“It inevitably ends up looking like some woman’s vaginal parts… that’s what usually happens,” says Wayne Coyne, of the doodlings that are taking shape on his kitchen table in Oklahoma City. Chatting amiably ahead of The Flaming Lips’ upcoming appearance at Harvest Festival, their frontman’s thoughts on the creative process are revealing. “I usually just start with like, no idea,” he continues affably. “When our mind is not completely engaged it’s a little bit freer. It’s like these are not our thoughts, they’re just thoughts. If I dreamed that I killed my mother and fucked her corpse, [then] it’s a dream, get it over it. But if you think that in real life, you’re a horrible person. I think there’s probably something to that.”
Matricidal necrophilia aside (the picture he drew while we chat, later posted on his Twitter feed, is a doozy), giving his right brain free reign has certainly served Coyne well. After two decades peddling off-the-wall, occasionally high-concept, psychedelic weirdness, the band reinvented themselves with the lushly orchestrated pop of 1999’s The Soft Bulletin, before erupting into the mainstream with the much-loved Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots in 2002. Acclaim and commercial success followed – Yoshimi’s ‘Do You Realize??’ was even voted in as the official Oklahoma state rock song in 2009 – which continued with 2006’s At War With The Mystics, though that record’s syrupy singles suggested a creative cul de sac had been reached.
“The worst thing that can happen to musicians is that they begin to believe that they’re songwriters,” Coyne says, of this impasse. “Then they suddenly get thrown into the untouchable realm of The Beatles or the Bob Dylans and then sit there and think, ‘I’ll just sit here and put together these little phrases and these little chords and they’ll become songs’… But a lot of times we’ll be working on a song… and quietly, while we’re doing this thing, something else starts to happen. If we’re smart or if we’re listening, we will drop what we were trying to do and go with what is actually happening.”
What actually happened was Embryonic (2009), a sprawling high-concept double album in the mould of Bitches Brew or The Wall. Veering from implacable, crunching rock to maudlin ballads to hallucinatory apocalyptic hysteria, with the music ripped apart by spasmodic day-glo eruptions and at times eerily unsettling recordings, the record brought the group’s earlier densely psychedelic experimentalism to bear on their pop sensibilities, with mesmerising results. “I’ll be the first to say that I’m not a very good musician,” admits Coyne, “but this way of being free to play [with] wherever the dynamic of the room takes you – we know that there’s a real value in that because you [come up with things you] can never think of… We gave ourselves this self-indulgent license to do these jams, and I think that once we started to work on the jamming sections [of Embryonic], we never went back to anything that would require us to have any discipline – we just thought ‘Fuck, why don’t we just let ourselves go?!’ We were just trying to avoid the predictableness of our own stupid nature – it was a way of tricking our nature into listening to the music as opposed to being the people who were making it.”
Of course, ‘avoiding discipline’ is not the same thing as ‘kicking back’. Since birthing Embryonic, Coyne & Co. have been busy, with their 2009 cover of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety with Stardeath and White Dwarfs, signalling a renewed focus on collaborations and the experimental possibilities of music as a physical product. These tendencies have found full expression this year with a series of endearingly bizarre monthly releases, from ‘Two Blobs Fucking’ (envisaged as a Valentine’s Day musical orgy, the single was designed to be simultaneously played on twelve iPhones), to collaborations with Neon Indian and Lightning Bolt, to the extremely limited release Gummy Song Skull EP and Gummy Song Fetus EP, in which several originals were released on USBs embedded within specially moulded gummy body parts.
For sheer ballsiness though, even these are topped by ‘I Found This Star On The Ground’, a six-hour song written to soundtrack a lysergic journey on a slow night, and packaged in the ‘Strobo Trip: A Light and Audio Phase Illusions Toy’. Going to press, Coyne announced the release of an as-yet unnamed song with a 24-hour play time to be packaged within a real human skull… As you do. “I know some musicians who simply wanna play the music and don’t even want to mix their own songs, while others want to do everything; they want to play the music, they want to do the interviews, they want to mix the songs, they want to do the album covers, they want to make the videos – I think it was Frank Zappa that said, ‘I do everything but take the records to the store’. I can [even] do that.”
Contradictions between the absurdly expensive limited releases mentioned above and professed musical altruism aside, Coyne is eloquent about the potential of music to connect people. “[When] music becomes something that people don’t leave up to musicians, I think that music is better for it. It doesn’t belong to you or me; it’s here, enjoy it. Some people make a million dollars playing and some people don’t make any, that’s the way it is, but I think the idea that music is just sound and anything is possible – I love that.”
