Knowing yourself very little is  an important precondition for well being. Who’d bear to know everything about one’s self and still enjoy the Xmas meal?

We, the moderns, believe that ignorance will, one day, save our souls. We even feed the superstition that the “thinker” (that is the fool who lays a thought on everyday things) is more likely to be destroyed by his or her own snoopiness. Curiosity is a curse, never a blessing. And self-examination is self-abuse, that is, an  embarrassing vice not a meritable virtue.

Philistinism and denial are the two most natural man’s states. We never really quite understand why should we be brave, coherent and true to ourselves and to others! Have you ever counted how many times your best friends contradict themselves during one single discussion? And have you ever thought of how little you are actually bothered by that? Have you ever realized that you are unable to say what you really mean, while you have no problem with saying precisely the opposite of what you mean?

I know, how pathetic of me to write about all these. And how boring for you to read. But hey, everything is boring and pathetic in pre-Christmas times! So I couldn’t find any better moment to warn you about one thing: unlike the excess eating during winter holiday, an overdose of introspection could be lethal. Merry Christmas! Eat more, think less.

PS: My first real painting after a 6-month break. And I couldn’t be any more nervous about it. It’s called “Holiday Tip”.

PS2: Fascinating genes. Mother, father, and daughter.

The year’s getting close to its end. Some of us look back over the shoulder, in anger, in anguish, in vain.  The world’s ahead, so marvellously wrong and wide, but how were they supposed to know? They drag themselves along the ground, licking the dust on the shortest and safest paths back to themselves; they’d never trade their own little Regrets Kingdom for a fast horse.

Some others have already put their foot on the 2009′s shore and set the bridge on fire. If they’d ever want to look back, there’d be nothing to see, not even a damn burnt shoe. They are their tomorrow,  or else they are nothing.

Indeed, some march forwards, some crawl backwards. But most of the people float aimlessly. They fill the interstitial spaces between two years, two days, two seconds, they fill whatever gap, whatever crack,  orifice, pause or void, they fill whatever can be filled, they are the fillers. There is something great about their superfluous nature, there is a hidden will of conquering the world by topping off its holes, by stuffing its pores, making it burst with confusion. I fear these people. They possess some kind of knowledge that enables them to feel comfortable in their insolent idleness, to hang above the hard facts and sneak between two crinkles of the world. Even if caught for a moment in the convulsions of life, they’ll  break the chains. They’ll eternally return in the liminal zone, filling the interstice between 2008 and 2009, between here and there, now and forever.

PS: Check this out (try to ignore the “video” though, especially at the end…). It’s like The Beatles suddenly met Timberlake. My suggestion: buy the whole album Red Carpet Massacre and listen to it in the iPod (or in the stereo), as it does have a couple of very nicely polished electronic tricks and hints that  simply don’t get through laptop speakers.

PS2: new drawing (I know, it’s not much, still warming up my hand…). It’s called “Someone’s Brother”.

December is crazy. Yesterday, on my way home, I’ve seen people running on the streets with their glossy Christmas gift bags, I’ve seen men looking pale and nervous while leaving jewellery shops, someone threw up just a meter away from my boot, a couple of crazy Santas tried to hand me crazy flyers with faux-leather bags, a dog was eating a bird, a woman in a Range Rover opened the window and spat out a curse, two workers were hanging some twinkling red bulbs forming the word “MEAT” (and I’m not joking), a bartender charged me a fortune for a honey’ed espresso made with tap water, and a gang of girls bought lots of home-made red cookies labelled “Organic Santas”, from a funny charlatan. Later I’ve seen the girls jiggling in the bus station. They haven’t eaten the cookies. They were just blowjobing them.

Everywhere I look I see perverted togetherness, grimaces, and overdone gift boxes. You lonesome ones, you should be happy. You lonesome ones, you are serene and self-possessed. You can see the whole world shaking and collapsing behind you, like a huge bug that fell on his back. Ho-ho.

PS: In the iPod: Regina Spektor, “Live in California” (2006) (EP) and Madeleine Peyroux, “Careless Love” (2004).

PS2: In the stereo: Per Gessle, “Party Crasher” (2008). And here’s the review.

The worst thing about this album is the title. The best thing about it is Helena Josefsson.

