Ray Lamontagne — Three More Days.

I’m closing in on the final sections of the outline for As Morning Shows the Day, and, so, haven’t been able to think of anything earthshattering to blog about today.  Therefore, in lieu of something more… one of my favourite Ray Lamontagne  songs…

All text © 2009 Gary William Murning

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Ne Me Quitte Pas.

Whilst researching, earlier today, the soundtrack for “something” I won’t be mentioning or sharing in any real detail for quite a while, I stumbled across a song that fitted my requirements perfectly. Already very familiar with it, I was again struck by just how powerful it is in its original form.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Jacques Brel, be warned — he isn’t very pretty. But as a poet and performer, he truly was magnificent.

All text © 2008 Gary William Murning

Disrespectful, Innit? (Actually, No, It Isn’t.)

This has to be the most pointless and ridiculous story I’ve read in a while.

Hip-hop star, Estelle (okay, I’ll hold my hand up; never heard of her), has apparently accused Jeremy Paxman of being disrespectful to the rapper Dizzee Rascal. As she would have it, Paxman treated Rascal like “an idiot” by asking him “Do you feel yourself to be British?” — within the context of a discussion about race and “Britishness”.

Having watched the interview I actually found Paxman to be quite affectionate (for him!) and the notion that asking a black British man if he feels British is somehow out of order shows a distinct lack of intelligence and, quite possibly, prejudice on the part of Estelle.

“That was so… crazy,” Estelle said. “I don’t ever want to diss another artist that I know is in the same struggle and grind as me, but it was the look on Jeremy Paxman’s face.”

That look suggested to me a good-humoured leg-pull. All three participants seemed to be enjoying the discussion, however different their walks of life may be.

It strikes me that it is actually Estelle who is being the disrespectful one here. Disrespectful to Paxman and to Dizzee Rascal.

© 2008 Gary William Murning

Burning Love.

The novel I’m currently trying to place, Children of the Resolution, has a scene of which I’m fairly fond. My protagonist, Carl, is still only about six years old and one of his classmates had just died (it’s a “special” school for kids with physical disabilities, set in the early 1970s.) One line in particular — because it was just the kind of thing I would have thought or said the time — I especially like.

Given that it’s Elvis Week, and that the man himself (or his music, at least) has been a part of my life for many, many years, now seems a good time to share the extract with you.

“If it made her feel bad to tell us about how Emiline had died and everything, she shouldn’t have to do it. Someone else should have done it for her. Mr. Dixon in assembly should have said, instead of making us sing Give Me Oil in My Lamp (although, I had to admit it was a good song — not exactly up there with Burning Love, but good nonetheless.) It wasn’t fair and I wanted to make it better for her but didn’t know how.”

Are You a Dancing Queen?

Heading out Thornton-le-Dale way today, just to get a “feel” of the place, I heard something on the radio that struck me as the perfect blog piece with which to follow up the numerous Dawkins posts of the past few days. A subject both bright and breezy, perfect for a summer’s afternoon — and not in the least bit controversial. Something guaranteed not to offend anyone (!)

So, the topic for today: Abba — a popular music highpoint, or complete and utter shite?

My position is a fairly straightforward one. I consider their music to be disposable pop that somebody forgot to throw away. The meme-like quality of their music does, occasionally, get me humming — this is true — and as a child, back in the seventies, I briefly thought that they were quite, well, you know, okay, principally because everyone around me liked them (or so it seemed!) Back in my drinking days I even quite liked Erasure’s cover version EP. But today, being a fully-fledged adult with something that passes for good-ish taste, I cannot abide them. In the seventies, they sort of worked. The anthemic, Coca-Cola advert-ness of their songs (Thank You for the Music, for example) fit right in with the very odd feeling of the day. This was a time, one has to remember, when the Eurovision Song Contest was considered a musical highpoint rather than a running joke.

So, no, I won’t be going to see Mamma Mia! — the movie or the musical. Without wishing to overstate the point, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes while having matchsticks jammed under my toenails.

But what about you? Am I alone in my dislike of Super Trouper? Will I be Under Attack for sharing this information, or will you be willing to Take a Chance on Me? Should I sing out an SOS and admit that this is possibly going to be my Waterloo?

Or will you just do the charitable thing and Lay All Your Love On Me? (Maybe not!)