It’s an approach that the Lips have certainly brought to bear on their live shows; the extravaganzas involve animal-costumed back-up dancers, 50-foot-tall projections of naked dancing women and confetti cannons, not to mention Coyne’s penchant for surfing the crowd from the comfort of a giant bubble. Which begs the question: do The Flaming Lips feel some sort of ethical obligation to get people off? “For us it’s an opportunity to live in that other dimension which is just that thrill and enthusiasm,” says Coyne. “That can be very addictive, when you’re in front of the audience and you see the potential for this great thing to happen. I think our best music requires that the audience have some emotional connection to it. If we’re singing about love and death [and] the audience just wants to get drunk and scream, it’s not as powerful for us. We want, for lack of a better word, to communicate these things.
“I want the audience to know that I am this music; I mean, all the fellas are, but [I am] as much as anybody can be this thing. I wouldn’t have this life if they hadn’t let me do it and given me money and encouragement and all that, so I just fucking go for it. I really do not fear failing or looking like an idiot or drawing a stupid picture. I believe I have been given a license by our fans [who’ve] said, ‘Wayne, just fucking go for it. Better to screw up ten times and come back with one thing we haven’t heard before than play it safe.’ I think the reason why we’re worth listening to is because we’re kind of insane, y’know?”
First published in The Brag, Iss. 435, October 24th 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Eye of the Storm
Filmmakers brave (or foolhardy) enough to tackle Patrick White's rich literary legacy might be counted on a couple of fingers. Although Voss has been successfully adapted to the operatic stage, nothing came of Harry Miller's proposed film in the late 60s, while Jim Sharman's The Night, The Prowler (1978) was filmed from White’s own script.
During the author’s lifetime this paucity might have been attributed to the inexorable control that White exacted over his work and legacy—to the point of denying his own official biographer access to his private journals. However since his death, a new generation has been slow to grasp the opportunity presented by the novels. Indeed, it’s an experienced team who’ve risen to the challenge with The Eye of the Storm, the novel that tipped the scales to net the author his grudgingly accepted Nobel Prize in 1973.
Former socialite Elizabeth Hunter (Charlotte Rampling) lies dying in her lavish residence by Centennial Park in Sydney. Occasionally lucid, though as often floating on an ocean of memory, her needs are attended by two nurses, the sassy Flora (Alexandra Schepisi) and saintly Mary (Maria Theodorakis), a housekeeper, the irascible masochist and Holocaust survivor Lottie Lippmann (Helen Morse), as well as stalwart family lawyer Wyburd (John Gaden). Into this delicate arrangement arrive Elizabeth’s estranged adult children: Dorothy (Judy Davis), the Princess de Lascabanes, smarting from a failed marriage into European aristocracy that has stranded her in middle age with nought but a title and some jewels; and Basil (Geoffrey Rush), a rumpled actor, knighted by the British, who floats through life playing to other people’s expectations while haunted by his failure as Lear, the role by which he measures the limits of his talent. Temporarily united by a shared plan to pack their mother away to a nursing home and generally accelerate their inheritance of her fortune, the pair descend upon the deathbed to extract what they feel is owed.
The extent to which the film is seen as a successful adaptation depends entirely on the degree to which the story is viewed as inseparable from the prose in which it was written. The pleasures and frustrations of White’s writing—which for many may amount to the same thing—unravel organically, brilliant tendrils of digression curling away from painstakingly crafted scenes, present action illuminated by streams of consciousness, prose of unrelenting precision sinking its barbs into the reader’s mind: “the women, either in loud summery shifts, apparently with nothing underneath, or else imprisoned in a rigid armature of lace, shrieked at one another monotonously out of unhealed wounds.” Writing to Cynthia Nolan in early 1970, White commented that the novel was “going to be in the shape of a spider’s web,” and indeed to read it is to trace each thread through the concentric circles of narrative that slowly orbit Elizabeth’s impending death.
The dangers in adapting a narrative of this complexity are manifold. Judy Morris, whose lengthy resume as a film and television actor is complemented by writing credits on the Babe sequel Pig in the City (1998) and George Miller’s dancing penguin extravaganza Happy Feet (2006), has sharpened the primary relationships while shearing away the majority of Elizabeth’s mental forays into the past, trimming the frumpish Jessie Badgery from her entourage and generally rearranging and combining scenes to allow a seamless cinematic flow, one that is amply realised by director Fred Schepisi.
