Facebook Pages: Top Ten

The Top Ten Facebook Pages You Can Like to Stay in the Know

facebook

A well-put-together Facebook News Feed can be just as informative as a newspaper, or watching TV in the morning. Following a varietyof Facebook pages eliminates the need to actively seek out information on a daily basis. Having a tailored News Feed means all the right information is delivered straight to your device. In a world where everyone is constantly on the move, social media is a great platform one can use to stay informed, from any place, at any time.

Here are ten Facebook pages recommended for your feed.

Al Jazeera English

Al Jazeera broadcasts news from the Middle East. Al Jazeera’s Facebook page is a useful source for anyone who is interested in not only their local news, but also global news. Al Jazeera often covers major news stories that the Australian media neglects to report on.

Higgins Storm Chasing

HSCThe Higgins Storm Chasing Facebook page is run by a bunch of people who are really passionate about weather. The team at Higgins Storm Chasing posts forecasts and warnings. Unlike the Bureau of Meteorology, Higgins Storm Chasing posts a large amount of photos sent in by fans of the page, making it an engaging source.

 

Daily Mail

The Daily Mail posts news updates, regularly. They also post articles about a variety of topics. It’s unfortunate that the Daily Mail’s headlines are often misleading, and sometimes contain major spelling errors. It’s a good source of information, but not 100% reliable.

Bright Sidebright side

Bright Side aims to make the world a little brighter. Bright Side creates and shares positive, inspiring content that will make you feel better about the world we live in.

Courier Mail

If you live in Brisbane, it’s likely you’ve grown up reading the Courier Mail, or at least know someone who used to read the paper every Saturday. The Courier Mail reports on the latest local news.

Music Feeds

The Music Feeds Facebook page posts Australian and International music news, reviews and interviews. A wide range of genres are covered.

TODAY

Many people watch the TODAY Show for Australia’s national treasure, Karl Stefanovic. Now that he’s making less appearances on the show, it’s likely you’re reluctant to watch as much as you used to. Now, all you need for your TODAY Show fix is the TODAY Show Facebook page. They post great highlights. The light-hearted feel of the show translates well onto TODAY’s social media.

Queensland Police Service

Someone at Queensland Police Service has a really awesome sense of humour. QPS regularly post updates about local news and traffic; often, there is a sneaky pun or pop culture reference thrown in for your enjoyment.

Pedestrian.tv

ped-tv-logo

 

Pedestrian.tv posts a mix of entertaining articles about news and pop culture. Pedestrian.tv really speaks its mind. It’s quite tongue-in-cheek at times. A very entertaining source.

 

Lucky PeachObsession-Cover-Lucky-Peach-Magazine

Lucky Peach is a quarterly journal of food and writing, with each issue exploring themes through essays, art, photography and recipes. If you can’t afford the magazine subscription, Lucky Peach’s social media is a great, free source of information. Their
Facebook feed has an interesting mix of articles, catering to foodies all over the world. Lucky Peach’s email newsletter is quite impressive too.

 

In the comments section below, let us know your favourite Facebook page.

Carmel Purcell

Peace on Earth

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

from “Christmas Bells”, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

On “Debaser”

There’s been a lot of steam lately about the novel and whether literary fiction has more inherent value and weight than fiction classified by genre and what separates the two. When is a novel about love a romance, or a novel set in the future science fiction, or a novel underpinned by a felony of some kind a crime novel? Like The Trial. Crime and Punishment. L’Etranger.

And why are novelists recognised by a genre so readily dismissed as lacking the poetry of craft to be stylists, or the intellectual vocabulary to address issues like identity and meaning and morality and art and the slippery composition of truth?

It’s a complex debate, and is as much about the quality of a work as it is about the arbiters of quality and the climate in which that quality is being judged. And it isn’t unique to writing. The division of the novel into genres all vying for a place in the canon, or not vying for a place in the canon but questioning and rejecting everything the canon stands for, can be seen across all the arts. In music, the white European canon begins with the baroque, classical, the romantic, then across the Atlantic to jazz, blues and gospel, all fusing together to form the rebel teenage sound of rock’n’roll.

