On Why I Love Movies

“I don’t need no superstar 

‘Cause I accept you as you are

You won’t be denied

‘Cause I’m satisfied

With the love that you can inspire

You don’t have to be a star, baby

To be in my show”

~”You Don’t Have To Be a Star (To Be in My Show)” by James Dean & John Glover

From the Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis, Jnr album I Hope We Get to Love in Time, 1976

It all started with a scathing Internet article written by a blogger named Zack Carlson.  It was Mr Carlson's premise that the use of computer generated effects is the bane of modern cinema.  There's a degree of merit in his arguments.  In a follow-up article, he instigated fans of cinema to "foam" and "gnash" at why they hate movies, even though in his discussion he manages to find virtue in those things he claims to despise.  This was countered by another writer on the same website using the handle Hulk.  Hulk, who bizarrely insists on maintain his chosen avatar's voice by referring to himself in the third person and yelling in all caps, discussed what he loved about the movies (click here to read it).  Eric 'Quint' Vespe from aintitcoolnews.com took Hulk's baton and ran with it, openly aping his style, and challenging movie lovers everywhere to continue what he describes as a "geek chain letter" (Quint's article can be found here).  Hulk's article and Quint's continuation of the same thought has inspired me, as a lover of cinema, to follow their lead.  So with a tip of the hat to Hulk and Quint, I will add my link to the chain.  Why do I love the movies?

I love the movies...

Because when Legolas kills an oliphaunt, it only counts as one.

Because those aren't two pillows!

Because to this day, in every student protest you'll find someone carrying a 'Save Ferris' placard.

Because the Stonehenge monument at the back of the stage really could have been crushed by a dwarf.

Because of the awesome nobility and dignity Gregory Peck brings to Atticus Finch.

Because when this baby reaches eighty-eight miles per hour... you're going to see some serious shit.

Because no matter how many times I see the montage of Carl and Ellie's life together it brings me to tears.  Every last time.

Because what we do in life echoes in eternity.

Because of when Arcee and Springer take the time to teach Daniel how to use his father's old exo-suit.

Because they're going to need a bigger boat.

Because of the way Jack Sparrow runs.

Because of the sheer heart-in-your-mouth shock of Kane's death during breakfast.

Because of how Holmes sums up his opponent's weaknesses and discerns every step of his downfall in mere moments before executing everything exactly as he foresaw it.

Because of Sharlto Copley.

Because of Michelle Pfeifer's meow.

Because Jessica's not bad, she's just drawn that way.  And because she loves her husband because he makes her laugh.

Because of Gollum and Sméagol's conversation.

Because fish are friends, not food.

Because of 23-19! 23-19!

Because when Leia tells Han she loves him, he replies "I know".

Because of the perfect use of an unlikely remix of In the Hall of the Mountain King during, of all things, a rowing race.

Because I can't decide if Inception is unfolding in eight layers of reality at the same time, or only seven.  And because I wish so desperately that the film went for just another three seconds just so I can see if the spinning top falls over.

Because sometimes you need to run before you can walk.

Because of how Gene Wilder sings Pure Imagination.

Because of how Indy shoots the guy with the sword.

Because Vincent never saved anything for the swim back.

Because you can't stop the signal.

Because Rusty thinks they're going to need eleven.

Because of every James Bond theme song.  Except the Madonna one.

Because the kids used to call him Mr Glass.

Because they're on a mission from God.

Because of Sam's unswerving devotion to Frodo.

Because of Roy Batty's beautiful and tragic monologue:  "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain. Time to die".  And then he very quietly does.

Because you wouldn't like him when he's... hungry?

Because Dr Venkman got slimed.

Because Henry Snr slaps his son for blasphemy.

Because of the way Phil wakes up to Sonny and Cher singing I Got You Babe... again and again and again and again and again and...

Because of the way Sam Gerard wants is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in a six-mile radius.

Because Number Five laughs at the joke about the Priest, the Minister and the Rabbi.

Because of Sam Rockwell.

Because of the brilliant moment when Neo realises his potential and sees the code in the Matrix for the first time.

Because if Superman's got Lois, who's got Superman?

Because of John Rambo's devastating monologue at the end of First Blood, delivered by Sylvester Stallone with sensitivity and pathos.

Because of the slow-motion shoot-out on the railway station stairs.

Because of the Joker's disappearing pencil magic trick.

Because of Woody's "YOU! ARE! A! TOY!!" rant at Buzz.

