All I Can

It's been a long, long time since a collection of songs has moved me as deeply as Sharon Van Etten's extraordinary new offering, Tramp (Jagjaguwar). There will hopefully be plenty more very good albums released in 2012, but they will have to steam some to compete with this, a strong early contender for my album of the year. Such is its raw honesty and emotional clout that I can barely get through Tramp without tears forming at one point or another. I really enjoyed Van Etten's previous releases but, man, this one really is on another planet.

My favourite song on Tramp is its centrepiece, All I Can. It just destroys me every time. A slow-burning, heartbreaking epic, it puts me in mind of Roy Orbison classics like It's Over and In Dreams. Yeah, that good. Follow the link to see what I mean. Turn it up loud. The gorgeous acoustic rendition of All I Can in the video above sees Van Etten accompanied only by Heather Woods-Broderick (Horse Feathers, Efterklang, Laura Gibson) for the French music video blog site, Soul Kitchen. I hope you enjoy it.
  

You Can Play

I have to say I am very impressed with this initiative. I like its directness and unsentimental, unpatronizing, no-nonsense approach. It is really good to see it coming from a sport I love, but one generally perceived as about as macho and tough as it gets. It is a travesty in this day and age that such a campaign or organization is needed at all, but where there are humans, there are prejudices, and that's the way it will always be. Anyway, I hope You Can Play is a success on every level it is aiming for, but it cannot be so without our support. Straight or gay, male or female, human or alien, please visit the You Can Play website to educate yourself and add your weight to the good work going on here. Thank you.

I Missed My Vocation

Who is this guy, do you know?

On Monday I happened upon an article on the BBC website listing pop music's top earners of 2011. There were a couple of surprises in the Top 10 - like the violent hip-hop midget Lil Wayne, and Sade, who I thought had retired a la Dietrich years ago - plus a few entirely predictable names, like U2, Adele and Lady AaghAagh. But imagine my bewilderment when I saw a name at # 9 that meant absolutely nothing to me. As in not a thing. I had never, ever encountered the name JASON ALDEAN before. (It appears the BBC hadn't either, misspelling his name as ADLEAN; I only discovered the correct spelling when looking up who the hell he is, to be asked by Google: Do you mean Jason Aldean? My answer: I've no idea, do I?)

So, it appears that this bloke is a "country singer." (I guess the hat was a clue.) I put that job description in inverted commas having now experienced the great misfortune of hearing his "music." (Ditto.) It's just horrible, from that Keith Urban/Kenny Chesney (# 3 earner) school of squeaky New Country ghastliness, a billion miles from the raw, heartbreaking genius of such as George Jones, Hank Williams, Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash et al. You know what I mean. (It's pertinent to note here, incidentally, that the top pop earner of 2011 is Taylor Swift. A lovely girl with a heart of gold, by all accounts, but Jesus Christ almighty what is that revolting racket that comes out of her cakehole?)

Nonetheless, I do find it incredible that despite the fact that the 35-year old Aldean has released four evidently mega-unit shifting albums in the last seven years - much of which I have spent, like the rest of my working life, toiling in music stores - that I have never encountered this simpering git's name before. I'm not sure how this has happened as, regardless of taste, even in passing at work you would imagine a star of such evident magnitude could not escape my radar... but happen it has. I guess this is further evidence of my increasing detachment from "modern culture" and "popular taste," but if this is a sample of what's on offer, as one of the last year's top pop earners on earth, then I couldn't be happier about that situation.

Aldean scooped US $13.4 million in 2011. That's akin to what I could net if I worked 24 hours a day, non-stop, with no vacation or days off, for the next 728 years. (Actually, a quick recalculation reveals it to be 734 years, not 728. Apologies for the error.) A quick poke about online in support of this post revealed that the range of ticket prices for a forthcoming Aldean gig in Houston ran from $15 to $305. That in itself is bizarre, but it's easy to see how the bucks would pile up when considering the Houston venue in question holds about 12,000,000 good ol' boys 'n' gals. I'm guessing the cheap seats are located in the parking lot (of another venue in a neighbouring county), while the top-whack ones are actually on the stage. Oh, whatever; I don't really care.

This has been a Captain Curmudgeon presentation.
      

Raising a Glass to My Mom

On the window ledge of my home office there's a framed black and white photograph of my mother, captured in her twenties. She looks so pretty, wistful, and hopeful for what her life may bring. Every day I kiss this picture, and/or say a few words to it; apart from a few others and a clutch of personal keepsakes, it's all I have left of her.

Mom died of breast cancer in 1993, and I continue to miss her terribly. I remain angry that she was snatched from me and the world, in such terrible pain after barely a year's retirement, having worked her fingers to the bone from the age of 14. It's an anger I keep capped, and must, but when I think of what she went through for so many years at the hands of my brutal father, it makes me seethe and twists me up that she never had any peace and rest once he was finally out of our lives. And the biggest unavoidable regret of my life is that mom and Susan never had the opportunity to meet and get to know each other. They'd have gotten along rather famously, I feel. Oh well, it is what it is, as is said.