Nowadays, rock’n’roll has been carved up into so many camps it’s hard to keep track. Hard to say where easy listening ends and becomes the ballad or folk, becomes modern rock then heavy rock then metal. Then there’s the commercial mainstream and the artists who tough it out independently and the experimental, the alternative, which is generally regarded as more introspective than the mainstream, more socially aware and sympathetic to wider and more inclusive expressions of being human until it gets appropriated by the mainstream and turned into Johnny Rotten selling Country Life butter on British TV.

Pixies

The Pixies

And then there’s The Pixies.

Ivo Watts-Russell from the UK indie label 4AD wanted to pass on The Pixies when they were first brought to his attention, believing they were too straight, too normal, and too conventionally ‘rock’n’roll’ for 4AD’s small but eclectic roster. He reconsidered, and the label is still releasing B-side and session compilations to this day. But the thing of it is, Ivo Watts-Russell’s initial misgivings were right. The Pixies were too straight, too normal, and too conventionally rock’n’roll for 4AD. They were all those things to the point of combustion. They were straight and normal like the guy next door who turns out to be a serial killer’s straight and normal. They were conventionally rock’n’roll with a surf pop twist and the stop start phrenetics of a jackhammer. The Pixies were like nothing that preceded them and everything at once. Their music was too happy to be Punk, and they didn’t appear to be protesting about anything or particularly angry or cynical or even art school clever. But they rocked. They juxtaposed the sordid with the mundane, the extra-terrestrial with the flesh and bone, sang in bad Spanish and English and bad English and threw it all together as if at random. Without trying, The Pixies were surreal, as epitomised by the opening track of their second album, Doolittle (1989).

“Debaser” is a song about a guy. It may be the band’s chief singer songwriter Chris Thompson (aka Black Francis, or Frank Black), but we’re not sure. Whoever he is, he’s got a movie. And he wants us to know he’s got a movie because he says so.

Got me a movie / I want you to know

The movie’s the 1929 surrealist film Un Chien Andalou by Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali. The film features a scene where the eyeball of a slaughtered calf is sliced open by a cut-throat razor. The scene’s referred to in the song.

Slicin’ up eyeballs / I want you to know

Un Chien Andalou

Un Chien Andalou

We’re then introduced to a girl. We’re told she’s groovy, but the second she appears she vanishes without a trace, because the guy seems more interested in being the title of the movie, an Andalusian dog, and telling us that when he grows up he wants to be a debaser. Whatever that is. Frankly, it’s all a bit confusing. But then that’s the point. Like Un Chien Andalou, Debaser isn’t really about anything. Something Luis Bunuel and Dali would have applauded no end. Their divining rule of thumb in making Un Chien Andalou was to make as little sense as possible and to entertain no idea or image that lent itself to rational explanation. Debaser is an anti-song, the words chosen more for their sound than their meaning and delivered like they’re falling off a cliff. Fast, sharp, brutal. And it doesn’t mess around with dead weight. They’re in and out of the song before you can say boo. Which is trademark. The Pixies wrote adventures you didn’t listen to so much as buckle up for and hold on until the end. They were to music what William Burroughs was to literature: outlaws on the edge of form, substance and taste. And like William Burroughs – – crime writer, criminal, iconoclast, author of fantasy, science fiction, horror – the mischief and nonsense at the heart of every Pixies’ song, the cryptic allusions to avant-garde cinema and incest and oddball pathologies and the Bible, all prevented them from achieving the kind of commercial success they deserved.