Because of the way all the toys join hands on the way into the furnace.

Because of the moment Dave Kujan deduces who Keyser Söze really is.

Because of Tyler Durden's distorted vision of the future, hauntingly explained as the picture fades in and out of black.

Because of the moment of complete anguish when Bond's heart irretrievably breaks as Vesper drowns.

Because of the way the men in the queue at the employment offIce slowly start dancing to Donna Summer's Hot Stuff.

Because of the moment when Optimus declares "Today, in the name of freedom, we take the battle to them".  And almost everything after that moment.

Because of Gandalf's slow smile when Aragorn asks him "What does your heart tell you?".

Because of Helen Parr's parenting.  And because of how the Parr family reminded us to celebrate what is truly special, and not just the mediocre.

Because The Shoveller and his teammates have a date with destiny... and it looks like she ordered the lobster.

Because Andy Dufresne crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.

Because of every single solitary line in The Princess Bride, every last one of them eminently quotable.

Because of Heath Ledger's extraordinarily nuanced performance in his penultimate movie appearance.

Because Josh Pence's performance in The Social Network is one of the best you'll never see.

Because you should never, ever feed your Mogwai after midnight.

That's only some of the many, many reasons why I love cinema. I'm aware that some of my reasons have been similarly expressed by Hulk and Quint before me, but isn't that one of the great things about movies?  Even though what you like and what I like may differ in places, there's great beauty in shared passions, a joy you feel when something that jazzes you also jazzes others.  You've read my reasons.  You may share some with me.  No doubt you have many more of your very own.  If you love movies, why not consider making a contribution to the geek chain letter yourself?

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On Sports That Aren't

“It’s more than a game, more than a game

All the fortune and fame, it’s more than a game”

~ ‘More Than a Game’, by Darren Sanicki & John Albert

performed by Chris Doheny as the theme song to The Footy Show (AFL), 1994

In the last On Writing Blog I wrote about the difference between a sport and a game.  To my mind, any contest where overweight and/or middle aged individuals can be competitive at the elite level is not a sport, it is a game.  Sports include football (of almost any variety), rugby (ditto), tennis, cricket, many Olympic sports, that sort of thing.  Games include Monopoly, Scrabble, chess, tiddlywinks, golf, and the like.

Golf, anecdotally described by Mark Twain as "a good walk ruined", is very much a game.  Many players have supreme strength and fitness, I grant you.  Professional golfers are frequently dedicated to improving their skills and can certainly be considered elite athletes.  And then there are blokes like John Daly.  John Daly is a hard-living chain smoker who drinks like a fish and has a girth that would bring a Biggest Loser contestant to tears.  I likewise point you towards Jack Nicklaus, who played his last major tournament at the age of forty-six, after which he joined the senior’s tour.  Examples such as these gents go a fair way to proving that golf well and truly sits within the realm of a game rather than a sport.

Other similar games-not-sports are darts and pool/billiards.  Tremendous skill involved, for sure, but as long as you're pretty good at geometry and basic physics, you're already half way there.  Darts, much like golf, can lend itself to those with physiques on the rotund side as an activity of choice.  In addition, you can actually actively participate in darts while holding (and not spilling!) your beer.  While we're on that subject, what kind of game has participants flinging sharp objects around indoors, and not just any old indoors, but the kind of indoors where alcoholic beverages are often a fixture?  When does that particular idea start getting clever?

Another activity that is in serious need of a shift from the sports section of the newspaper is horse racing, for several reasons.  Firstly, it would cease to exist entirely if the gambling component was to stop - that is to say, horse racing is unable to sustain itself on its own merits.  Secondly, there are two primary human competitors in horse racing: trainers and jockeys.  It can be confidently argued that it takes some serious skill and discipline to ride a race horse, but let's face it, the horse is still working much harder than the rider.  Black Caviar would still be winning races even if it were me in the saddle.  That leaves us with the trainers, of which there would be one less if whichever geriatrician who is keeping Bart Cummings alive was slightly less skilled.  On balance, therefore, horse racing fails the sport/game test.  Thirdly, the largest proportion of the live Spring Racing Carnival audience are overdressed Kath and Kim wannabes who care far more about celebrity spotting, swilling bubbly and drunkenly disposing of their dignity than admiring horse flesh.  This audience does nothing to promote the activity as a worthwhile and substantial pursuit.