I’ll start with the bad (that actually turns out rather good). This is not a dance album. And certainly not an album to crash a party with. Apart from some glowy disco electronic tricks and a couple of “borrowed” arrangements from Bee Gees “Saturday Night Fever” and Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” , there’s not much to make you lose your grip and start doing strange moves on the dance floor. Likewise, the fact that the songs count on electronic drum machines and vintage synthesizers doesn’t automatically turn the album into glam and glitter. Be prepared to hear  non-excessive electronic music, with a chill-out touch that vaguely reminds  you of Air, Pet Shop Boys, and (the latest wonderful “Red Carpet Massacre”) Duran Duran. However, there’s no need to fool yourself;  if you are slightly familiar with previous Gessle releases, don’t expect any consistent metamorphosis in melodies. I have to say (even if I hate it) that the album sounds a lot like Roxette. At the same time, it is a lot better. I had a moment when I was about to claim The Party Crasher‘s supremacy to Son of a Plumber. But I’ve changed my mind. Nah. It couldn’t be.  While Party Crasher is perhaps more versatile and coherent, Son of a Plumber still remains a dramatically underrated album and, genre-wise, truer to the songwriter’s musical background. A discrete Gessle signature that should perhaps remain like that. But well, Party Crasher has its own subtleties beneath the radio-friendly crust.

I think the reason I tend to overestimate this album is Helena Josefsson’s consistent  (and sympathetic) involvement in it. She sings just as much as Gessle does. (Too) melodic or (too) simple songs, once expertly-crafted, become remarkable in every subtle way you can imagine. Somehow, Helena makes Gessle’s music sound less obvious, less “vulgar”, less “mainstream”, less “soap-operated” and more abstract, more elegant and mature.  Certainly, not something to be noticed (or appreciated) by the last 10 hard-core Roxette fans (I still think Gessle will have to carry for the rest of his life the burden of a rather gross Roxette-trained audience that can’t figure out a qualitative difference between Madonna and Regina Spektor, or between Bon Jovi and Merz). However, I think Gessle and his producers couldn’t help but excessively using Helena’s talent for improvisation. I think the album is a bit overdone with respect to ad-libbing. Less could have been more…

Another thing to be noticed: the album  is intended as an overall sexual hint. Supposing that every songwriter has a little Gainsbourg hidden in himself, I don’t see anything wrong with making it obvious. On the contrary. Nonetheless, apart from the sensualism-oriented songs, you also get some elegant nostalgia, some classic-Gessle nonsensical (dadaistic…) impressions, and a good deal of (no less classic) heartsick recollections. And now a quick look at each song:

“Silly Really” – certainly the most rudimentary and musically insignificant track. It’s the first song  on the album and the first single; also the first to be forgotten. I promise you. “The Party Pleaser” – certainly the most excusable and ear-catching song. It won’t last for decades, but it does justify the album. Great vocals coming from Gessle here. “Stuck Here With Me” - Helena does, with confidence and grace, a classic r’n'b, while Gessle goes falsetto. The outcome is supposed to be sexual. Mission accomplished. “Sing Along” – it might sound like Roxette, but, thank God, it’s not. The voices blend wonderfully, the melody is rather banal, but Helena makes a significant difference. “Gut Feeling” – is supposed to sound psychedelic, T-Rex-ical, wild. But it’s too much Gessle  cliché in it, and therefore it somehow fades after a few listenings. When it gets back to you, you start to hum the melody and you end up feeling guilty about it. “I’d freeze the sun to kiss your toes”??? How genuinely poetic! “Perfect Excuse” – an absolute favourite. Perhaps among Gessle’s best. He sings is in an atypical way, in a very quiet, surprising voice that I haven’t heard before, while Helena does an exquisite, velvety chorus. Wonderful, nostalgic (still non-pathetic) lyrics. It’s a touching (and professional) piece of pop music. “Breath Life Into Me” - my husband’s favourite. What I personally enjoy most in this song is the contrast between the cheerful reggae melody and the extremely sad lyrics. The contrast is, to me at least, heartbreaking, especially because nobody seems to notice it. “Won’t you show me what to keep before my senses fall asleep” is an elegant yet dramatic line. When followed by whistling, the effect is oxymornonic.  Love it. “Hey I Died And Went To Heaven” – no, it’s not an up-tempo song. It’s a ballad. A tough one. It’s about being late and old and well… What I like about this song is, again,  the contrast between the solemnly cold verse and the graceful, airy chorus. Even though technically perfect, it fails in becoming an excellent song. Why? Because the melody is rather poor. “Kissing Is The Key” is perhaps the best one from the 5 up-tempo tracks. It has a modern, non-vulgar vibe. Helena does it right. “Thai With A Twist” is a late Thai dinner for over 18′s with lots of tranquillizers. It depicts an orgasm basically. And I do like it. “I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On” – I don’t believe in this song, in spite of the obvious efforts (and the stirring Beatles “Girl”-inspired hissing). The melody is not credible enough while the lyrics could be. “Doesn’t Make Sense” – is a jewel. A mid-tempo song, somehow French-ed, somehow electronically overdone, a sort of progressive pop that creates an unique surreal atmosphere. An unbeatable melody and very tender lyrics. It’s a big favourite.