It’s been said of the Pixies that, like the Velvet Underground, not everyone bought their albums but those who did went out and formed a band, or were indebted to them in some way musically. Like the boys from Nirvana. Radiohead. The Smashing Pumpkins. A band’s band, perhaps. Or just hard to pin down. A fierce light that still burns today but burnt brightest between 1986 and 1993. An accident of musicians in the right place and time who rewrote the lyrical and melodic songbook, and in many ways demonstrated Henry Miller’s observations on nonsense and its unsuspected affinities with the profound. In On Writing, Miller talks of his literary relationship with nonsense, his fear of it, his terror, and draws on the ‘pure nonsense’ of fantasy to extrapolate on how the imagination, given wings, is driven to create worlds with their own laws not bound to the earth by gravity but desire, and how threatening these worlds are to the mainstream, the top 40, the social realists, the purveyors of all things literary and tasteful, circling their prize-laden wagons so the crime writers and the fantasy writers and the romance writers and the Pixies and William Burroughs and Henry Miller can’t get in.

William Burroughs

William Burroughs

The complex debate around the novel and the canons of art is as much about the quality of a work as it is about sameness and fear. The literary novel, no matter how well written, how well produced and sold, how beautifully realised its ideas, has become a snobbery of aesthetics that’s being called to account by the so-called trifles of the penny dreadful. The pop novel. The novel that gets picked up by filmmakers or flaunts a stand at airport bookstores. Or the pure nonsense and escapist fantasies of spec fic, science fiction, novels populated by people of all ages, in love, on the run, biological hybrids, animals that talk, in English, bad Spanish, bad English. This is not a new writing conceived in the hallways of academia or literary journals but a groundswell following the success of a few genre writers that’s disrupted establishment fiction. It’s old school rock’n’roll. And although it’s not new writing in the experimental sense of the term, it may very well lead to a new novel that isn’t bound by the same pedestrian laws as gravity and history and sense.

 

Sean MacGillicuddy

 

Debaser – Recorded 1988 at Downtown Recorders in Boston Massachusetts written by Black Francis. Label 4AD.

Anthology: Art & Music

The seasons have long inspired artists across all disciplines, both singularly and as a complete cyclic whole. Here is a representation of some of those sets from visual artists and composers around the world and from the Renaissance period through to the Twentieth Century.

 

Giuseppe Arcimboldo
(1526-1593) Italian

Arcimboldo’s portraits are among today’s most recognisable Mannerist paintings, particularly his portrayal of the Four Seasons, two of which are on display in the Louvre. Mannerism was an artistic movement that straddled the Renaissance and Baroque periods and focused on the connection between humans and nature.

“Arcimboldo also tried to show his appreciation of nature through his portraits. In The Spring, the human portrait was composed of only various spring flowers and plants. From the hat to the neck, every part of the portrait, even the lips and nose, was composed of flowers, while the body was composed of plants. On the other hand, in The Winter, the human was composed mostly of roots of trees. Some leaves from evergreen trees and the branches of other trees became hair, while a straw mat became the costume of the human portrait.” (from Wikipedia)

 

Nicolas Poussin
(1594-1665) Italian

Painted only 100 years after Arcimboldo’s portraits, between 1660 and 1664, Poussin’s series portrays the seasons through allegorical landscapes, focusing on the grandeur of nature and it’s power over man rather than the Mannerist depiction of intimate connection. Commissioned for the Duc de Richelieu, the nephew of Cardinal Richelieu, Poussin’s series symbolises the seasons through Old Testament episodes.

 

Antonio Vivaldi
(1678-1741) Italian

Composed a half-century after Poussin’s series, Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons (Le quattro stagioni) are arguably the most recognisable pieces of Art music in the world today. The suite is a set of four violin concertos, each representing a sonnet describing one of the four seasons. Firmly Baroque in style, the concertos are balanced, evocative and virtuosic.

 

Astor Piazzolla 

(1921-1992) Argentinian

Contrasting in style to Vivaldi’s concertos, Piazzolla’s Cuatro Estaciones Porteñas, also known as the The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires, is a modern chamber music suite representing the season’s in Piazzolla’s native Argentina. Composed in the twentieth century, the suite is a set of four tango compositions scored for Piazzolla’s quintet of violin (viola), piano, electric guitar, double bass and bandoneón.