Anything where shooting a gun is an element is not a sport, because putting guns in the hands of most civilians is just usually an idiotic excercise.  I would suggest this is the case regardless of whether you're firing the weapon at an inanimate object or not, but let's run hunting under the microscope a bit shall we?

Have you ever seen those car stickers that read "I hunt and I vote"?  They are second only to those mind-numbing "My Family" stickers on my list of dumb things to display on your car (here's a thought: who even remotely cares about the members of your family while one is stuck in traffic and forced to stare at your car's back window?). Let's get one thing straight: the fact that you hunt does not make your vote any more valuable than anyone else's, rendering your moronic little sticker as witless as the act of hunting animals for 'sport'.

Let me explain.  There's a comic book story I love*, in which a character is being mentored at gardening by an older man in her father's employ.  As it turns out, the man was an assassin in a civilian resistance during World War Two.  When the young girl accidentally kills a sapling, the old gardener is distraught.  She asks him why, since he has no issue killing weeds, he would be so upset over one small tree?

"It is a living thing and it is in our care," he says.  "We kill the weeds, but we are careful not to take any pleasure in it."

Hunting is bloodthirsty and barbaric.  I can appreciate the need to kill for food and I understand the need to cull animals that become pests and a hazard to ecosystems.  I have experienced firsthand the need to euthanise animals to ease their suffering.  We kill, but ought to take great care not to enjoy it.  The mindless slaughter of animals for entertainment is not in any way, shape or form a sport.  Not only does it fail the sport verses game test, but it's ridiculously one-sided.  First camouflage and arm the animals and then we can talk.

Fishing?  Not a sport, more of a diversion and an excuse to not clean out the garage, or perhaps the means by which one acquires the perfect complement to hot fried chips.  Big game fishing?  Certainly it takes a great deal of knowledge and skill, but fails the sport verses game test once again.  And, as with hunting, it's got barbarism written all over it.

Novelist George Orwell is quoted to have said: “Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting”. I beg to differ.  Sport can be taken too seriously, to be sure.  However, sport, real and genuine sport, can also be the thrilling pursuit of physical and mental excellence, the search for outstanding human achievement, where men and women look to find their measure and often uncover the extraordinary.  Whether you win or lose, first or last, the achievement is not just in the result, but in the act of competition.  As such, sport is far too important a pursuit to be lumped in with the silly, the pointless, the simple and the cruel.

* The story is found in Wolverine, Volume 1, No. 102, written by Larry Hama, published by Marvel Comics in June 1996.

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On Cricket

“I don’t like cricket, oh no

I love it”

~ ‘Dreadlock Holiday’, by 10cc

from the album “Bloody Tourists”, 1978

Ah, summer is upon us, the cicadas are chirping, the television is uniformly terrible and people whine on Facebook about the weather, whether it is hotter or colder than their personal ideal.  Actually, that last one happens pretty much year round.  Seriously, if you want relatively uniform weather, perhaps Melbourne is not the town for you.  For the most part, summer brings good beach weather, although I don't get out to the beach as much as I would have liked in recent years (WonderWoman has a bit of an aversion). I do rather enjoy that summer also brings with it the joys of the cricket. 

Cricket is a wonderful sport.  It has all the hallmarks of a great sporting endeavour.  While I have a little difficulty with comparisons of sport with war, or even gladiatorial duels, I would say that the contest of cricket can indeed be epic.  The game is viewed by some as long periods of dull nothingness as the batsmen await the next delivery, with brief flurries of activity after the ball is delivered.  It is in these periods that plans are made, mind games are played, and men are sorted from boys.  Exquisite skills are essential, likewise endurance, but both can be rendered inert without a depth of focus that few possess.   

For the record, I should make my definition of sport clear, as opposed to games: essentially, any competitive activity where overweight, middle-aged individuals can hold their own at the highest level is not a sport, it is a game.  Football, cricket, rugby - sports.  Scrabble, tiddlywinks, darts, golf - games. *

Cricket is far better watching than that other sport that pervades our airwaves in January, tennis.  I have nothing against tennis, and can enjoy a good match as much as the next blogger, but it seems to me to be the domain of the over-privileged and spoilt at the elite level.  Perhaps that is more a perception issue than fact, but there you are.  What I can't stomach is women's tennis.  Just can't tolerate it at all.  With all the grunting that goes on, it's often like listening to asthmatic wookiees wailing on each other.  It's just unnecessary and distracting and frankly selfish of the players.  Further, one only needs to listen to one self-important "Me, me, me" press conference from a Williams sister to have a bad taste left in one's mouth.