This Friday, February 24th, 2012, would have been mom's 80th birthday. By some cosmic design my writing work has presented Susan and I with an enviable situation on the evening of 23rd, enabling me to raise a glass or ten to mom's memory on such a big anniversary. Having previewed the event for one local publication, I'll be reviewing Parksville Untapped - an evening in celebration of BC beer - for the website of another. It's a sweet gig, for sure. Yes, I'll have to do some work, but every glass I sink on Thursday night will be preceded by a private toast to Jean Jessie Florence, my incredible mother. Rest in peace, dear one.

Death of a Diva

I never was a fan of Whitney Houston's music. I just don't go for over-the-top vocal gymnastics in a singer, as also purveyed by such as Mariah Carey and Celine Dion. Only occasionally has this approach thrilled me, Lorraine Ellison's rendition of Stay With Me being one example. I much prefer the deep soul delivery of the ilk of Jean Wells or the raw funk grittiness of a singer like Lyn Collins.

This said, I most certainly recognize Houston's immense talent. She had a quite incredible voice, and regardless of taste that's an indisputable fact. Like most people, my first exposure to her music was the powerhouse version of Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You that made her a global megastar. Ten times out of ten I would opt for the delicacy of the original, but when hearing Houston's version for the first time, such was the power of that voice that it was like a gale force wind blasting from the speakers. By any measure, it truly is a remarkable performance.

But even as a non-fan, I find myself saddened by Houston's passing. She was just 48-years old, for Christ's sake - three years younger than me. I find it so depressing that the last known footage of this once stunningly beautiful woman, a goddess to many, shows her staggering out of a nightclub, a bewildered, shambolic, bloated mess. And thinking of that massive voice, then seeing the snippet of film of her final, chaotic, mumbling performance at the same club that night just breaks my heart. What a tragic figure she became; it's so very sad.

And now, as predictable as eggs is eggs, the corpse-raping and sickening exploitation has begun before her drug-ravaged body is even in the ground. Today I encountered a sorry 'story' claiming that Osama bin Laden had a huge crush on Houston. Is that supposed to be interesting? Really? And then there's Sony UK "accidentally" increasing the prices of her CDs; I've worked in the music industry my whole life and witnessed this kind of behaviour from record labels again and again upon the death of a singer of musician, so that they actually expect us to swallow that is simply incredible.

But, hey, death sells, and always will. I'm just really tired of the fact that it does.
  

The Dutch

I'll get back to the above video in a bit, but first a Secret Santa(s) update, scant though it be. So, we were convinced that the lovely pranksters behind the laying of gifts at our door each of the 12 Days of Christmas were our professional artist friends Robert and Titia (TJ), who moved here from Holland three years ago this May. This couple and their three sons are head and shoulders the most creative people we know, so we feel it's exactly the sort of thing they would dream up. They're also extremely kind people and nuts enough to be sneaking about at all hours in the name of such a project, so again it all pointed to them. Also, there were a few small spelling and grammatical errors in certain of the notes left with the gifts, perhaps indicative of authors for whom English was not their first language. Pulling all the 'evidence' together, flimsy though it was, we concluded it could only be Robert and TJ, or, as we call them and the boys for convenience' sake, "The Dutch."

On Christmas Eve morning we had breakfast with The Dutch and, when the time felt right, Susan brought up the matter. Then I joined in to intensify the interrogation, but we were both greeted by blank looks and firm denials. I looked Robert and TJ right in the eye, just inches from their faces, asking them to swear it was not them, which they did. Well, we were bewildered and felt utterly bamboozled! We had little choice but to believe Robert and TJ, as they were adamant they were not behind this joyous seasonal scheming. Yet still we remain unconvinced! It has to be them! So, the facts remain that either they were the Secret Santas and are the greatest actors of our generation, or indeed, as they claim, it had absolutely nothing to do with them. As things stand, it is still a mystery. Perhaps it's best that it stays that way?

As I mentioned, Robert and TJ have three sons. They're great kids and rather than being peas in a pod, they're as different from each other as it's possible to be. The youngest, Hugo (11), although fun-loving and kooky, is seemingly the most sensitive. He loves to be involved in serving food at meal times and is obsessed by space travel and knights and templars. He loves to explain books he's reading in detail, often walking us through those with plenty of maps and illustrations. He's obviously a details guy and, despite his sweetness, Hugo kicks ass in the realm of the martial arts, so go figure.