Elise Janes

See the Anthology of Poetry.

On “October”

U2OctoberU2 are arguably one of the biggest rock’n’roll bands in the world. Generally speaking, they behave like one of the biggest rock’n’roll bands in the world without tripping over themselves or their work as humanitarian fact totems. It’s all about the music, and with Bono’s thoroughbred falsetto and the Edge’s signature guitar, U2 have carved out a kind of sonic trademark that can be traced back to their debut album Boy released in 1980. The following year they released October, with a title track that stands out from U2’s stable of songs for being so unremarkably simple and restrained. It’s just the Edge on piano, and Bono. And although it’s not a particularly short song for the format, at two four line verses and no chorus or build or quirky middle-eight to set things off, it feels brief. Like it’s over before it began. Or there’s nothing to it. Bono called October an interlude, a cold, slow, pared back, weighed down, moody evocation of winter. An Irish winter. The indifferent inevitability of it. Its through to your bones and soul.

October

And the trees are stripped bare

Of all they wear

What do I care?

October

And kingdoms rise

And kingdoms fall

But you go on

ImaginationDeadImagineBono’s description of October as an interlude on an album full of songs suggests it hasn’t fully ripened or been written into its full term. That it lacks some pivotal ingredient of song-ness and is no more than a bridge between movements, a phrase. Which asks the question: what is a song? When is a song a song and not an interlude or a jingle? In most of the arts there’s a consensus of definition based on tradition, form and length. So a painting must use or at the very least be about paint to be a painting. A film must be a film. A dance must be a dance. And a novel must be a prose narrative of considerable length with a plot driven by actions, characters, thoughts and speech. Etcetera. But wherever there’s a consensus of definition, there’ll always be those who question how those definitions are made and who they serve. Like Samuel Beckett’s Imagination Dead Imagine which is no more than a pamphlet with next to no plot or characters to speak of but is considered by many to be his greatest novel, a work of such concentrated intensity that all but the pragmatic essentials of narrative have been excised from the text. Or the short story attributed to Ernest Hemingway that reads:

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Or M. Flanigan’s Codeine Dream.

I feel nothing

But pain

By itself, I feel nothing but pain is an anguished but hollow sentence waiting to be framed by what caused the pain in the first place and how the person suffering the pain plans to deal with it. Or not. However, like Hemingway’s shoes, Codeine Dream is a fully realised world as darkly grim and furnished as any conceived by Mishima or Kafka. The line-break gives it compression. What caused the pain or how the pain might be alleviated or endured is overshadowed by the expanse created by the return carriage. The same can be said of October, with its spectral landscape and manifest cold and the vanity of what do I care. In some ways, its distilled brevity holds more abstract significance than many of U2’s more definitive songs for not proclaiming itself with such exuberant sincerity. It is the winter of things, the spring, the bleak evanescence of change. And its line break appears at the end. Its compression is in the reprise.

And on… Bono sings after the final line.

And on. As if addressing something out of reach. The unknowable, perhaps; forever. Yearning, pleading, praying. Holding on to the note for fear it might drift away. So melancholy. Lost. So beautifully forlorn.

 

Like footsteps disappearing in the snow.

 

Sean Macgillicuddy

 

  1. October Recorded 1981 Label Island Lyrics and music Bono and The Edge
  2. Flanagan Codeine Dreams published in The Quarterly 24 1992 Vintage Books New York

 

A Day in the Life

alarmAlarm vibrates. Sensation before first thought. Cold. Am I coming down with the flu? No. Um, possibly. I need to be strong, fight through. Check phone. New emails. Refresh podcasts. Work emails? No. I’ll be there soon enough. Will I write today? Yes, when I get home. What will I have for dinner? How long will it take to prepare and cook? How much time will that suck out of my evening?

