Dear all:
Again The Pougue's anthem about New York is under scrutiny. Let's refer to
it as "A Haggard Tale of New York," to realign with our current spirits.
Featuring the haunting vocals of Kirsty MacColl, it is a song that has
turned out *too emphatic* for certain sensitivities.
Here is the view from Nick's Cave:
*What is your view on the BBC 'amendments' to Fairytale of New York?*
ROY, LINLITHGOW, SCOTLAND
Dear Joseph and Roy,
Truly great songs that are as emotionally powerful as *Fairytale of New
York* are very rare indeed. *Fairytale *is a lyrical high wire act of
dizzying scope and potency, and it rightly takes its place as the greatest
Christmas song ever written. It stands shoulder to shoulder with *any*
great song, from *any* time, not just for its sheer audacity, or its deep
empathy, but for its astonishing technical brilliance.
One of the many reasons this song is so loved is that, beyond almost any
other song I can think of, it speaks with such profound compassion to the
marginalised and the dispossessed. With one of the greatest opening lines
ever written, the lyrics and the vocal performance emanate from deep inside
the lived experience itself, existing within the very bones of the song. It
never looks down on its protagonists. It does not patronise, but speaks its
truth, clear and unadorned. It is a magnificent gift to the outcast, the
unlucky and the broken-hearted. We empathise with the plight of the two
fractious characters, who live their lonely, desperate lives against all
that Christmas promises — home and hearth, cheer, bounty and goodwill. It
is as real a piece of lyric writing as I have ever heard, and I have always
felt it a great privilege to be close friends with its creator, Shane
MacGowan.
Now, once again, *Fairytale* is under attack. The idea that a word, or a
line, in a song can simply be changed for another and not do it significant
damage is a notion that can only be upheld by those that know nothing about
the fragile nature of songwriting. The changing of the word 'faggot' for
the nonsense word 'haggard' destroys the song by deflating it right at its
essential and most reckless moment, stripping it of its value. It becomes a
song that has been tampered with, compromised, tamed, and neutered and can
no longer be called a great song. It is a song that has lost its truth, its
honour and integrity — a song that has knelt down and allowed the BBC to do
its grim and sticky business.
I am in no position to comment on how offensive the word 'faggot' is to
some people, particularly to the young — it may be deeply offensive, I
don't know, in which case Radio 1 should have made the decision to simply
ban the song, and allow it to retain its outlaw spirit and its dignity.
In the end, I feel sorry for *Fairytale*, a song so gloriously problematic,
as great works of art so often are, performed by one of the most scurrilous
and seditious bands of our time, whose best shows were so completely and
triumphantly *out of order*, they had to be seen to believed.
Yet, time and time again the integrity of this magnificent song is tested.
The BBC, that gatekeeper of our brittle sensibilities, forever acting in
our best interests, continue to mutilate an artefact of immense cultural
value and in doing so takes something from us this Christmas, impossible to
measure or replace. On and on it goes, and we are all the less for it.
Love, Nick
Mvh. / Yours sincerely,
Torgeir Fjeld <https://torgeirfjeld.com/>,
Poland
~~ ereignis <https://ereignis.no/>: taking you to who you are ~~
On Sun, 29 Nov 2020 at 22:27, david ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
One of the important skills often not learned in school is how to lose
gracefully and, of course, the other side of the coin, as demonstrated so
well by General Grant. Yesterday we had an outbreak of chicken guerrilla
action, probably of an accidental sort. That would be the generous view
and, as indicated, I’m trying to be a generous winner. After break of day
I put my left foot outside the kitchen door and slid on a mix of leaf and
pooh. Fortunately my right foot was well-planted and so nothing of
consequence followed. Which was not the case on occasion number two. After
we had harvested persimmons I was lifting a small ladder back down the
granite steps Garden Guy installed. At the best of times the steps are
extremely slippery; yesterday they were one stage worse. Which would
account for me being flat on my back, thanking goodness that my head hadn’t
hit anything hard and that my bones all felt fine. On such occasions you
never get off without some follow-up discomfort, but so far… not too bad.
When I went to put the chickens to bed for the night, there was repeat
number three, outside a different door. Three mirrored one, a mere
sliding, this time of the right foot.
So out with leaf blower and rake and brush I went today. I explained to
the chickens that they were likely to find what followed really quite
noisy. No response. I whirred the motor of the electric blower. They
rose. I notched the noise up. They stepped towards an exit path I had
left open and then slowly, as I imagine went Confederate soldiers filing
home, they walked with dignity away from the site of conflict.
