connect_icut
Well-known member
Well fuck me! http://www.bishbosch.com/
Luka, you'd love The Drift. It's got the same guts as Vigilant Citizen.
CrowleyHead said:Everything about Scott Walker is often discussed in the extremity of his music taking you to the unknown, when in reality a lot of what he does concerns things that are actually very obscured by the nature of memory. Al Jolson was of course the early 20th century balladeer who’s best remembered now for his less than savory career highlight of minstrelsy. The other Al is Jones, father of one of Scott’s early influences Jack Jones, and grandfather of his frequent early comparison point Tom Jones (a comparison that would set young Scott Engel’s teeth on edge at the frequent suggestion). Al Jones was another black & white icon, who held in his repertoire a version of the record “Donkey Serenade”. In there the allusions to punching donkeys can either be skewed into the literal (imagine the guy who asks percussionists to punch slabs of meat for backing tracks to NOT thinking randomly punching an ass would be fun), the perverse metaphorical (likewise IMAGINE the kind of maniac who makes songs like that NOT thinking punching an ass would have some perverse glee, he is a Beckett fan after all) or the obscured referential. For all the tyrannical angles of sound he plays with, so much of Walker’s aesthetic leans not into a dark future but the frayed edges of a forgotten past to modern pop. After all, most of these avant-garde/experimental classical ideas he’s been so taken with are actually follow-ups on ideas from long before he’d even started to make music. It’s hard to determine the exact meaning behind his songs beyond an obsession with the grimness of situation, and finding a level of absurdity that bemuses him. I mean, the donkey brays are either startling or purely silly depending on when they hit you, and Walker’s repeatedly stated that his songs are meant to be full of jokes, as obscured and grotesque as they might be. This is a man who for whatever reason found pleasure as an adolescent singing ballads about children’s TV hosts getting pissed upon, soldiers contracting gonorrhea in assembly and drunken bums hitting on phone operators. Why wouldn’t he find comedy in such bizarre fascinations with unfamiliar trappings?