Wash. Get dressed. Pack my bag. Will I bring my book today? Yes. Don’t waste time sleeping on the train. Pack notebook. My battered and scribble-filled notebook. Damn, I forgot to read those research articles I printed out at work yesterday. I’ll get to them another time.

Driving to train station. I wonder about my main character. How will he react when demands are made of him? Where will the drama come from? What is his truth? Can I write it well? A reminder to write something down when I get on the train: Rylin Webster wants to tell his story, his way, on his terms. A scene forms fast in my head. I watch the odometer. I check the clock. Train leaves in five minutes. I’m two minutes away from station car park. Trying to hang onto a thread of thought. The scene gets vivid and intense. I speak a line of dialogue out loud.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

Who says this?

trainPark car. Hustle to platform. Train comes. Find seat. Flip open notebook. Scrawl and scribble. Thoughts come quicker than I can write. Words are illegible. Will I be able to read this later? Will it make sense or will I lose the gist? PA announcement. Thoughts exhausted. The distraction of landscape speeding by at 100kmph.

Read my book. Can’t focus for more than a page or two at a time. Thoughts beget thoughts. Ideas form but have no place. Context is elusive. Open notebook. Scribble. Empty my brain. Close notebook. Take a few deep breaths. Read some more but don’t absorb what I’m reading.

WTFTrain reaches its destination. Earphone in. Podcasts at the ready. Maybe NBA’s The Starters. Maybe Marc Maron’s WTF. Maybe TOFOP. Twenty minute walk. My mind remains active. Plot lines weave in and out of the audio flowing into my head. Traffic noise on Broadway coming from Harris St drowns out everything.

At work. Put all thoughts of writing and being a writer to one side. Really? Good luck with thtrafficat. Do my job. Earn my keep. Read occasional online articles of interest. Send quotes, links and ideas to myself via email throughout the day. Making a cup of tea, wonder about Rylin Webster’s marriage. Why did his supermodel wife fall in love with him in the first place? Make small talk with a colleague about the upcoming weekend. Day’s end is getting closer.

inceptionWalk back to train station. New thoughts emerge. Links connect. Links miss their mark. Kill the podcast feed. Need music instead. The National? The Shins? No. This story feeds off the energy from movie soundtracks. Hans Zimmer. Interstellar? I know, Inception. Traffic noise. The roar of a motorcycle. The pang of hunger and the yawn of mental, if not physical, tiredness.

Make train ten minutes early. Open notebook. Scribble quickly, furiously, illegibly. Smile to myself that the adverbs I’m using in my notes will not make my manuscript. Why do I care what Stephen King thinks? Bret Easton Ellis, a writer I love, embraces adverbs. Look at Glamorama?Glamorama

As the train pulls out of the station, close notebook. Take out earphones. No music. No novel. No writing. Sydney’s inner-west suburbs slip by. Macdonaldtown. Newtown. Stanmore. Petersham. Lewisham. My eyes start to get heavy. I sit up, get out my book. Red or Dead by David Peace. Read a page. Battle tiredness. Read half-a-page more before my head drops. Strathfield, Epping, Hornsby don’t register.  I wake up with my finger between pages like a bookmark. Read another page. Then jack into another podcast. Pete Holmes laughs then gets deep, questions our understanding of the universe, then asks his guest whether success can come too soon?You-Made-It-Weird

Its six’o’clock. Hunger has full sway over me. That means I won’t be writing until at least seven, maybe eight. I already know what scene I want to write, need to write, if I’m to drive the story forward.

Walk in the front door. Hello to my wife, bear-tackle my son. Get changed and play dinosaurs for half-an-hour. Hunger lingers, distracts me. The desire to write lingers, distracts me. Cook dinner alone. Use the process of flouring a chicken breast, dipping it in egg and covering it in breadcrumbs, to untether my mind from now, from the day that’s been, from myself.

