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{Monday}

 
CPL 593 ah

Just a brief passing ghost of a thought, prompted by marK-Punk dating his berth rite ascension* to the epo-nymous first ROXY album. Just to note that one of the spectrally speck-trail things about those first two {at a push, three} ROXY sets, is that they ARE so haunted ... the very opening line, first song, first album: "I tried but I could not find a way / LOOKING BACK all I did was look away ..." Ferry is already beyond, beyond exhaustion, already entangled in return, diminishing returns, a spectre spectating at his own Masque of the Glam Death feast, from the cocktail sounds of that opening on-the-make-for-new-model scene to the ah-sigh posthumous post-party um-ha-nimal self autopsy on Stranded {and what a title that is/was! and how many trails & detours does that immediately prompt!} that is the awesomely haunting schizo hymn "Mother of Pearl" {and explicit reference therein, never forget, to the breakdown father of all Return To Forever thoughts with that glorious glancing blow of a line that is: "Thus, even Zarathustra / Another time loser / Could BELIEVE in YOU." ... oh my yes ... }

... and where are we, now? Who, "we"?
Me, just a few tracks in and I'm already lost in all these lustrous trails of return and breakdown management and gnostalgia and - ...

... as I was saying to a mother of pearl all my phantasmal own only recently - via e-mail but of course, where else but the spectral atopian space of wemail, oui!-mail? - trying to explain to her Other-universe mind how a 1970s British sit-com called The Liber Birds {oops! Crowelyian slip!} ... The Liver Birds rather, lingered on in my own hauntological image resevoir, strictly down to one single sliver of a scene, wherein one of the two, the two birds {and was that an explicit reference to the winged creatures who pecked at what's-his-name's mythical liver?}, in their flat, love lorn, as ever, the eternal return of the same bloomin (un-blooming) fella, destined to break your feathery heart while he fills his bleedin' beak, and here she stood, punk flamingo like, scarecrow as much as "bird", the thin silvery one, common as Lack indeed, standing at the pre-ironic Ironing Board, her tears dissolving into brassy steam, drip drop, tripped hope, tricked love, trap, drop and in the background tho' but, here's the mnemonic solo, the Proustian Penguin jingle, in the background, LOUD, to drown out her sorrowful thoughts, playing like a WAKE, like a Greek chorus of city waits, awesomely melancholy, Ferry, at his most prima, Callas reborn as Budgie, Roxy, yes, the first ablum, mark you, "We've been running round / In our present state / Hoping help will come from above. But even angels there make the same ms.takes . . . in love ... in love ... in love .... in LOOOOOVE." Ferry's voice like a gnostic lovebird gone stir crazy inside a cave of shadowy memories, long blanc nights, caged bird songs, projected slides of lost lovers... Platonic polaroids, semblances, resemblances, representations ... looking back all I did was look- ...

... and that "present state" {which two words alone I could spin into a 30,00 word speculation, a breeze,nae bother} I'm sure crops up soon in another mournful plaint, for our pleasure, with the mournful passagen werk of time I can't be entirely sure now, sure now, whether it was Side Two track two "Chance Meeting" or Side Two track four "Sea Breezes," chance meeting of a bogus (bird) man and an Oblique Peacock strutegy on an ironing board, I think I'm sure it was "Sea Breezes", one of the two, rare birds, in their rare plumage of pink pyjamaramah, I can remember the scene to its echoic letter, static meeting of a sitcom teardrop with a sonic shiver, an Eno-iac timbre, oh, can you imagine the equivalent nowadays?, I mean, you know, epicentral episode of Friends where the scatty one finally has her long overdue BREAKDOWN, with Sylvian's Blemish in the lonely flat background, or one of those smart aleck 20/30 something sub-let pub-Friends BBC2 &/or 3 xerox coms, all shag jokes and come hither titters, the eternally same British sexual situ, no shivers, absolutely no we-ssance or oui-dance or joui-sense, none, all just perplexed male sniffing around flighty post-Heat mini skirt dolly birds, and they all have apparently boundless lease majeste on flats that would cost you £450 per in London, even tho they never do a stroke of anything but their dissimulated disappearing Loaded-world erections and wet patches, snigger snigger, please, not on the virginal white of this spotless nu Ikea suite, sweetypie, but can you imagine?, one of THEM, one of the identikit i-pod Hornbyite lover bird people, with the quick wits ha ha, and pert post-Potter tits, can you imagine one of them, seduced and abandoned, ALONE, SILENT, no punchline, nothing, SOBBING, can't stop breaking down to a soundtrack of, I dunno, say, Cobain's last-gasp "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" My girl, my girl, don't LIE to me ..., well, I just don't think so somehow, not in a month of ... oh. Oh dear: I've gone a little off the Ferryman track here haven't I? Oh ...

