Been on hiatus. Promised someone I’d post a Friday appropriate today with a view to getting the ball rolling again… maybe… Monday… maybe.
Just haven’t been in the right ‘headspace’ for this – happens everyone with most things, yeah?
So there’s a festival on in Ireland this weekend. Hope it’s fun for everyone.
Not that they’re on the line up but a while ago in work I had to ‘do’ a video of Matt and Kim playing McCarren Park Pool in New York.
Impressive party music and well worth checking the whole concert.
Eh.
First here’s a vidjo by them up for one of those award things. Well worth watching. Very well worth watching.
Second, I advise you find and watch the full concert, but here’s the finale, Yea Yeah, from it (because it’s kind of out of context to just watch this, but anyway)
Maybe see you Monday. Maybe.
Have a festive fun weekend fer yourself whatever you get up to.
This is a quote from Noreen Beasley who wrote the lyrics:
“I am the author of the lyrics to Theme de Yoyo, a song written for a French film, hence the references to French things like camembert, Seine, Champs Elysees.
Here are the original lyrics, one word of which was changed by Fontella Bass at the time of recording.”
Your head is like a yoyo,
your neck is like the string,
Your body’s like a camembert
oozing from its skin.
Your fanny’s like two sperm whales
floating down the Seine
Your voice is like a long fart
that’s music to your brain.
Your eyes are two blind eagles
that kill what they can’t see
Your hands are like two shovels
digging in me.
And your love is like an oil-well
Dig, dig, dig, dig it,
On the Champs-Elysees.
So she claims that singer Fontella Bass changed one word in the Art Ensemble of Chicago version.
Listening now, it’s definitely probably ‘fork’ (or IS IT?!) instead of ‘fart’ (*titter*)
Here are the lyrics from Motorpsycho’s equally kick fucking arse version.
Your head is like a yoyo, your neck is like the string, Your body’s like a camembert oozing from its skin.
Your fanny’s like two sperm whales floating down the Seine Your voice is like a long fuck that’s music to your brain.
Your eyes are two blind eagles that kill what they can’t see Your hands are like two shovels digging in me.
And your love is like an oil-well Dig, dig, dig, dig it, On the Champs-Elysees.
I have taken on the noble task of educating and enlightening ‘da yoof’.
The coolest music my eleven year old sisters are into is Girls Aloud and Black Eyed Peas.
Their taste spirals downward from there to Lady Gaga.
Ouch.
Role model*
With that in mind, I have elected to construct an utterly flawless fool proof mix of actual cool music for them.
More than likely they’ll impatiently skip each track after 20 seconds and hurl the CD into their evermore abandoned pile of Barbies, but I like to think they’ll not only give it a go, but drive my mother insane by playing it LOUD! all day and insisting on it over Spin fucking FM on drives in the car (they whine if we switch over during an ad break or the news, whereupon myself and Mum consequently sing along at them to Fleetwood Mac, Elton John or whatever music-for-old-people is playing).
I made a youtube playlist coz i is yung n cleva n shizz 2**.
*I excuse the inclusion of “kiss me, I’m drunk”, “make love and listen to Death From Above” and “motherfucker’s gonna drop the pressure” considering the girls have (highly in)appropriate dances to accompany lyrics such as “my lovely lady lumps”; “my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”; “push the button and let me know” and “bluffing with my muffin”.
**Not bloody easy them youtubes. Plus youtube vids are worse than mp3’s for consistency of volume. Also, had to substitute the live version of Heartbeats, which although great, isn’t the one on the CD. And that annoys me. Burranneeway… ~n~joy
It’s happened. Just like I promised myself it wouldn’t.
Maybe it’s the few days’ absence, making the heart grow beyonder. Completely unrealistic. Fantastic.
But she’s a concept now. An idea. A (potential) sensation. Not the physical person I’d been getting to know and keeping on a level with.
Maybe it was the argument. Too.
The mental, emotional and physical distances with time and absence which has shifted, displaced the pragmatic reality of the relationship into the (un)Real.
Heavy shit for a change
We’d done well to avoid it, but it’s happened now for me. Maybe it can switch back.
We’d done well up to now to keep it sane, avoid the fantastic. Maybe we can do it again.
Maybe it’s just human nature.
[Life on Mars, in jars; on pills, in bars. Driving cars.
Freaking on SARS... swine flu.
Spills. Scars.
And so on...]
Does every ’successful’ intimate human relationship need a phase of fantasy and need to descend into the mundane and resentful?
Being paid to watch video for the Internet (yes, that’s what I do for a living… for the moment) is a sweet deal.
But some days I really earn my pay. Coldpl*wretch*lay.
Cunt
Need to cleanse the pallette.
Thanks to The Little Lady for clueing me into Arthur Russell.
I’d known and owned some of his disco productions (check Loose Joints), but I wasn’t aware of his truly sublime [I use that word rarely] solo work. Yeah, you probably need to be open to his buzz, but what an ideal pallette cleanser.
(I couldn’t find ‘Lucky Cloud’ from World of Echo on the youtubes, but wow, looky lucky, I found a bona fide Arthur Russell video from the same album!)
Soon-To-Be Innocent Fun
That sets me up for a fairly mellow weekend. It’s my Great Aunt’s 90th tomorrow afternoon in Rathangan. w00p w00p! Glo-sticks and whistles at the ready.
Hope you enjoy yours kids. And if you’re having a bit more of a blast than I, here’s one of those ‘Loose Joints’ I mentioned to get you into the groove. ; ]
Naptime, and it’s not an unusual occurence at this stage – two or three girls ranging from 4 to ten years of age outside my bedroom window.
They begin at the same pitch – low enough for their young girly voices, and as they run out of breath, increase pitch and volume. They repeat this with chatting in between.
As wreck the head as it is to have so many children in the apartment block these days, with nowhere else to play but the echoey amplifying courtyard, every once in a while there’s a gem that makes it absolutely okay.
Sorry to say – out of frame is the line: “and I meen it”
What are little girls and women of all ages made of?
That’s what little girls and women of all ages are made of.
.
.
Seriously, every time a female comes to visit for a significant amount of time, be they friend, relation or ’special friend’, I’m left with those things scattered hither and tither about the place. They must fulfill their function extremely well, because I’ve only ever seen them left behind on a chair, table or bathroom shelf, never on a person as such.
And there are so many of them, always discarded without a thought.
They are definitely a by-product of the female form, no one would purchase that many of them.
How come it’s the most pointless jobs – the ones you just know as you’re being asked to do them, are the ones which require the most effort?
It’s these jobs, the most fiddly fucking ones, that you spend all day on, fixing this, sorting that, fishing that and trying to get it to work with the other, which inevitably (and you’re more than aware of this when you start) are destined for the bin.
And as you just come up trumps and are about to slap yourself on the back, having told the boss it’s done at last, expecting little treats thrown your way, the boss remembers: “Actually, forgot to tell you before lunch that wasn’t necessary after all”.
That’s what little girls and women of all ages are made of.