Too full afterdeadmau5-Superliminal-300x300 dinner, I shower and shave. Wash the day away. Start preparing for the day to come. Clothes laid out. Shoes polished. Top up Opal Card. Check work emails. Flick a few away. Exclaim in frustration over a client who is beyond demanding. Turn off phone’s WiFi. Mac on. iTunes is a ‘Go!’ Deadmau5 – Superliminal. Google Docs open. Here it comes. The manuscript loads up. I scroll down to the last page and read the notes I left from the previous day.Timmy-Mallet-with-Malletts-Mallet

I’m writing. Dialogue flows. Too much dialogue. Go back. Insert thoughts, description. Maintain tone. Not enough tension. Too much conflict? Where’s this scene going? Oh, wow. Yes, that works. I could never have planned that. There’s a knock on the door. My son comes in, jumps on my bed. ‘Let’s play Mallet’s Mallett?’

‘Ten minutes, Buddy.’

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Lots of dialogue to finish. Lots of red squiggly lines under misspelt words. Rylin Webster is angry but doesn’t know it. He’s pushing everyone around him away. He thinks this is normal. A lightbulb moment. A new scene. Not the next scene. File it away. The door opens. My wife brings a glass of wine. ‘House of Cards is starting.’

The manuscript automatically savhouse-of-cardses. I shut down the computer. Frank Underwood, my wife and a glass of wine awaits.

Later, sleep beckons. I hold on through a nothing episode of Game of Thrones. I wonder about tomorrow? What will happen? What will I achieve? How long will it be until I get to write again? In bed, before sleep fully takes over, I imagine Rylin Webster on the basketball court. He’s hurting his defender. He’s hurting his team. He’s hurting himself. An idea teases, never fully settles and then, nothing.

On “Gimme Shelter”

It’s 1969, and the Beatles perform together for the last time on the roof of Apple headquarters in London as the US military begins a clandestine bombing campaign in Cambodia. It’s four years since the US officially entered Vietnam, and President Richard Nixon vows to begin withdrawing ground troops by September. Neil Armstrong sets foot on the moon. Members of the Manson Family murder Sharon Tate and friends at the Benedict Canyon mansion she shares with husband Roman Polanski, as the US National Guard contains anti-war demonstrators with rubber bullets and skin stinging spray following the arrest of the Chicago Eight. Moratorium marches erupt across the US. Journalist Seymour Hersh publishes details of the My Lai massacre and the Rolling Stones record Gimme Shelter with Meryl Clayton singing a last-minute backing track that lifts the song through the roof.

gimmeshelter 1 imagesMick Jagger called Gimme Shelter an end of days song, a bleak and foreboding mirror to the insanity of the Vietnam War, race riots, anti-war riots, activists and anarchists and revolutionaries of all persuasions clashing with police from Chicago to Paris to New York. It’s a slow build, with Keith Richards picking a careful path through the overture before Meryl Clayton’s haunted vocal sweeps in like a fog, a mist, a darkening of something, a brewing, the helicopters in that scene from Apocalypse Now backlit by the sunrise, the moment before a scare, an explosion, a gunshot, the sound cranked out of old Triumph speakers to give it a bit more grunge, like something put together on the fly, the run, fleeing from something with good reason because they’re coming and they’re coming for you! Then Charlie Watts steps in with two snap reports on the tom and away we go.

Oh, a storm is threat’ning

My very life today

If I don’t get some shelter

Oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away

War, children, it’s just a shot away

It’s just a shot away

 

MansonAltamontKeith Richards, who actually wrote the song, doesn’t recall being infused with the same social outrage or conscience as Jagger, but it’s sure as hell infused with something. Gimme Shelter packs all the heft of an anti-war song, but unlike Sunday Bloody Sunday or Edwin Starr’s War, it’s rarely pulled out by filmmakers to soundtrack peace rallies or brand a sentiment. There’s something about Gimme Shelter, a menace, that lends itself equally to a helicopter gunship flying low over the Mekong Delta or the fall of Saigon in 1975 to the post-war diaspora of Vietnamese refugees that literally took to the sea. Seeking shelter. And many of those refuges travelled south down the Indonesian archipelago to Australia, where they were resettled without being interned in detention camps or issued with Temporary Protection Visas. The then Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser died in March 2015. At his funeral, members of the Vietnamese community attended to pay their respects carrying banners and placards applauding him as a champion of humanity. Their appeal for shelter has not been answered in the same way since.