But I digress.  Where was I?  Cricket.  When I say cricket, I am not including the fireworks, froth and pseudo-excitement of the twenty over version.  I'm unsure why they don't just call it baseball and be done with it.  Why is it that they insist on altering the very essence of a game in order to make it acceptable to the MTV generation? It seems to me that those in charge of cricket have so little faith in its appeal that they feel the need to dumb it down to such a degree.  Perhaps such people ought not to be in charge of the game at all.

It's the five day test match cricket for me.  It's the only sport that I can think of that allows time for meal breaks.  At times, five arduous days of play is unable to separate the weary combatants.

  I would happily watch every delivery of all five days of play, if it weren't for the banal dullards that barely pass for a commentary team of the television broadcasters, Channel Nine.  Half of them were employed in the Kerry Packer days of World Series Cricket in the 'seventies, and seem to have it written in their contracts that  the only way they can be extricated from their jobs is to switch the commentary box for a pine one.  Some pundits may suggest that Richie Benaud has the look of a cadaver about him already.  The addition of younger types has done nothing but decrease the depth of the shallow talent pool that already exists.  Mark Nicholas has appears to have swallowed a thesaurus, with everything being amazing, fantastic, stupendous, and incredible.  James Brayshaw, surely the least capable commentator of any sport in the country (have you heard the Triple M football commentary? It's nigh unlistenable), is jingoistic and sadly uninteresting.  As for former test cricket greats Michael Slater, Mark Taylor and Ian Healy, as astute and insightful commentators go, they make fabulous cricketers.

The commentary on the radio, specifically the ABC is often derided as "Dad's Army" type stuff, the cruel nickname of "Tobin Brothers" sometimes being unfairly bestowed on them.  I beg to differ.  It is rich and entertaining, descriptive and absorbing.  It comes, I imagine, from the medium the commentators find themselves in - when the picture that speaks a thousand words is lacking, actual words must fill the void, and the creativity, humour, knowledge and intellect of the commentariat must come forth.  It does so on the ABC.  It dismally fails to do so on Channel Nine.  Without the need to fill a space, Nine's commentators have become lazy, hurling pointless platitudes, urging viewers to spend money on useless memorabilia ("Endorsed by Cricket Australia!" as if that is some kind of selling point) and committing the worst possible crime for a commentator - stating the screaming, bleeding obvious.  It's turgid stuff.  Worse still is the television network's arrogant penchant for delaying their telecast by some seconds in order to make listening to the far superior radio commentary whilst watching the TV broadcast difficult.  Difficult but not impossible, thankfully.

I would imagine that Cricket Australia has a degree of control over the broadcaster's choices.  If they wish to appeal to a wider audience, perhaps they need to make a few prudent decisions about those who form the face of the cricket telecast, other than the players themselves.  But, as stated earlier, those in charge don't always seem to have the very best interests of the sport in mind.  More's the pity.  I really hope they don't kill the sport entirely.  Summer just wouldn't be the same without it.

* There is far more to say about what is and isn’t a sport, and more controversies to be had no doubt. I will expand on it a bit further next time…

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On New Year's Resolutions

“Let’s turn over a new leaf

And baby let’s make promises

That we can keep

And call it a New Year’s Resolution”

~ ‘New Year’s Resolution’, by Randle Caltron, Willie Parker & Mary Frierson

from the Otis Redding & Carla Thomas album “King & Queen”, 1967

A new year has turned over and the time for resolutions is upon us.  You know, those promises we make to ourselves and others that usually last about three weeks into January.  Things that we are going to achieve in 2012, come hell or high water.  Let's hope the Mayans were not right about the whole end-of-the-world thing, because if they were, boy, ain't we going to look silly?

I'm not sure why one needs to resolve to do anything much starting on the exact date of January 1st, as if the changing of the year is any more significant than any other day.  In truth it's much like birthdays, where you make a big fuss simply because the Earth has gone around the sun once since... the last time you made a big fuss.  It's been suggested to me that the one-two punch that is Christmas and New Year is a period of holidays and hence a time of reflection and introspection.   Personally, I find being a part of a twenty-four-hour-a-day, three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days-a-year industry means that holidays are no more associated with the end of the year than any other time.  Mind you, making August 23rd resolutions doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

I happened upon a list of resolutions belonging to an American left-wing folk singer/songwriter by the name of Woody Guthrie (1912-1967), written in 1942.  They're amusing and quaint, sometimes even a little profound, and certainly worthy of some consideration.