The middle son, Felix (13), is very affectionate, but completely crazy. A real livewire, he is determined to track down a Bigfoot on Vancouver Island, can hardly keep still for a minute, and has more energy than he knows what to do with. He has one of those Jim Carrey-esque rubber faces, so is constantly distorting it for humorous effect, and speaking far too loudly out of sheer excitement. Moreover, Felix is perhaps the son most visibly inherently blessed with the considerable artistic talents of his parents. He is always doodling, inventing characters and weird machines to dwell in inventive, otherworldly landscapes that take him an age to plan and draw. Most interestingly, he fills sketchbook after sketchbook with the incredible adventures of his two favourite invented characters, Peter and Rammstein, the latter named for his favourite band. If Felix doesn't end up a professional artist like his parents, I'll eat my desk.

As if Hugo and Felix aren't fascinating enough, then the oldest son, Dirk (15), is truly a Boy Out of Time. Like his parents he's already a giant, making Susan and I look like Hobbits standing next to him. He is obsessed by old things, especially machinery like 8-Track cartridge players and chunky bakelite telephones. He's also in thrall to classic 70s detective dramas, his all-time hero being Columbo, so Dirk was really upset when Peter Falk passed away last year. He writes extremely lengthy, highly detailed murder stories with recurring characters. As a professional writer I critiqued one for him and was genuinely blown away by Dirk's work, particularly his patience in scene-setting, character development and building dialogue. However, this young writer did not use a computer to create the story, or any others he's written. He uses a typewriter. Dirk is obsessed with vintage typewriters and has amassed a collection of thirty or so from thrift stores and garage sales in under three years. Often, when we visit The Dutch, weather permitting he'll be off in the garden somewhere, typing away at a desk he's set up, oblivious to the world as he bashes out another story or one of the dozens of letters he writes each week. Extraordinary. Dirk is so taken with his collection of manual typerwriters that he is compiling a series of short films presenting 'tours' of certain favourites on his YouTube channel, under the unsurprising moniker of Dr. Typewriter.

Anyway, the video above was created by Dirk and sent to me yesterday. Animation and filmmaking in general are other areas of creativity that Dirk is interested in, and I would put money on him pursuing this seriously in some capacity when he leaves high school. His first project in this arena was to edit and add a soundtrack and special effects to some footage of Felix on a Bigfoot hunt in the Sproat Lake area of Vancouver Island. The clip you see here is a bizarre, but really fun two minutes created for a school project, and I love it. It's rough and ready, but then this is the product of a 15-year old mind armed with very basic equipment. Just enjoy it for what it is, and please feel free to drop by Dr. Typewriter's YouTube channel from time to time to see what else he has dreamed up!

So, that's The Dutch for you. They're an amazing family whose friendship, inspirational talent, unbridled loveliness and truckload of eccentricities help to brighten our lives in this small Vancouver Island town. But we still want to know exactly what their movements were over Christmas...

Our Secret Santa(s)!

For the last ten nights we've been visited by a secret Santa (or Santas) or, as Susan prefers, mysterious elves! Returning home from wherever we'd been, on the first night this all started we found a small ornamental bell and Christmas stocking hanging from our front door handle. Inside the stocking was a scroll of paper with a ribbon around it. Upon unrolling it, we found the heading Twelve Days of Christmas in a decorative font, followed by this verse:

Christmas is coming and it's the best time of the year!
It gives us all a chance to spread some wonderful "Christmas Cheer."
Now at this special time of year we want to have some fun
So we'll surprise you with a gift before each day is done.
With the twelve days of Christmas we hope we can show
That friends are quite special and we hope our closeness grows.
If it adds some happiness and a little bit of cheer
Then we will be so happy 'cause it's the best time of the year.
Our little gifts are simple but or (sic) love goes with it too.
Remember we are saying Merry Christmas to you!

Well, as you can imagine, we were delighted with this! And, as promised in the note, a gift has been left for us every night since. Though not in this order, we've received a Gingerbread Man decoration kit; an ornamental star; a wooden soldier nutcracker; a bag of chocolate coins; a Christmas songbook; two Christmas mugs with sachets of hot apple cider mix; a spring of holly; two Christmas crackers; a festive candle, and a tic-tac-toe game. There are just two nights left of this fantastically fun mystery, and we have been loving it!

We think we might know who's behind this, but we're not 100% sure. There have been clues unwittingly left in the rhyming notes that have accompanied each gift, and we have an inkling by process of elimination as to who amongst our friends might do something like this. When the twelve days are up, we will confront them to find out if it is who we think it is. If it is not them, then the mystery will continue!

What is particularly awesome about this is that we have absolutely no idea when this person or these people is/are paying visits to our door to leave the gifts. We haven't heard a thing, even though we know visits have been paid when we've been at home. Also, one evening we retired after midnight knowing he, she or they had not been, as we'd checked the door before going to bed, then we rose at 6:00am to discover the gift waiting for us! 

This really has been a hoot! How could something like this fail to brighten someone's day? We've been checking the front door before doing anything else these last nine mornings, therefore immediately kicking off the day with a smile. It's so great!

Anyway, this is likely my last post of the year, so thanks to the few of you that have been reading since Morrison's Nifty Drivelarium & Gubbins Repository was launched. A very Merry Christmas to you all! See you in 2012.