Blue Gives Way To Bleak

Dear Mr. Other Guy from Alice in Chains,


I remember nineties pop culture. I remember growing my hair long, smoking the obligatory joints and wondering what was so special about Seattle. Well, I also remember Alice in Chains.

Unfortunately, you haven't been able to put things behind you. Your magnificent band's music always displayed an oscillation between singer Layne's hellbent cocaine-rasping and some overly structured urge to write 'good music'. Was this last part not your influence on the whole? This combination was golden. It made for complex guitar harmonies, and multilayered vocal parts for Layne to brilliantly overblow.

Layne died. And I really am sorry.

But it's a decade-and-a-half later, and it seems your conflict is still unresolved. It's great to know you're taking time to indulge in a little Gestalt-oriented role playing; this is an attested method to digest old grievances. A Layne sound-alike takes the submissive role you were always forced into. Good for you. And kudos to the New Guy, it's wonderful to hear someone pull those kind of vocals off without seeming to actually bleed from the throat halfway through every gig. I am glad to hear you're working on it, really. I'm just not eager to actually hear you working on it. You were co-writer of all those magnificent songs from the legendary era, and now you have centre stage. What's more, you have the copyrights to the songs and the band name.

But I just don't need to be witness to your ego-repair sessions.

With your new cd, we are left with a long awaited disc full of recordings ...of therapeutic value. And this only to guitar players with inferiority complexes all over the world. The record sounds fantastic: beautiful depth to the guitars, tasteful little phased delays propping up the vocals. In that order of significance. Not a note out of key, not a harmony strained by imperfect pitch. I've heard this before. It's a digital production tool, and it's called pitch constraint. It belongs with Shakira and Hannah Montana. This record has no raw edges. It has no seedy underbelly. Which is fine, for Hannah Montana. But if you remember the nineties like I do, you would have shot Billy Ray Cyrus at point blank range in the testicles years before his evil could spawn any miserable womb. I digress.

Art with no raunch whatsoever ignores the seamy, unwholesome side of being human. This is not healthy; ask your therapist. He or she will probably also tell you this dark place is also the fountainhead of exuberant energy. Remember that concept? Exuberant energy? I do. It was ubiquitous in your old work. I suppose that was probably why your best record was called Dirt.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavours. But please don't release another record like this, because it just makes us all miss Layne. And we didn't even know him.


Yours truly,



Robert

Weird.

Eén van de ergste dingen op een normale doordeweekse ochtend is toch wel acute schijtkrampen terwijl je nog zeker 25 minuten van een vertrouwd toilet verwijderd bent. Hoe gelukkig ben je dan, als je toevallig 50 cent en een Centraal Station bij de hand blijkt te hebben?

De aanwezigheid van 3 politiebusjes op het stationsplein trok mijn gedachten richting gangsters en hun vervelende neiging om over niet-onaardige muziek heen te brabbelen. De muntinworp hielp hier zeker ook bij. Terwijl ik in schoksgewijze stadia van opluchting de associatie tussen 50cent en poep verder verkende, werd mij duidelijk dat dit toilet geen spoelknop bezat. Ik waste snel mijn handjes en kroop schuchter de ruimte uit, voorzichtig om de deur niet te ver open te zwaaien.

...Om onmiddellijk geconfronteerd te worden met een brancard, waarop iemand volledig ingedekt lag. Een veelvoud van agenten en ambulancepersoneel stond er beteuterd bij te kijken. En het enige wat ik dacht was"Ik hoop van harte dat deze arme man niet van een té grote afstand zijn eigen dood aanschouwd had. Zo'n lucht wens ik zelfs de doden niet toe."

Vraag me toch wel een beetje af door wat voor een Miami Vice-achtige situatie ik nu eigenlijk nietsvermoedend heen ben gebanjerd.

FTW!

Ik heb het! De Faculteit Geesteswetenschappen (FGW) moet zich voortaan maar Faculteit Transcendentale Wijsbegeerte noemen. FTW!

Ohja... (Conspiracy Theory #2)

Waar ik 2 posts terug op doelde was natuurlijk dat het koninginnedagtafereel een omslachtig Beltain-mensenofferritueel was van een groep door inteelt ontaarde satanisten. Drumroll, please.

Een wijle verpozen...

Ik snap het niet.

Als liberaal ga je uit van de persoonlijke vrijheid van het individu, toch? Persoonlijke vrijheid begrepen in de traditie van Kant, waarbij men redelijkerwijs tot een autonoom moreel oordeel komt. Het ontwikkeld individu kan, en kan niet anders dan zichzelf regeren. Onderschikking aan een heteronome wil is uit den boze. Liberalisme leidt dus noodzakelijkerwijs tot anarchisme. Nachtwakersstaat-liberalen zijn pussies.

Dus waar moet ik nou op stemmen? De enige partij die pretendeert 'kritisch' tegenover overheid te staan is de SP. Maar kritiek houdt voor mij toch nèt iets meer in dan naysaying. Bovendien weten we denk ik inmiddels allemaal wel dat de SP alleen maar 'nee' zegt omdat ze stiekem de Proletarische Heilstaat nóg eens willen laten floppen op het wereldtoneel. Een parlementaire partij met extraparlementaire doelen.