(For the sake of clarity, Woody's list is in bold, copied here exactly as he wrote them, minus the small diagrams he drew on each line of the original list.)

1. Work more and better

2. Work by a schedule

I would very much have liked our Woody to start gently, but on he dives, straight into some real toughies.  I would dearly love to "work more and better" but really fear I'll have to settle for one or the other.  Both may be a bit of an overreach.  Not that overreaching isn't a worthwhile pursuit, but I think if you're going to make a list of things you want to do, it should at least be achievable.  Best keep the overreaching to yourself.  I've never been really good at that.  Maybe this year.

Schedules are all well and good and I have been recently keeping the diary/calendar a bit more comprehensively.  Next is to increase the whole twenty-four hours in a day to twenty-eight or so and I'll be all set.

3.  Wash teeth if any

4.  Shave

5.  Take bath

I certainly hope to end the year with the same number of teeth as at the start.

Shaving is overrated, and I would do it much less than I do already if it wasn't for the fact that I get somewhat less smooches from WonderWoman when I'm going the hedgehog option.

And for all those who question my sense of personal hygiene, I say this - I will continue to have a really good wash once a week, whether I need it or not.  Best not find yourself downwind.

6.  Eat good - fruit - vegetables - milk

7.  Drink very scant if any

Goodness me but my eating habits are appalling.  If they only stopped making fattening, artery-hardening foods so darn scrumptious, it would make 2012 just a little bit easier.

Other than the odd Bailey's, I rarely drink.  Too easy!

8.  Write a song a day

Woody Guthrie must have been an awfully prolific songwriter if he came anywhere near success in this one.  For myself, I will be content to write just one song.  One really, really good song.  My dear brother has suggested a collaboration which sounds to me like a capital idea.

9.  Wear clean clothes - look good

10. Shine shoes

11. Change socks

...and desperately avoid wearing clothes with whopping great brands on them.  I've noticed that my clothing selections are becoming more conservative as I get older, possibly because I'm realising that high fashion is a colossal waste of time and resources. 

12. Change bed clothes often

Embarrassing confession here: I'm so very, very bad at this one.  Maybe this year I'll be more regular. 

Who are we kidding?  No improvement here in 2012.  Bigger fish to fry.  Move along!

13. Read lots good books

14. Listen to radio a lot

Once the day is extended by a few hours (see resolutions 1-2), I'll be in with a fighting chance with reading more books.  I read more in 2011 than in 2010, but it's still an embarrassingly small amount.

Radio would need to get an awful lot better (especially commercial radio) for me to listen to any of it at all.  Let's not hold our breath.

15. Learn people better

I've said it once, I'll say it again: the world would be a better place if people just did what I wanted them to all the time.  Even when I'm wrong.

16. Keep rancho clean

See resolution 12.

17. Don't get lonesome

Surrounded by my family and friends?  How could I possibly fail?

18. Stay glad

19. Keep hoping machine running

20. Dream good

Clinical depression is a curse.  I wish, oh how I wish that staying glad was a choice.  I do know, however, that being content is a far better gift than being happy.  I will search for contentment and with it, peace.  With peace as the fuel, the hope machine runs smoothly and the dreams are indeed good.

21. Bank all extra money

22. Save dough

They say money doesn't buy you happiness.  I say I'd love at least one opportunity to give it a good shake.

The key to making really good money, it seems to me, is to be good enough at something that people will give you lots of money to do it.  I'm not sure I'm quite that good at anything.

Perhaps, it's all just a question of realigning my priorities and defining success differently to the way most people do.  See resolution 24.

23. Have company but don't waste time

This is a big one for me.  It was catching up with a dear friend that I hadn't seen for around fifteen years that prompted me to start writing the On Writing Blog in the first place, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

People around us are so very valuable.  There are reasons that old friends are still friends even after circumstances mean that you don't see them as often as you would like.  Facebook has proven useful in maintaining contact, but I'm after more.  Be warned: if I haven't seen you or spoken to you in a while, I may be looking to catch up in 2012.

Even though the New Year is only days old, I've already caught up with a great friend I'd not seen for a while and one of the On Writing Blog's biggest supporters.  The result?  I was enriched, learned some new things, and a new idea for a blog post was born.

