O Superman Laurie Anderson, 1982

Pressure..... (updated)

I know how he feels... My life is a bit like that lighthouse right now.

The Lighthouse in the pictures is 'La Jument', off the coast of Brittany, The man is Lighthouse-keeper Théodore Malgorne.
This series of pictures, entitled ‘La Jument’, was taken by the photographer Jean Guichard during a storm in 1989, The lighthouse keepers were seeking refuge from the storm in fear of their lives in the towers lantern. Guichard was in the area taking photographs of this particular tower during the storm, for his book, The Lighthouses of France.
One of the keepers, Théodore Malgorne, thinking the chopper outside was the rescue team opened the door and took a look. Guichard was right there to capture the scene in a series of seven photographs. Malgorne turned around in time to close the door and to avoid being swept away.

Addendum: Picture number 3 is not La Jument, it's Le Four, Brittany/Finisterre

Posters of Guichard's beautiful photographs are available, as are copies of his books, from several sources, I recommend Amazon.
High resolution art-quality prints are available via Jean Guichard's own website- (Google it)

Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band:- Electricity(1967)

Electricity (Don Vliet / Herb Bermann)
Singin through you to me; thunderbolts caught easily
Shouts the truth peacefully Eeeeeee-lec-tri-ci-teeeeeeeeHigh voltage man kisses night to bring the light to those who need
to hide their their shadow-deed
Go into bright find the light 'n know that friends don't mind just
how you growMidnight cowboy stains in black reads dark roads without a map
to free-seeking electricity
Midnight cowboy stains in black reads dark roads without a map
to free-seeking electricity
Lighthouse beacon straight ahead straight ahead across black seas
to bring seeking Eeee-lec-tri-ci-teeeee
High voltage man kisses night to bring the light to those who need
to hide their shadow-deed hide their shadow-deed
High voltage man kisses night to bring the light to those who need
to hide their shadow-deed hide their shadow-deed
Seek electricity . . .

Pulp. Common People

She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge,
she studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College,
that's where I,
caught her eye.
She told me that her Dad was loaded,
I said "In that case I'll have a rum and coca-cola."
She said "Fine."
and in thirty seconds time she said,

"I want to live like common people,
I want to do whatever common people do,
I want to sleep with common people,
I want to sleep with common people,
like you."

Well what else could I do -
I said "I'll see what I can do."
I took her to a supermarket,
I don't know why but I had to start it somewhere,
so it started there.
I said pretend you've got no money,
she just laughed and said,
"Oh you're so funny."
I said "yeah?
Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here.
Are you sure you want to live like common people,
you want to see whatever common people see,
you want to sleep with common people,
you want to sleep with common people,
like me."
But she didn't understand,
she just smiled and held my hand.
Rent a flat above a shop,
cut your hair and get a job.
Smoke some fags and play some pool,
pretend you never went to school.
But still you'll never get it right,
cos when you're laid in bed at night,
watching roaches climb the wall,
if you call your Dad he could stop it all.

You'll never live like common people,
you'll never do what common people do,
you'll never fail like common people,
you'll never watch your life slide out of view,
and dance and drink and screw,
because there's nothing else to do.

Sing along with the common people,
sing along and it might just get you through,
laugh along with the common people,
laugh along even though they're laughing at you,
and the stupid things that you do.
Because you think that poor is cool.

I want to live with common people,
I want to live with common people etc...

JCB Song

For those of you who are not English, JCB is synonymous with a yellow backhoe loader....
Can you dig it?



JCB Song - Nizlopi

Well, I'm rumblin' in this JCB.
I'm 5 years old and my dad's a giant sitting beside me.
And the engine rattles my bum like berserk
While we're singin' , 'Don't forget your shovel if you want to go to work!'

My dad's probably had a bloody hard day
But he's been good fun and bubblin' and jokin' away
And the procession of cars stuck behind
are gettin' all impatient and angry, but we dont mind.

