Screamies

They're supposed to be singing!

The Disappointers

I think the one that finally got me was Rolf Harris. I had loved him so much as a child, and he just never seemed weird or creepy like the loathesome Savile (obvious danger signals even for me when I was very little), Jonathan King (hard to engage with) or Gary Glitter (just damn weird). 

Harris was proof of just how a narcissistic personality can convince people that they are innocent and cuddly, when in fact they are nothing like that at all.

Alongside all the rest of things wonderful and terrible that life brings, there is a skinny timeline of disappointers. 

No more Woody Allen films, for instance. Formerly cuddly public figures who were not who they seemed to be narrow the focus, just as much as tax-avoiding (AKA criminal) businesses who have to be boycotted, or arms/fossil fuel funders who have to be turned away from. 

A former favourite author saw their books thrown into the recycling bin because I felt they needed to be taken out of circulation. An antisemitic musician now longer tempts me to tap my feet, and another at the other end of the scale makes me turn off the radio.

I think one of the problems might be the feeling of people who have become famous in a particular walk of life that that they are wise, invincible and beyond criticism. Gradually, I'm coming to realise that there's an element of mental illness associated with great fame; such people become isolated from reality, and develop a sense of entitlement to explain just why they should act or speak in a certain way.

What are rules except to be broken? Personal ethics and compassion feel like self-imposed restraints that need to be discarded. 'Their public' will surely agree with them, wherever they go on their 'journey'. 

Every time another one bubbles up to the surface, I inwardly groan. It could be a seedy revelation, it could be a pompous pronouncement that they expect everyone to agree with. I'm so disappointed sometimes.

Bodies And Limbs

Arms, legs and bodies: here they are, laid out drying and ready to be assembled when I've finished their heads. These are for the puppet theatre I'm going to make and photograph for the album cover. I have the image in my head and it's just a case of putting everything together to get there.

Yesterday, I recorded James's backing vocal for Sixties Guy. That's the very last thing. 

Afterwards I loaded in the track by the Brighton band Assistant that I'm due to remix.

So it's WimbledonFootballVoting. I'm always scared that I'll forget to vote, and it's always a relief when I have done it. These are such febrile times, and no political party represents what I want. They never have. But I am always aware that democracy is vital, and often vote tactically. If I don't do that, then I think about who will do the most for the people at the very bottom of the social hierarchy- and so often they don't vote. If they are financially secure, healthy, housed safely, have good food and decent education, then I will be happy.

Where was I?

Oh yes!

Perfect Days

I felt remarkably agitated after finishing the album (almost-finishing: I still have to have a final listen, top and tail the tracks and decide what's not going on the vinyl version). For weeks I've wanted to see the Wim Wenders film Perfect Day, and had an aborted attempt a few weeks ago where I had such bad post-viral fatigue after a Covid infection that I got halfway down the street, and had to come home again.

Yesterday's treat was to go to see it: I found a cinema in London that was still screening it and headed down there. What a wonderful film! It is completely mesmerising. It celebrates boringness and contentment, and as a direct opposite to many films, you find yourself hoping that nothing will happen to upset the protagonist's equilibrium. He has the most meaningful of lives, in that his lifestyle means so much to him. He is useful, wise, and engages with people whom life often passes by and with things that many people don't notice. It's a critique both of film and of storytelling. So much depends on his facial expressions; the actor is a genius, as are the supporting cast. They are all completely believable.

There are so many different versions of catharsis. I found Barbie cathartic; that too was a critique of film-making and was a fantastic riposte to toxic masculinity, because it bypassed it entirely. I came out of that film laughing and happy.

This one, I came out with a feeling of complete serenity. The sound design is excellent: subtly, you start to listen to every sound that is happening, and you gradually build up the way the protagonist measures his day by being attuned to everything around him. 

You know he is doing the most dirty of jobs imaginable, but the toilets themselves are pristine by the time he's finished with them. They are quiet and calm, a reflection of his nature. And even in the aerial shots of Tokyo's version of spaghetti junction, his van is often to be seen pootling in the opposite direction of the chaotic traffic jams.

How clever to make a film that is so restrained yet so beautifully detailed. Artistic wisdom was at work from the whole team involved from the director, through the actors, to the props, locations and sound. Perfect Days, perfect film.

Woman Sits Texting On Train Platform Behind Overflowing Bin, Crewe Station

 

Man Fixing Car, Oakleigh Park