To "have company but don't waste time" is a noble goal indeed.

24. Send Mary and kids money

I'll swap this one for something more akin to "send more money to those less fortunate than myself more often".  I will do this since I am, along with the vast majority of my friends and family (along with the rest of Australia), amongst the wealthiest handful of people on the planet.

25. Play and sing good

26. Dance better

Can't dance.  Not quite to the same standard as, say, Peter Garrett, but dancing has never been a skill I possess.  I'm OK with that.

I would love to have more time to practice singing and guitar more, but once again, limited hours in the day means practice time is not always easy to find.  I'll do my best this year, but I don't like my chances.

27. Help win the war - beat fascism

Woody had a sticker on his guitar that read "This Machine Kills Fascists".   Perhaps I should get one for my computer keyboard.

Couldn't agree more, Woody.  I'll continue to do my best to remind folks that the kind of political neo-conservatism that is promoted by the likes of Tony Abbott is a mere few heartbeats away from fascism.  I'm sorry, but I refuse to embrace the obtuse ignorance and cold-hearted cynicism that the Liberal Party of Australia is peddling.  What's more is the party desperately needs to rename itself to once and for all cease its continual abuse of the word 'liberal'.

28. Love Mama

29. Love Papa

30. Love Pete

31. Love everybody

"I love you Mama! I love you Papa! I love you Pete!".  It sounds like a line from a Will Ferrell movie.

Since Mama, Papa and Pete would also seem to fit into the category of everybody, I'm wondering this list isn't three items shorter.

Seriously though, I've decided that I don't want to leave any of my nearest and dearest unsure of how much I care about them.  I want to make saying "I love you" more of a habit.  I'll be saying it more in 2012, and to more people.

32. Make up your mind

Seriously! And get a damned clue while you're at it, will ya?

33. Wake up and fight

I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?  

Thanks Woody.  Happy 2012 everybody.  May it be a better year than the one just now past, and may you see your resolutions reach February intact.

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On Jamie Cullum

“If there's music in the night,

And it's really, really right,

It's the only thing I need.

It intoxicates your mind

All your troubles left behind

So come on and take my lead…”

~ ‘Mind Trick’, by Jamie Cullum & Ben Cullum

from Jamie Cullum’s album “Catching Tales”, 2005

I discovered the music of Harry Connick Jnr. when I was a teen.  I soon started enjoying big band jazz (goodness knows why; it's not very ‘rock 'n' roll’ and certainly not what my contemporaries seemed to enjoy) and jazz standards.  He quickly became one of my favourite artists and, during my formative years, was in his prime.  His output wasn't just big band, and during the same period he released some trio work and some stripped down, largely piano-base songs, that all played around with various aspects of jazz.  I loved it all, his best releases were from around 1987 until the inevitable Christmas album in 1993 and a flawed-but-interesting pair of albums that dabbled in New Orleans funk.

I've since listened to more jazz and I love the genre, with its sublime richness, complexity and creativity.  I am always on the lookout for more of the same (and more of the different at that).  Alas, too many options and too little time and money tended to thwart my interest.  In 2004, the second of four CDs of songs performed on the Working Dog produced variety show, The Panel, was released.  One such performance was by a twenty-five year-old jazz upstart named Jamie Cullum.  The song (or rather, songs) he performed caught my attention - a medley of one song from his own pen along with the Cole Porter penned classic I Get a Kick Out of You.  It was good stuff, and I sought out more of his work.

Both songs were found on his second major release, ‘Twentysomething’ (2003), which he was touring and promoting at the time he appeared on The Panel.  His first album is a hard-to-find self-produced CD named Heard It All Before (1999).  He followed that up with his breakout hit Pointless Nostalgic (2002), which, like HIAB, was comprised mostly of jazz standards.  It caught the attention of UK talk show host Michael Parkinson as well as the public at large and was a huge success.  It led to a three-album contract with a major label, of which Twentysomething was the first.  By the end of 2003, Cullum had become the biggest selling jazz musician of all time in the UK.  Even then, Cullum, like many jazz pioneers before him, sought to subvert traditional ideas of jazz, how it could be performed and interpreted.  No doubt some of the more stuffy Jazz traditionalists were less than heartened at the sight of Cullum in T-Shirts and trainers leaping around his piano like a madman while performing, as is his want.

