We are moving base camp. Admittedly we are not going far but time and distance have been evermore up for discussion since more was revealed in relation to the immortal Kessel Run. For that reason, through not that reason alone, this week may be a week in which I am somewhat, at least partially absent from your unblinking and magnificent orb. With what remains of my much used, corporeal form, I aim to recompense with deafening aplomb. Therefore, the ensuing passage is presented with love and also with the understanding that your forgiveness is cherished, nay held close unto my quivering chest in the darkest part of lonesome night.
‘Electric Ladyland’ is a record that commands a certain respect from anyone who’s laid ears on it, which should be everyone but I continue to be surprised and delighted whenever I find a body that ain’t familiar with Hendrix’ wild and weird freakout of an album. It is also true that I am never sure what fucking speed this thing runs at and I could be correct at 33 or we could be in some really strange Jimi & The Chipmunks territory at 45. The introduction does not assist. Their songs are not constructed in a fashion familiar to musicians who are not part of The Experience and listening to it is just that: an experience. Mr Sexton asserted that they do sound like they have been at the devil grass and I think he’s probably correct. It is also a record that commands a pretty serious price at auction for an original pressing with that cover. They start at the £400 mark before promptly going through the roof. This is not one of those but it is a very nice pressing and check out those sleeve notes with Hendrix’ letters to the record company.
We finished watching ‘Good Omens’ on Amazon Lime (because, contrary to what we initially assumed, that is where it lives, not the other place which is funny when you consider this) and were rewarded by the best of endings and a lovely bit of piano. It was worth travelling through the inferno that is what feels like sometime budget BBC writing/pacing and ultimately the many faces of David Tennant make the trip what it is, which is a good time. I was crying from the town square that Gaiman had played up the love story aspect of his and Pratchett’s tale concerning the sliding scale of good and evil and I was on the money, goddammit. It started out from the garden very strong indeed then, like many things, it struggled in the third act. Quite what those inherited problems were, I’m not sure? The child cast don’t necessarily hit all their beats but that might be down to Gaiman’s writing style which has always been very self aware. There is a copy of ‘American Gods’ that appears late game. ‘Nuff said. As someone who spends a great deal of time in what is, at least in part, ostensibly a book shop, I did fall in love with Michael Sheen’s business interest and that was my own story. I am a sucker for tomes rare and delicious, regardless of origin.
Where this particular copy of Patti Smith’s ‘Just Kids’ came from, I could not honestly say. I mean, I could make something up like, “It was a gift” or “I bought one on a whim” and either of those things could be true but they might not be. The fact is that there are two copies in this room, one of which belonged to Ms Fielding of DEAF YETi fame. As for the second, your guess is as good as mine. Even more mysterious is exactly why it has taken me this long to get around to reading Smith’s deeply personal, ineffably sensitive and excellently written love letter to Robert Mapplethorpe. It is widely known that she is a writer of considerable chops and after having seen her younger self in that Martin Scorsese documentary on Dylan, it is even more so a pleasure to have her poetic voice beating in my ear as I swim through her early days and hear tell of her joy and pain in equal measure. Patti Smith has flow and that flow is much like a song and I am one hundred percent certain that she is aware of this. I’m pretty sure that Ms Fielding reported crying a river before the end and I can see the future.
Everything awaits me.
JD - TACOCAT