Having made his name at home directing films such as The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1978), Schepisi departed for the US where he solidified a reputation for producing films both critically respected and commercially robust. With Eye he is less analeptically trigger-happy than might have been expected, relying on loaded visual imagery to suggest the barely supressed corruption in which White revelled, the camera lingering on mould formed on a dish of preserves, two kilos of beef rotting in a garbage bin, and worms “lashing themselves into a frenzy of pink exposure” beneath rose bushes “at the climax of their beauty.” The film combines lush costumes and decor—gilt bed frames, colonnades and chandeliers. The house at Centennial Park is an exercise in opulence. Adding a smoothly vapid jazz soundtrack, Schepisi succeeds in capturing the crass indulgence of the period without aiming for the florid ruthlessness with which White represented his countrymen—although Colin Friels’ lascivious politician Athol Shreve comes close.
One of Schepisi’s most obvious achievements with this film is simply assembling a cast of such calibre. Judy Davis is superb as Dorothy, the perennially disappointed princess, murmuring the correct formalities through sour lips, roiling insecurities being permitted meagre outlet as she kicks her mother’s tasteful furnishings. Trained by Elizabeth in pursuit of wealth, Dorothy takes none of her mother’s unalloyed pleasure in the material; in one brilliant scene, she is surprised by Mary while rubbing her face on a sumptuous rug, Davis’ face collapsing from mortification into self-disgust on learning that the fur is platypus. Rush is equally good as the fumbling, narcissistic actor: “I think I might be ready for something real” he tells Flora with sublime self-delusion after their mutual seduction— though his presence tends to overwhelm the whole, a fact not helped by his unnecessary narration.
Charlotte Rampling is also excellent as the still-regal Elizabeth, her features displaying both the collapsed beauty and inner steel of the dying matriarch. Even from her death bed she is capable of slicing through the affectations of her love-starved children, out-performing the debonair Basil in their excruciating reunion or reducing Dorothy to sputtering incoherence with a sweet enquiry: “Are you going through a difficult time again?” However it is in its representation of Elizabeth that the film runs against the limits of the medium. In the novel, White accessed scenes from across a lifetime of casually unthinking egotism and the brutal pursuit of status, offering her character both as it was and is perceived in recollection all at once. Rampling, though brilliantly cast, can only gesture toward such psychological depth.
This is made manifest in the way both texts deal with Elizabeth’s moment of revelation, where, battered by the hurricane of the title on the fictionalised Brumby Island, she relinquishes her own unyielding hold on life and experiences a moment of sublime grace. In the novel, her rambling mind persists in returning to this moment, which both anchors the novel and her character, the insight into her own selfish refusal to open herself to love casting its illumination across the rest of her life. “She was no longer a body, least of all a woman,” White writes. “She was instead a being, or more likely a flaw at the centre of this jewel of light: the jewel itself, blinding and tremulous at the same time, existed, flaw and all, only by grace.” Limited as he is by the eye of the camera, Schepisi is merely able to capture the image of Rampling standing in the surf, dappled by the shadows of seabirds, her face upturned and exaltant. Although beautiful, the moment is perhaps unavoidably stripped of much of its psychological and indeed metaphysical resonance.
“The worst thing about love between human beings,” declares Elizabeth early in the novel, is “when you’re prepared to love them they don’t want it; when they do, it’s you who can’t bear the idea.” Over the course of nearly 600 pages of vividly imagined prose, White meticulously traces the destructive effects of attempting to impose one’s will on the heart. In contrast, Schepisi and Morris have managed to dramatise the essentially meaningless theatre to which relationships descend when denied loving sustenance.
First published in RealTime Arts, Iss. 105, Oct-Nov 2011, p 21
During the author’s lifetime this paucity might have been attributed to the inexorable control that White exacted over his work and legacy—to the point of denying his own official biographer access to his private journals. However since his death, a new generation has been slow to grasp the opportunity presented by the novels. Indeed, it’s an experienced team who’ve risen to the challenge with The Eye of the Storm, the novel that tipped the scales to net the author his grudgingly accepted Nobel Prize in 1973.
