisons to being a young girl. That by having a symbol of her womanhood taken from her she has been forced back into childhood, that her worth has been reduced somehow. It leaves you wanting to reach out to the woman and assure her that this is not the case but in a world so obssessed with image, if she turned back and assured you through tear filled eyes that it is the counter-arguement would sit like a ball in your throat.
These are an incredible set of verses, the title not only reinforcing the idea of being forced back into childhood but a cruel play on words as well.
Verse that will make you feel better.
About a poetry competition which is focused on medical themes, with the winner being announced at a symposium on Poetry and Medicine next week at the University of Warrick. Both of the short listed poems in the article are very good but this one really stands out [I've typed it out in the format from the paper as it is more pleasing to the eye than the version in the online article]
Liberty Bodice
by Sian Hughes
A few days after the operation
the nurses let you in the shower room
alone. The one with the mirror.
The dressing on your left side
is felted, fixed like old fashioned vests
you wore to boarding school-
from this angle, you're twelve,
embarrassed, packed away.
From the other, you're a woman.
You turn one way, and back again.
The nurses listen outside. But it's later
you cry, in your sleep, secretly.
like homesick girls in the dormitory,
down both sides of your face
into your brand new, flatter pyjamas.
I assume that the poor woman has had to had to have a breast removed but by not explaining exactly what has happened or giving a reason for why it makes the poem all the more striking. By removing the disease from the equation you're forced to focus upon the woman's sense of loss, experience the horror of something key and irreplaceble being taken from her.
The nurses listening outside not only speaks of how and why we conceal our personal pain from others but on the flipside we question why they are listening. Has other peoples' suffering become so commonplace to them that it is now a game to guess if she will cry?
Then there are the regular comparisons to being a young girl. That by having a symbol of her womanhood taken from her she has been forced back into childhood, that her worth has been reduced somehow. It leaves you wanting to reach out to the woman and assure her that this is not the case but in a world so obssessed with image, if she turned back and assured you through tear filled eyes that it is the counter-arguement would sit like a ball in your throat.
These are an incredible set of verses, the title not only reinforcing the idea of being forced back into childhood but a cruel play on words as well.
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