AltamontGimme Shelter appeared on the 1969 album Let It Bleed. On December 6 of that year, during a promotional tour of the US, the Rolling Stones held a free concert at the Altamont Speedway in San Francisco. The local chapter of the Hells Angels was asked to provide security. They were reportedly paid in beer. In a documentary of the event, aptly named Gimme Shelter, Meredith Hunter, an 18-year-old arts student from Berkeley, is seen lunging towards the stage with what appears to be a gun. He is stopped by members of the Hells Angels armed with weighted pool cues and motorcycle chains, then beaten to the ground, and stabbed five times in the upper back. Meredith Hunter died at the scene. He was one of four to die that day at Altamont, an event promoters tried to sell as an alternative Woodstock but is now viewed by many as the symbolic end of an era. The Sixties. However the Sixties is seen, lost and remote to some, remembered by others as the most colourful, violent, ground-breaking decade of the century, it was the first time in history where the universe seemed to align in such a way as to create a space for thousands of people across the globe to stand up and in one voice say: What binds us is stronger and more valuable than what divides us. The anti-war movement. Feminism. Civil Rights. Gay Pride. In some ways, the anti-establishment movements of today have their roots in the Sixties. And behind every banner, every charge at the barricades, every Molotov cocktail and upturned car, what motivates the anger and passion and theatre and violence can be found in the last refrain of Gimme Shelter sung loud from the rooftops and pavements of Chicago, Paris, New York.

I said love, sister,

It’s just a kiss away

It’s just a kiss away….

Sean Macgillicuddy

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On “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)”

If you distilled Baudrillard, Derrida, Michel Foucault, Roland Barthes, Marshall McLuhan and Noam Chomsky into a band, chances are you’d get Talking Heads. They weren’t the first band to sing about consumerism or the media or the meaninglessness of meaning but they did it like nobody else. More Songs About Buildings and Food. Fear Of Music. Talking Heads were a virtual New York of the imagination, all skyscrapers and horns and fast-talking street vendors and cabbies. Like New York, geographically located in the United States but not completely of it, Talking Heads may have been associated with Punk and the New Wave but they were always tuned to a slightly different frequency, David Byrne fronting the band like he was hooked up to an ECG machine telling listeners about a van loaded with weapons and the sound of gunfire in the distance and the diminishing shelf life of identity and possessions.

this must be the placeThen in 1983 they released their fifth and most commercially successful album to date, Speaking In Tongues, with the single “Burning Down the House” peaking at Number 9 in the American Billboard charts. Despite this mainstream popularity, Speaking In Tongues lacked none of the groundbreaking edge of previous albums, with the band trashing the traditional verse – chorus – verse conventions of the song for more hypnotic signatures and beats normally found in gospel or jazz. And no better is this illustrated than in the final track of the album, “This Must Be The Place (Naïve Melody)”.

“This Must Be the Place” is a love song. Its simplicity – the enchanting, happy, catchy riff played simultaneously by both guitar and bass providing no counterpoint to the melody – verges on an asylum soporific, or a lullaby, with David Byrne singing the word ‘home’ over and over again as a kind of refrain. But its simplicity is deceptive. There’s a bewilderment to the song, a constant reassuring that home is where we are, where we’re supposed to be, and nothing’s wrong because one thing means the other. But it doesn’t. Not always. Everything about “This Must Be the Place” is slightly uncertain, vulnerable, baffled, reaching out for something to grab on to as we guess we’re OK, we guess we’re at home, we guess nothing’s wrong but not sure. It’s a lullaby sung to a newborn, with all the puzzled fear and apprehension a newborn has gazing out at a world full of colours, shapes and sounds. Being told it’s safe. Whispered. And you’re holding this newborn. A child you’ve participated in creating. Their tiny body slung over your shoulder as you lull them to sleep, burp them, their little head attached to their neck by a ribbon, their diffident creaks and yelps, now looking up at you with deep olive eyes saying…