Pointless Nostalgic is a playful title that speaks volumes.  Like many jazz musicians, Cullum pulls much of his material from his musical forebears (more so in PN than subsequent albums), but negotiates the tightrope between due respect and his own personal interpretations of the songs with delicacy and huge talent.  I would go so far as to say that there are few current interpreters of others’ songs better than Cullum.  Not content to merely interpret classics and standards, Cullum has covered modern artists as diverse as Radiohead, Jeff Buckley, Elton John and Bob Marley, and has done so with panache.

Cullum croons far more in Pointless Nostalgic than in later releases, where he further develops a much more expressive vocal style, at times smooth, growling, youthful and delicate, or forceful, depending on the song.  PN's closing track, I Want To Be A Pop Star  suggests a road Cullum was soon to be traveling, not only in terms of style (more on that shortly), but lyrically.  While he fully embraces his jazz roots and the classics of a simpler time (such as Singing In The Rain) the theme running through much of his music is that of a young man in his twenties, growing and maturing.  Not too quickly, though, with tracks like IWTBAPS, Twentysomething and 21st Century Kid all capturing the zeitgeist of irresponsibility, misbehaviour and heady confusion that comes with misspent youth.  One of the singles released from the Catching Tales album, the gorgeous Photograph, finds Cullum's piano dancing through a collection of recalled memories.

As Cullum's career has progressed, so has his exploration of more diverse musical tools beyond those traditionally found in Jazz standards such as synths and loops, turntable scratches and even a stomp box (an acoustic box used to amplify a musician's tapping foot, reportedly found by Cullum right here in Melbourne, Australia while he was on tour).  The experience, maturity and development of his craft found its apex in Cullum's 2009 album The Pursuit (2009).  It's a sumptuous album, the larger proportion of original tracks than previous releases suggesting an increased self-confidence from Cullum.  Although he opens the album with another Cole Porter standard in Just One of Those Things, he follows up with the bouncy and modern I'm All Over It.  Track six finds Cullum cover a disposable tune originally by dance-pop singer Rihanna with a style and gravitas that the top-40 darling can't muster in her own version.  Mixtape has Cullum riffing about the popular experience of music of his younger days, name-checking Morrissey, Louis Armstrong, and Nine-Inch Nails in the process.  The catchy and driving We Run Things is symbolic of Cullum's increasing confidence in himself and his music.  Unlike his contemporary Michael Bublé, Cullum's originals often sound like standards, such is the skillful, classic and timeless writing and composition, such as in Grace Is Gone.  The masterpiece of the album, though, would have to be the collaboration between Cullum and filmmaker Clint Eastwood, who share song writing credits on Gran Torino with Eastwood's son Kyle and Michael Stevens, from the soundtrack of the film of the same name.  The song was nominated for a Golden Globe award in the Best Original Song category.  It screams instant classic, its lonely piano the perfect accompaniment to the world-weary lyrics, an astonishing feat given that Cullum wrote and recorded the lyrics at a relatively tender age.  It's a stunning performance, simple yet not simplistic, a song where the method of telling the story of the song says as much as the story itself.

There is word of a new album on the horizon in early 2012.  You can be sure that I'll be purchasing it on sight.  I very much look forward to seeing what Cullum has up his sleeves next.

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On Christmas

“There’s a certain time of year

When the world has a special glow

Children’s laughter I can hear

From sleigh rides in the snow

And while everyone’s heart is light

All across the land

One thing I know tonight

I can’t stand it, man!”

~ ‘I Hate Christmas’, by Ren & Stimpy, produced by Ed Mitchell

from the album “Ren & Stimpy’s Crock O’ Christmas”, 1993

It's nearly Christmas!  A time of cheer and goodwill and peace on Earth and family and... and...

Humbug. Bah, humbug.

It's not like I didn't try.  Did the Christmas shopping thing, battled the thundering hordes of cars scrapping over the last parking spot and beat back the ravenous consumers and their hyper-charged, low-interest credit cards at a large suburban shopping centre in search of that special gift for those dozens of special some ones.  That's the done thing at Christmas isn't it?  You buy cheap stuff for people who don't really need whatever you get them, and in return you get cheap stuff you'd already own - if you really needed it.  It's the curse of the Kris Kringle.  

Of course the kids want stuff too.  It's expected.  Not just any old junk you picked up from The Reject Shop either.  It's got to be something nice.  No, scratch that, that ‘something nice’ should be a plural 'cause one gift just won't cut the mustard.  One of my kids was thoughtful enough make it easy for WonderWoman and me, she left the junk mail out with the appropriate gifts circled and a loose page with a running tally of prices, neatly added up with an obscene total at the bottom.  The other dear child went a step further and cut all of the expected gifts out and even offered to go through them with me.