Former socialite Elizabeth Hunter (Charlotte Rampling) lies dying in her lavish residence by Centennial Park in Sydney. Occasionally lucid, though as often floating on an ocean of memory, her needs are attended by two nurses, the sassy Flora (Alexandra Schepisi) and saintly Mary (Maria Theodorakis), a housekeeper, the irascible masochist and Holocaust survivor Lottie Lippmann (Helen Morse), as well as stalwart family lawyer Wyburd (John Gaden). Into this delicate arrangement arrive Elizabeth’s estranged adult children: Dorothy (Judy Davis), the Princess de Lascabanes, smarting from a failed marriage into European aristocracy that has stranded her in middle age with nought but a title and some jewels; and Basil (Geoffrey Rush), a rumpled actor, knighted by the British, who floats through life playing to other people’s expectations while haunted by his failure as Lear, the role by which he measures the limits of his talent. Temporarily united by a shared plan to pack their mother away to a nursing home and generally accelerate their inheritance of her fortune, the pair descend upon the deathbed to extract what they feel is owed.
The extent to which the film is seen as a successful adaptation depends entirely on the degree to which the story is viewed as inseparable from the prose in which it was written. The pleasures and frustrations of White’s writing—which for many may amount to the same thing—unravel organically, brilliant tendrils of digression curling away from painstakingly crafted scenes, present action illuminated by streams of consciousness, prose of unrelenting precision sinking its barbs into the reader’s mind: “the women, either in loud summery shifts, apparently with nothing underneath, or else imprisoned in a rigid armature of lace, shrieked at one another monotonously out of unhealed wounds.” Writing to Cynthia Nolan in early 1970, White commented that the novel was “going to be in the shape of a spider’s web,” and indeed to read it is to trace each thread through the concentric circles of narrative that slowly orbit Elizabeth’s impending death.
The dangers in adapting a narrative of this complexity are manifold. Judy Morris, whose lengthy resume as a film and television actor is complemented by writing credits on the Babe sequel Pig in the City (1998) and George Miller’s dancing penguin extravaganza Happy Feet (2006), has sharpened the primary relationships while shearing away the majority of Elizabeth’s mental forays into the past, trimming the frumpish Jessie Badgery from her entourage and generally rearranging and combining scenes to allow a seamless cinematic flow, one that is amply realised by director Fred Schepisi.
Having made his name at home directing films such as The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1978), Schepisi departed for the US where he solidified a reputation for producing films both critically respected and commercially robust. With Eye he is less analeptically trigger-happy than might have been expected, relying on loaded visual imagery to suggest the barely supressed corruption in which White revelled, the camera lingering on mould formed on a dish of preserves, two kilos of beef rotting in a garbage bin, and worms “lashing themselves into a frenzy of pink exposure” beneath rose bushes “at the climax of their beauty.” The film combines lush costumes and decor—gilt bed frames, colonnades and chandeliers. The house at Centennial Park is an exercise in opulence. Adding a smoothly vapid jazz soundtrack, Schepisi succeeds in capturing the crass indulgence of the period without aiming for the florid ruthlessness with which White represented his countrymen—although Colin Friels’ lascivious politician Athol Shreve comes close.
One of Schepisi’s most obvious achievements with this film is simply assembling a cast of such calibre. Judy Davis is superb as Dorothy, the perennially disappointed princess, murmuring the correct formalities through sour lips, roiling insecurities being permitted meagre outlet as she kicks her mother’s tasteful furnishings. Trained by Elizabeth in pursuit of wealth, Dorothy takes none of her mother’s unalloyed pleasure in the material; in one brilliant scene, she is surprised by Mary while rubbing her face on a sumptuous rug, Davis’ face collapsing from mortification into self-disgust on learning that the fur is platypus. Rush is equally good as the fumbling, narcissistic actor: “I think I might be ready for something real” he tells Flora with sublime self-delusion after their mutual seduction— though his presence tends to overwhelm the whole, a fact not helped by his unnecessary narration.
Charlotte Rampling is also excellent as the still-regal Elizabeth, her features displaying both the collapsed beauty and inner steel of the dying matriarch. Even from her death bed she is capable of slicing through the affectations of her love-starved children, out-performing the debonair Basil in their excruciating reunion or reducing Dorothy to sputtering incoherence with a sweet enquiry: “Are you going through a difficult time again?” However it is in its representation of Elizabeth that the film runs against the limits of the medium. In the novel, White accessed scenes from across a lifetime of casually unthinking egotism and the brutal pursuit of status, offering her character both as it was and is perceived in recollection all at once. Rampling, though brilliantly cast, can only gesture toward such psychological depth.