Earlier in the week I was minding my students’ business when the chickens
came knocking. I think they were merely cleaning their beaks on the wooden
sill, but I opened and investigated, happy to have the excuse to break away
from work for a moment. They were arranged like a delegation on some
formal occasion, even exhibiting a kind of shy shuffling. Or maybe they
were also cleaning their feet? Mimo is looking a whole lot better but
Appenzeller is still top of the pile, so she led off.
“We’d like to say thanks for the giving…”
Pecorino, “Of croissant.”
Mimo, “Also cheese.”
Appenzeller, “We should talk later about the cheese.”
Mimo, “I got it fair and square.”
Pecorino, “Says you.”
“You liked the croissant?”
Mimo, “Those crumbs number among the wonders of the world.”
Pecorino, “Wonders of the world."
Appenzeller, “right up there with the best.”
Pecorino, “World-beating."
“So you enjoyed them?”
Mimo, “Are there more, by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not. L. got some day-olds at the bakery and one day becomes
another quite quickly, does it not?”
Pecorino, “Tell us about it.”
I sensed she didn’t mean what she said, so I smiled, nodded, returned to
grading papers.
Could the absence of croissant really have led to guerrilla warfare?
Rostow wrote that revolutions tend to occur when improved expectations are
frustrated.
We were in E. and N.’s garden for Thanksgiving. Raclette is a very good
way to celebrate outdoors. Some Swiss or German guy will have looked at
the electric element on a stovetop and said, “Wots about ve use ze heat on
both sides.” That’s the deal. On top you put things that cook quickly:
par-boiled potatoes, mushrooms, halves of brussels, so on and so forth. We
added a little cooked duck. Underneath there are individual containers.
You take stuff from above, add racelette cheese from Switzerland, let the
cheese melt, eat with bread. And then you do a dessert version with fruit
and so on. Really pretty good fun and with the temperature in the forties,
comfortable for we who dressed the part. After lunch we went for a walk,
and Hamish explained to each and every squirrel in a park that their
foraging needed to be arboreal, should take place above ground level.
We returned for a pecan pie made from scratch, which is to say E. and N.
bought pecans, cracked them one by one, made a pie. Fan-tastic.
I was talking with Mimo about the death of Maradona, the Argentinian
football player. She seemed interested in the idea that we gods forgive
bad behavior in those of us who are unusually talented.
Mimo, “So is it a mathematical relationship… extraordinary ones get full
forgiveness and those who are just a bit above average get thirty percent
off?”
I reflected and then decided I didn’t know how that worked.
I diverted, “We’re trying to give Sonsie a professional Wrestling name.
Does Sonsie the Ratflattener work for you?”
Mimo is generally a pretty flexible thinker but this was one stage too
weird. So I continued. “E.’s cat also caught a rat. His name is Jake so
I was thinking of going with Jake Bluestooth. Any good?”
Pecorino came up. “What did I miss?”
Mimo, “God’s off his head again.”
“What do you mean again?”
Appenzeller, “How else to explain the continuing absence of croissants?”
Hans Hateboer came to my attention, plays for the Italian club Atalanta.
“Hatepeasant" I believe is the translation. Probably descended from the
Sheriff of Nottingham or some Medieval Metrosexual. Wout Weghorst plays
for Wolfsburg. Try “Wout Weghorst of Wolfsburg” when you’re in need of a
bit of a mental pick-me-up. Maybe add, “Batman.” “Great Wout Weghorsts of
Wolfsburg, Batman.” Other names came to my attention this week but I can’t
repeat them because of privacy issues. I can, however, invite you to
imagine a baby being named the first word the mother heard after giving
birth. Light bulb... Bucket... Bandage… that kind of inspiration.
Another baby name was derived in a different manner, “Let’s call him
Attila, that sounds great.” Not the real name, but along those lines.
Attila the Hun Jones.
Finally, General Carrera, who has a lake named after him if you are from
Chile. If you are from Argentina, that same lake is called Buenos Aires.
So who was Carrera? Some bloke who didn’t like the fact that Chile was
being run by a man called O’Higgins, and didn’t like the way Argentina was
set up either. So he gathered up some forces…and was betrayed by an
Argentinian, captured and executed.
Now he’s got half a lake.
Maybe he was graceful at the finish.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
------------------------------------------------------------------
To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off,
digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