Well folks, that would be all. I’m not sure you can buy the album outside Sweden for the moment, but at least you know what you’re missing or gaining by not listening to it just now. Oh, and speaking about dancing music and  “the  spirit of Christmas”, would you girls care for a party-tip? Never trust an easy dancer.

The Blitzkrieg show was amazing. Marky Ramone and the tribute band were above and beyond my expectations, they performed with no break for about 1 hour and a half, “Havana Affair”, “Pet Cemetery”, “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”, “Teenage Lobotomy”  and so on – actually every  Ramones hit you could imagine. Everything was sung precisely like in Ramones good old times, as if Johnny, Joey and Dee Dee would have been part of. There were about 1000 headbangers in the club, no air (lots of booze though) and everybody seemed to have a good reason to (really!) go punk. In less than 10 minutes, everything turned out genuinely chaotic, electric,  rapturous, Ramones. I’d go and have a second look at the Marky’s Blitzkrieg band anytime.

Later that night, we had lovely people over, sipping a Tom Ka Kai coconut chicken soup in the candle light, drinking wine, recalling common teenage memories. I know, there’s nothing spectacular for you to read, but certainly something exquisite for me to feel; one of those lofty moments that turn to sheer dust when touched by words. Therefore, I wouldn’t count on your overly empathy; I just try to justify my smile  for those who are going to see me around these days. It’s nothing briskly, just a very common “hey-ho-let’s-go” jovial feel that keeps me grinning. I am, by nature, so little inclined to look for simple little daily joys. I have very little notion of “simpleness” and very little experience in “going with the flow”. But life tacitly tricked me up. I had to rejoice. I had to let loose. And, to my own surprise, I liked it.

An artist is inclined to believe that if somebody’s bound to absolutely triumph or to absolutely fail, that’s him. He couldn’t relate to himself in other terms than in his absoluteness. He wakes up every morning thinking that he’s radically chosen or radically dismissed. For him, the only perfectly evident element of the world is his art. Cast it down or bow down to it, but don’t you dare to ignore it!

I tried to fancy how an artist looks like the very moment he gets struck by inspiration. What does he do? What does he say?… And I had this vision of the artist that, while working on his masterpiece, suddenly starts crying for his own sake. He couldn’t help but being shaken by his own mission, he couldn’t help but being moved to tears by the simple fact of being himself – truly, wholly, radically. The artist’s crying ought to be fully believed. It is not the crying of a man that has just been set free by his muse, it is not about freedom, no, it is about a most atrocious vassalage. The artist would kiss his own hand, he’d lick his own reflection in the mirror, he’d fall at his own feet and he’d pull his hair out, only to be allowed to spend some more time being himself, doing his thing, making the difference. An artist is his own slave for now, for always.

PS: I love The Kinks. I always did. Their music is straight, uncomplicated, wisely arranged, reasonably melodic.  For some reason, whenever I free myself from some professional burden, I end up listening to Velvet Underground and The Kinks. I oscillate between “Ride into the Sun” and “Lola”, between “Sweet Nuthin’” and “Death of a Clown” and I try to figure out why these two very unsimilar bands fit so good together, in my lazy winter-ish afternoons. There is a certain “organicity” is both that I very much admire. And a certain “wiseness”. And a certain “sugar-less”, yet moving touch that I find especially appealing for grown-ups who feel like going back in those confusingly seductive times of their youth. Take “Lola” for instance.

PS2: Just trying to get back in my (ehm…artistic) senses. My hand doesn’t listen to me the way it used to. I started with a lame drawing called “Go-Go Girl”. My first in months.