The Test Of Time

Recently I've found myself listening to various bands doing covers of Genesis, Pink Floyd and the like - and very good they are too. I suppose it must be reasonably lucrative to do shows recreating the glory days of the 70s & 80s. At least I hope it is; talented musicians deserve all they can get.

Today I found myself very much enjoying The Steely Damned 2, who obviously specialise in reproducing the sounds of the mighty Dan. They make it sound easy on their rocking, swinging version of My Old School, which since it isn't easy at all takes some doing. I'd definitely pay to see these guys live (assuming they come to this Far Place, which they won't.)

But quite apart from enjoying the nostalgia quotient of this particular school of popular music (if that's what it is) it does make me wonder what will survive of the music of my misspent youth. It was obvious to me at the time of its release that much of what I listened to deserved to survive the test and vicissitudes of time. And now it seems that might be happening, but not quite as I might have expected.

More Than A Bit Ridiculous

The good people at the Giant Supermarket chain have earned the ire of The Missus by playing Hari Raya songs before the fasting month has even started. (Next Monday, if you're wondering.) I've always thought the celebration was reasonably well-protected from over-commercialisation being predicated upon a season of deprivation. Looks like I was wrong. Nothing is safe from the gods of Capitalism.

A Question Of Attention

Went to Holland Village this afternoon for my Birthday Cup of Tea and managed to pick up a copy of the very handsome Mekong Review at the magazine shop on the corner. This is the May - July edition, which means I missed the previous edition early in the year, but no matter. It's been a long, long time since I've felt obliged to read any publication on a regular basis and that isn't about to change.

But something has definitely changed in my life over the last two years in relation to my reading habits. I realised with quite a jolt the other day that I've still not finished reading the first NYRB I bought in 2019. Yes, I'm still only about halfway through the January edition. When I bought it I thought I'd have it read in a couple of weeks, not least because I immediately zoomed through five articles that caught my eye. So what happened? As far as I can tell it's my smart phone that's pulling me away from my usual reading, not into the world of social media, a world in which I have zero interest, (I'd hardly describe this poor blog as 'social' in any real sense, by the way, in case you were wondering) but into the world of the sort of thing I usually read except I'm not reading it in the usual way.

Whatever I read on the phone, or my laptop, doesn't seem to entirely engage me somehow. I find myself skimming most articles and rarely reread anything. A kind of depth is missing. I'm treading the shallows. That which deserves attention, sometimes demands it, isn't getting it from me, I'm afraid.

Knocking On

 

 

 

 

 

Celebrated the crossing of yet another bar in time-honoured fashion today with the ritual opening of cards & presents, a visit from Fuad & Rozita and tiny friend (above) and a delicious bit of cake. Enough to make any day complete, especially this one.

At Ease

Around 5.00 pm I realised suddenly just how tired I felt, which was very tired indeed. Couldn't quite figure out if the tiredness was the satisfying sort that brings with it a sense of fulfilment, or the unsettling sort that speaks of unresolved frayed edges. A bit of both, I suspect.

Fortunately I've enjoyed the privilege of an evening of rest, so I really shouldn't complain. Even though I am doing.

A Little Bit Lost

Never quite got the hang of today. The day never went entirely out of tune, but there were odd discords here and there and a few wrong notes. Never fully harmonised.
 But had a nice cup of tea and some kaya toast with Noi in the afternoon and got to the gym in the evening. So all was not lost, even if nothing was really found.

Wise Words

I have a few regular ports of call on the great sea of the WWW, and On An Overgrown Path is prominent among them. The well-chosen words therein shed some light on a dark Easter Sunday.

Meaning It

Got back home to find Noi was not around and thought it might be a good idea to give Fripp & Eno's The Equatorial Stars a spin in her absence. And it was a very good idea indeed.

How is it that music so essentially improvisatory in its origins can sound so entirely inevitable, so completely meant?

True Grit

Our month of fasting begins two weeks from today. I'm thinking of the challenge to come with the usual mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Lots of the latter this year since the month neatly coincides with the busiest time of my working year.

It was particularly hot last Friday. Walking to the Sungai Petai Mosque, exposed to the sun, was a reminder of how important the climate can be to one's experience of fasting. But I'm incredibly lucky to be able to take shelter from the elements, even at my busiest. Chatting with Fuad about the upcoming Ramadhan we both noted that if it proves as hot as it was in Alor Gajah over the weekend we'd probably struggle. Then my brother-in-law reminded me of the workers he encounters on building sites he's monitoring and how they sustain the fast no matter what, in the most extreme conditions, at the limit of endurance.

These are not guys you hear of getting picked out for their strength of character. But, my goodness, they should be.

A Lonely Place

It's a cliché to talk of how comfortable Ms Christie's murders are. Even when the envelope is being pushed a little, as with Hastings absolutely being prepared to do away with someone in cold blood (to protect his daughter, of course) the reader doesn't have any sense of the solid ground of good old social reality trembling over much. (After all, the blighter in question would have deserved it had it taken place which it assuredly didn't.)

We need that sort of comfort in our reading occasionally - at least I do. But even as I'm being comforted by things nicely as they are, or should be, I detect a faint longing to be reminded of things disturbingly as they could be, and perhaps are, when the blinkers are off.

That's what Sylvia Plath has to offer, and in her final poems (end of 1962, beginning of 1963), which I'm currently staggering through, I find myself with some reluctance joining her, at moments, in that place in which the very act of existence is one of extreme discomfort. Is this how things really are? Not for me, I'm thankful to say, but for SP the reader recognises a breakthrough into chilling, uncompromising, absolute truth.