... well, {"-well, I've been up all night / AGAIN !?"} you can do the homework yourself, from "Remake/Remodel" as oh-pen and already SHUT opening statement (!/!}, the whole unholy thing, in brite pink and sigh-fi blues yet, hello/goodbye as an opening putsch, oh wow ... SHOW me! ... glimmer of true glamour here, a successful spell cast across our waiting little minds ... across every haunted hunted haggard track in the strandead on arrival span of these three albums, from the threndody O.D. of "2 HB" {"Words don't express my meaning, notes could not spell out the score / But finding not keeping's the LESSON. Your memory stays, it lingers ever, fade away never..."} thru the wholly stranded lo-land of Roxy Music Side Two, thru the anti-dance step (Blanchot's "pas" - step/not - made eleventh hour disco commandment} of "[UN]Do The Strand!" ... all the party creatures stranding around in their absent ambient state, ragpicking the recent Biba be-bop sha na NAH past, for to frill a ghostly uniformity to gild their coked-up cooped up Kings Rd night ... on the qui vive for a vital last gasp gulp of oxygen, any roxygen ... just to keep the Europarty going a shade longer ... keep awake at all costs ... AGAIN!?
... on, on into the deep deep disturbing BLUE, the properly uncanny last gasp of "Strictly Confidential" (last testament not loveletter: ... with every STEP a change ...) on, on down into the valley of shadows that is - do I even need to go here, class? - the awesomely askew shadows couple of "The Bogus Man" and the strange strange title track (a title track which ENDS this suite, rather than OPENING it, which entitles you to all sorts of queer thoughts about good boys and good byes, right down to its last hauntological seconds, its barely discernible second voice, the Other, en voiced in all her barely there outline, hardly more than a voloptuous syllable in outline ...
... ah, what is it she whispers into your shell like, you silly silly boy? You've been running round after bloody meaning again, haven't you, silly silly boy will you never LEARN? Looking for redemption when all you needed and all I wanted was a half decent fuck, jesus christ and andy warhol, you "intellectual" ferrymen are all alike, your fatal liking for lack lustre moods, always wanting to go somewhere when you could be perfectly happy making someone come, to-fro, to-fro, TA RA, TA RA, TA ...but no ta very much, I know you ambiguous types with blatantly diffident Ai No Corrida invitations and bloody weird Germans yet your idea of background seduction muzak and your theories of crypts and invagi bloody nation and differance yes yes differance with the vital ingredient all important sodding "a" , ah yes, and jouissance, always jouissance like it was some sort of "Bingo!" shout, you'll be wanting me to play dead next like that bloody BUNUEL film, when, when it comes right down to it you're all FORT DA and no AH ... Ta bloody RA ...
... and what is it, what IS it she says, on her regal way out from this terminally desolate rather than merely dissolute wake of a party of your's - may be YOUR idea of Pleasure but it sure isn't ... - this shark blue plexi-dress hymn to ruination...
... -there you go again, she says, by now poised on the threshold, one last glare over her shoulder, I should have known fucking RUINS would come into it somewhere, I wouldn't be surprised you're back on those fucking DRUGS again ... ARE you?
... this glorious haunted RUIN of a song, crumbling shrine, a b side, a negative sigh of an off side stranded between, always between, between this life and the next, a side two, the Other side, a shrinking strip of a Tu Side, an Other side to all the Glam, the grim side, the sinking ship, the tossed aside ... I could talk talk talk myself to death / But I BELIEVE: I would only waste my BREATH ... I would swim all the ocean floor / I would walk a THOUSAND miles, reveal my SECRETS- - Oh christ here we go {and she SIGHS, heavily} - yeah yeah yeah, would would would with you ALWAYS isn't it when all a girl wants is a decent length of WOOD ... tossed over her black as Rilke's panther shoulder, gravel hard and looose, what it IS, she says, amid the strange whoosh and lapidary tumble of the descending music, what it IS about your always already PRE-sent state, your state of already decided destination rather than the TRUE CHANCE of momentarily becoming, what it is, she whispers, her last words heard nowhere but deep inside your own nodding, isolate head ...

YOU - DON'T - ASK - WHY

... and thus ends one of the strangest spookiest tracks ever laid down by any band in any epoch, epochxymusic?, OH no ... but it WAS on a best selling album yet, but jesus, for our PLEASURE? They were kidding, rite? One of the most recessed, cryptic, encrypted, downbeat, melancholy, hopeless, mournful ... I mean, even the "throwaway" tracks boomerang back to you with these odd little depressions in them, hollows, recesses, pointers {and an electronically treated HARMONICA solo for framing, yet!}: hopeless cases with FAKE alibis ...

... and I'm not sure I should even get started on even the title alone of Stranded or especially on the absolutely without-par "Mother of Pearl" ... which, just coincidentally, is followed by the ebb time glimmer of {a} "SUNSET", limnal, liminal, lapidary, lapping ... one final wave, in, out, history repeats itself, yeah yeah, ta ra little fun boy ... you'll be quoting fucking Heinrich Heine at me next, I know you, don't forget, well, NOT tonight you don't Nietzsche Boy, I'm GONE, OUT of here ... so pick the present ABSENCE out of that ...
... and the waves are the waves in the echo of your own blood, now, all memories, all gone, every one, Ideal love flies away night ..., ta ra indeed ...

Have you a future?
No ... no ... no ... NOOOOOOOO ...

(Yes.)

... looking for love in a looking glas world ... - oh god I'm going to have to take this damned record OFF or I'll be here all day and half the night {AGAIN?!} underlining every second word ... is pretty HARD for you ...

+ **** -


*{by the way, what a splendidly & fittingly Derridean name is "Mark"! Mark, trace, inscription, re-presentation, therefore there-not-there ... "boundary land ... a conspicous object serving as a guide for travelers ..." {OH yes! just so!} "... something (as a line, notch ...) designed to record position ... the point under discussion ..." and on ... find the page in Websters for your own delight, & further education, calling all Johnsons, mark these words, page 703 in mine, marked at the top right hand corner with margin · mark and {oh WOW! And here I sense Coincidence Control Center working overtime! Replete with a lovely illustration of a margay: a small American spotted cat! (Felis tigrina) And we won't even start in on happily adjacent words like march or mare's nest, now, though, but, oh ...mark my words ...
... But oh just don't just DON'T even get me started on Ferry's nom, the ferryman, the passeur, oh, oh no ... no ... NO ...

posted by Ian 9/08/2003 01:57:00 PM

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