In all fairness, I think they were more 'in a perfect world' wishes than demands, but still, there is this heaving expectation of the "done thing" that hovers around Christmas like blowflies around a steaming pile of excrement.

Speaking of steaming piles of excrement, did you know that in the Catalan culture, they traditionally construct complex nativity scenes over the Christmas period the way we put together Christmas trees?  Tucked away in an unobtrusive corner is a caganer, a small character bent over in the act of defaecation.  There is some conjecture as to the origins and purpose of this curious little fellow; some say he signifies the common amongst the extraordinary, in a parallel to the central theme of the nativity; some believe he is a substitute for all of Earth's various peoples who, without exception, need to tend to this particular act; some argue that he is a kind of naturalistic symbol representing various aspects of fertility; others presume the caganer is merely a humourous aside to entertain children and simpletons.

Speaking of the nativity, let's address the ongoing tension between the religious aspects of Christmas and the commercial.  I can appreciate the sentiment behind the reminders that "Jesus is the reason for the season", but the honest truth is sadly far different.  As distasteful as the thought is, the crass commercial demands of Christmas have overtaken the spiritual remembrance and ideals by a wide margin.  When did you first see Christmas themed products in the supermarket?  If you're anything like me it was in October.  Early October, for the love of Pete.  How long after Boxing Day do you think it’s going to be before we see chocolate eggs?  It's sickening.

We need to keep a couple of other salient points firmly in mind.  Much like the moronic celebration in Australia of the Queen's birthday (and the associated public holiday), Christmas day is pretty much accepted as having little resemblance to the actual date of Jesus's birth.  Furthermore, the bulk of the traditions observed around Christmas day have been cribbed and bastardised from various pagan festivals, traditions and celebrations over the ages.  Essentially, one of the big two celebrations on the Christian calendar has more pagan connotations that we choose to admit.  Fancy that!

And a word to those that decry the abbreviation "Xmas" as removing the Christ from Christmas ought keep in mind that in Greek, the letter X (chi) stands for Khrīstos (Χριστός), or Christ.  So X or no, Christ is right there the whole time.  Perhaps Christmas can be a time of no abbreviations, and the elimination of the dreaded apostrophe, the curse of On Writing Blog first drafts every damned week.

I participated actively in carols this year, to try and give my Christmas spirit a much needed boost.  One of my favourite carols keeps the insanity of all that Christmas has become firmly in mind - The Twelve Days of Christmas.  Seriously, what kind of psycho gift giver gives you ten lords a'leaping?  Where exactly do you find eleven pipers piping, and does Australia Post deliver them?  Did it occur to anyone that by the end of the song the recipient of all these "gifts" will need to feed fifty people? Perhaps one could feed them any of the twenty-three feathered beasties also named in the song, but let’s face it, they're not going to go far.  Have you seen how much meat is on a partridge?

Just a few short days ago, Michael Bublé very nearly rescued Christmas for me.  Nearly.  While channel surfing I happened upon a carols show hosted and mostly performed by Mr Bublé.  I personally find Bublé a charismatic and entertaining performer, possessing genuine talent and a sense of self-deprecating humour that is right at home on Aussie TV.  I enjoyed the first few songs.  As the program progressed, I noticed something was awry.  Bublé spent quite some time wishing the audience the best of the season.  Then it hit me: he was continually wishing everyone the horrendously politically correct "Happy Holidays".  Christmas barely got a mention, although Hanukkah did.  It begs the question: if the word Christmas is taboo, why the merry heck are you bothering with Christmas carols at all?  Then Bublé revealed the final insult: guest star Justin Bieber.  Not being a vacuous eleven-year-old girl, and not having any holidays I could deem "happy", I switched off.    

I found but one highlight this Christmas.  WonderWoman and I spent some money on some Oxfam gifts on behalf of others.  The way it works is this: instead of buying gifts for one's kith and kin, you pay Oxfam the money you would otherwise spend on family or friends, which goes towards something worthwhile for those who need it a considerable amount more than any of us.  This year our hard-earned went towards filtered water pots in the Philippines and a women's refuge in Papua New Guinea.  Our attempt at genuine goodwill.  Glad to know there are some Christmassy things no amount of caganers can soil.

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