An' we're holdin' up the bypass
woah
Me and my dad havin' a top laugh
oh-woah

I'm sittin' on the toolbox
woah
And I'm so glad I'm not in school, boss
So glad I'm not in school

Oh no

and we pull over to let cars past
And pull off again, speedin' by the summer green grass
And we're like giants up here in our big yellow digger
Like zoids, or transformers, or maybe even bigger

And I wanna transform into a Tyrannosaurus Rex!
And eat up all the bullies and the teachers and their pets
And I'll tell all my mates that my dad's B.A. Baracus
Only with a JCB and Bruce Lee's nunchuckas

And We're holdin' up the bypass
Woah

Me and my dad havin' a top laugh
Oh whoa

I'm sittin' on the toolbox
Oh
And I'm so glad I'm not in school, boss
So glad I'm not in school

And we're holdin' up the bypass
Oh

Me and my dad havin' a top laugh
Oh whoa
I'm sittin' on the toolbox
Oh

And I'm so glad I'm not in school, boss
So glad I'm not in school

-

Said I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.
I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.
I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.
I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round

And we're holdin' up the bypass
Whoa-Oh

Me and my dad havin' a top laugh
Oh-whoa
And I'm sittin' on the toolbox
oh-oh

And I'm so glad I'm not in school, boss
So glad I'm not in school

I said

I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.
I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his
Aw, I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.
I'm Luke, I'm five, and my dad's Bruce Lee. Drives me round in his JCB.

Zoom Zoom,,,

One Small Step!

The Road Builders, Denis Glover, 1912-1980

Further to my words on Doddery, I was browsing his archives, trying to recall just how long ago I first noticed him, I'm still not sure, but it was in the early days of his blog, and long before I signed up...
I found one of the first posts he made, a poem.
February 11th 2005.
Doddery grew up in an atypical New Zealand home, filled with musicians and artists, it would seem that these people started the spark that stayed with him, that love of learning, of enquiry, of inquisitiveness, of respect for the lives of others and their stories.
One of the regular characters of his childhood was poet Denis Glover, a lifetime writer, wartime navy officer, raconteur.

Doddery said: "My Parents were musicians of the long haired variety. The House was always full of amazing people. New Zealand was a very grey place in the '50's. Divorce Court proceedings in the tabloid weekly "Truth" were gossiped over, though no one admitted to reading it. Girls suddenly disappeared " to stay with relatives upcountry" after "I I told you so..." dalliances with louts who rode motorbikes. Curtains were peered through, partyline telephones listened in on, Communists were everywhere, the yellow horde might pour up the beaches any day. But in our house there were legendary parties, discussions, arguments, and life was tempestuous. There were composers, poets, artists, and eccentrics. Many of them were refugees from Europe. Pianists, fiddle players, opera singers, and they were exotic. One of my favourites as a kid, was a kiwi poet, Denis Glover. I remember him insisting on carting our pet lamb around under his arm and getting it pissed on whisky and milk, and proclaiming that this was the lamb of God and trying to sing the Agnus Dei. I remember the frantic efforts to hide the booze when Denis came up the drive. He could drink a town dry when he was "in his cups". His nose went red and his hair was slicked over, he fascinated me. He was, and is, my favourite poet. The other day we were digging post holes for new road signs on Mt Messenger and hit a layer of red baked papa clay. The oldtimers used as it as road metal. The nearest shingle rivers were miles away. They fell trees and fired clay in huge layered bonfires. I thought of Denis."
The Road Builders

Rolling along far roads on holiday wheels
now wonder at their construction, the infinite skill
that balanced the road to the gradient of the hill,
the precision, the planning, the labour it all reveals.

An unremembered legion of labourers did this,
scarring the stubborn clay, fighting the tangled bush,
blasting the adamant, stemming the unbridled rush
of torrent in flood, bridging each dark abyss.

Their tools were pitiful beside the obdurate strength
of the land:
crosswire of the theodolite, pick-point, curved
shovel,
small tremor of a touched-off charge; but above all
the skill and strength, admirable in patience,
of the hand.

These men we should honour above the managers of
banks
They pitted their flesh and their cunning against
odds
unimagined by those who turn wordily the first sods.
And on the payroll their labour stands unadorned by
thanks.

Who they are,or where, we do not know.
Anonymous they die
or drift away; some start the job again; some
in a country pub
recount old deeds amid that unheeding hubbub,
telling of pitiless hills, wet mountain roads where
rusting barrows lie.

This too might be a fair requiem.