You got a face with a view

I’m just an animal looking for a home

And share the same space for a minute or two

And you love me till my heart stops

Love me till I’m dead…

Byrne with lamp 3There’s a beautiful moment in Stop Making Sense, Jonathan Demme’s concert film of Talking Heads live in LA, where the lights go down, and the band begins “This Must Be the Place”. David Byrne turns on a ‘50s-style floor lamp with a pull cord, as a bookcase is projected onto a screen behind the band. Home. As the song ends, David Byrne invites the lamp to dance, and at one point reaches out Byrne with lamp 1with both arms and takes the lamp into his embrace and holds it there for a moment before releasing it to topple precariously on its stand as if finding its feet. Which it does. And the song ends. But Byrne’s dance with the lamp remains. There’s something going on here, like a coda that both closes and accentuates the meaning of the song. This awkward dance with the lamp, this fragile song about love, is as simple and hard as it gets. You make it up as you go along. Like the newborn asleep in your arms. You’re their shelter, their food, their answers, their love, their laughter, their safety, their home. It’s bedtime. You swaddle them carefully in a white muslin wrap, as David Byrne sings:

Never for money, only for love

Cover up and say goodnight

Say goodnight…

   Sean Macgillicuddy

  • “This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody)” (1983). Label: Sire. B-side Moon Rocks. Lyrics by David Byrne music by the band from the album Speaking In Tongues
  • Stop Making Sense (1984) concert movie directed by Jonathan Demme shot over the course of three nights at Hollywood’s Pantages Theater.

Harry

Sean has just welcomed his new son Harry into the world. 

Letting Go (or, Did I ever really have a grip?)

How bound together is my writing and me?

And by writing, I mean my actual output, ideas shared in the form of reflective opinion pieces (like this one) or short stories (like this – wow, what shameless self-promotion) or my novels (sorry, no links yet). At times, I have been consumed by the belief of how entwined and inseparable we are.

As I see it, my writing is my possession. Where I go, it goes. Where it goes, I follow.

What am I trying to say here?

My writing (my form of passionate expression) will lift me up, will be my golden ticket and my Wonkavator all wrapped into one. Doors will open. New and exciting connections will be made.

We are not separate. How I live my life and how I perceive the world will influence how I express myself as a writer. We come together – we’re a package deal.

Except, what if we’re not?

searching-for-sugar-man-dvd-ukA couple of weeks ago a friend recommended a 2012 documentary by Swedish film maker, Malik Bendjelloul (1977-2014) called Searching for Sugar Man. The film tells the incredible true story of Rodriguez, the greatest ’70s rock icon who never was.

Virtually unknown in America, the Dylan-esque Rodriguez’s two albums, Cold Fact and Coming From Reality vanished into obscurity. However, 8,000 miles away in South Africa, after a bootleg copy was brought in from the States and shared amongst friends throughout Cape Town, the music resonated deeply with the country’s youth who were experiencing the confusion and fear of the violently oppressive Apartheid system.

Unbeknownst, it seems to anyone outside of South Africa, including Rodriguez and his record label, over the course of more than 20 years, his albums combined sold more than half-a-million copies.

And thus, the journey documented in Searching for Sugar Man begins.

That an artist could be so removed from the life of his art was hard to accept. This remarkable story was a slap to my face. I can’t hold my writing so tightly and be so bound to its outcome.

For my writing to become whatever it’s meant to be, I need to move beyond it being mine.

The expression and craft is my own but the product is wholly its own thing; needs time and space to develop its own voice and character.

So, is it a case of me learning to let go, or realising I never had a grip in the first place?

Ken Ward