This is made manifest in the way both texts deal with Elizabeth’s moment of revelation, where, battered by the hurricane of the title on the fictionalised Brumby Island, she relinquishes her own unyielding hold on life and experiences a moment of sublime grace. In the novel, her rambling mind persists in returning to this moment, which both anchors the novel and her character, the insight into her own selfish refusal to open herself to love casting its illumination across the rest of her life. “She was no longer a body, least of all a woman,” White writes. “She was instead a being, or more likely a flaw at the centre of this jewel of light: the jewel itself, blinding and tremulous at the same time, existed, flaw and all, only by grace.” Limited as he is by the eye of the camera, Schepisi is merely able to capture the image of Rampling standing in the surf, dappled by the shadows of seabirds, her face upturned and exaltant. Although beautiful, the moment is perhaps unavoidably stripped of much of its psychological and indeed metaphysical resonance.
“The worst thing about love between human beings,” declares Elizabeth early in the novel, is “when you’re prepared to love them they don’t want it; when they do, it’s you who can’t bear the idea.” Over the course of nearly 600 pages of vividly imagined prose, White meticulously traces the destructive effects of attempting to impose one’s will on the heart. In contrast, Schepisi and Morris have managed to dramatise the essentially meaningless theatre to which relationships descend when denied loving sustenance.
First published in RealTime Arts, Iss. 105, Oct-Nov 2011, p 21
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Big Scary - Vacation
Since coming to the rather sensible realisation that playing in a band is preferable by far to dealing with things like jobs or rent, Melbournians Tom Iansek and Jo Syme have been quick to get on with it: half a dozen EPs, including the themed ‘Seasons’ releases, supporting tours with acts like The Vasco Era and Midlake, as well as numerous solo shows. With their debut long-player, the pair have assembled a solid collection that sums up their work to date without quite hitting the electric rawness of their EPs.
Loosely unified around the thought that Big Scary are on a holiday from the ‘real world’, Vacation is rife with images of uncertainty. “I can quote my favourite line / I can calculate the distance in sine” Iansek declares on second single ‘Gladiator’, before recognising his inability to effect events: “it makes no difference anyway”. Though some of the material here seems a touch adolescent, Iansek is able to inject a whole universe of frustrated vigour into a line like “I’m just bored / I don’t know what to do with my life” (the piano-powered ‘Mix-Tape’) with a throaty yowl that is completely convincing.
Though the genre-tripping for which the pair quickly became known is less flambouyantly displayed here, Iansek’s writing retains all its versatility; the stripped down blues of ‘Purple’ is followed by the synth-blurred ‘Child In A Tree’ and the contemplative downer ‘Bad Friends’, in which Iansek’s beautiful upper register lends “my friends are all getting drunk somewhere without me” a genuine poignancy. But the highlight is a re-recording of ‘Falling Away’ from the Autumn EP, which casts a small shadow across the rest of the record.
Impressive as much for the wide-ranging breadth of Iansek’s songwriting as the clear-eyed certainty of the pair’s performance, Vacation is a promising debut LP.
First published in The Brag, Iss. 432, October 3rd 2011
Loosely unified around the thought that Big Scary are on a holiday from the ‘real world’, Vacation is rife with images of uncertainty. “I can quote my favourite line / I can calculate the distance in sine” Iansek declares on second single ‘Gladiator’, before recognising his inability to effect events: “it makes no difference anyway”. Though some of the material here seems a touch adolescent, Iansek is able to inject a whole universe of frustrated vigour into a line like “I’m just bored / I don’t know what to do with my life” (the piano-powered ‘Mix-Tape’) with a throaty yowl that is completely convincing.
Though the genre-tripping for which the pair quickly became known is less flambouyantly displayed here, Iansek’s writing retains all its versatility; the stripped down blues of ‘Purple’ is followed by the synth-blurred ‘Child In A Tree’ and the contemplative downer ‘Bad Friends’, in which Iansek’s beautiful upper register lends “my friends are all getting drunk somewhere without me” a genuine poignancy. But the highlight is a re-recording of ‘Falling Away’ from the Autumn EP, which casts a small shadow across the rest of the record.
Impressive as much for the wide-ranging breadth of Iansek’s songwriting as the clear-eyed certainty of the pair’s performance, Vacation is a promising debut LP.
First published in The Brag, Iss. 432, October 3rd 2011
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