Als een dergelijk slechte anachronistische grap mogelijk is in de Nederlandse politiek, is het misschien maar eens tijd dat er een anarcho-syndicalistische organisatie komt. A.S.O. - staat mooi op het stembiljet. Jammer dat ik geen acronym met FTW kon bedenken.

MIЯRORS

This film has a lot going for it: A clever logo, some interesting faces and accents, an enthusiastic CGI department - by the look of it probably working for mere sandwiches and affection - and a composer who is man enough to steal the entire score. Unfortunately though, what little expectations I had before watching were rendered flaccid by the first line on the dvd box:

"Blablabla, director of The Hills Have Eyes, blablabla".

Always one to judge at hardly a glance, I instantly connected all the referenced film's earlier associations to this film. The Hills Have Eyes was another clever title which managed to undo any and all positive expectations within the first ten minutes - Only to go on for another hour-and--a-half or so. I really don't know, I used it for weeks to fall asleep to. Infallibly knocked me unconscious within minutes.

Mirrors is a piece of work, I'll give Mr. Aja that much. It wasn't until I spotted a flat screen monitor halfway through that I was certain this movie wasn't from the early nineties. It takes courage to coherently do things in a tragically outdated manner when you're supposed to be a fresh young filmmaker.

Movie scorers should be prohibited from dramatically using the diminished fifth interval in horror or suspense. The same goes for building up a diminished seventh chord in order to create a climactic scene ending: the effect has been no more than comical ever since the late eighties.

The score was annoyingly present during the entire thing. Annoyingly present and completely stolen. Surprisingly, though, stolen from other sources than I had imagined. What I thought I recognised as the two main themes were one blatant adaptation of Sting's Russians and a inane repetition of one or two bars from Bach's Toccata& Fuga. Admittedly, they were some of the coolest bars in there. Turns out, though, that the score was adapted from an existing classical piece. (thank you, Wikipedia) Maybe I'll check that out and piss on this movie in a whole new light, later on.

No sense getting into plot review. 'Very testing' would be an accurate general description. If you've always wondered what it would be like if Stephen King and Michael Bay had a backward, moronic love child, but would refuse to support its special needs with astronomical budgets: Skip through this flick some time. Otherwise, save yourself the trouble.

Jason Flemyng ("It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the sale of the fuckin' century") has a beautiful Gary Oldman-like role. That is meant as a compliment. Kudos to you, sir.

I love being a grouch.

It's just a spring clean for a May queen

Yesterday something terrible happened in this lovely little land of mine. Some lone nut, for no apparent reason and to no end other than attempted regicide, took his small, black, Japanese car, smashed it through the minimal barricading and stormed at the Queen's open-top motorcoach. He missed it by a small length and came to crash into a stone monument nearby. In his assault, he rammed through a dense mass of onlookers. So far, six have died including the driver himself. He was removed from the wreckage and transported to hospital where he died later that night.

Let me make this one thing very clear: the human suffering caused is horrible. I sympathise deeply with the every victim of this action, and those near to them. Some things, however, don't sit right with my mind. As events unfolded and the media repeated what little footage they had, I was amazed at the response of the Royal family. I'm sure they have received extensive training on how to act in response to an assault. Even if they haven't, the security people on the coach with them must have. How is it possible then, that when a vehicle smashes nearby in an obvious attempt at their lives, they remain standing up, facing the event? This seems like an insane thing to do if you've ever watched news reports concerning cars and buses on, let's say, the Gaza strip.

Now, I don't know the exact job description of the two gentlemen standing in the left rear corner of the bus, but I assume they were hired to ensure the safety of the passengers in any eventuality. I believe this situation qualifies very neatly for the 'potentially threatening eventuality'-category. Why is it then, that they remain completely indifferent? I sincerely hope they were fired, and recommended never to work in security again.

Another issue I had with the unfolding events was at the very first press conference. The statement being made was, right off the bat: there are no indications of connections to terrorism. Now, if racing your car flat out at the Head of State, violently and horrifically killing a number of civilians in the process and creating fear, panic, and disarray at a public gathering isn't terrorism, then I truly wonder what is.

...And that was sarcasm. I don't wonder what terrorism is, I'm actually very clear on the matter.

You see, some time ago every household in the Netherlands received a small brochure, to inform them of the latest additions and modifications to our national lexicon. It functionally defined such terms in an infuriatingly presbyopic manner. A link to the full text is below. This magnificent piece also took it upon itself to define what 'propaganda' is, if anyone was still unclear on the matter after reading. So, you see I'm also very aware that the functional definition of the term has very little to do with the literal meaning of the word. But, for now, the functional definition will have to do.

*) Terrorisme: het plegen van zwaar geweld met als doel politieke of
godsdienstige standpunten aan anderen op te leggen.

("Terrorism: The act of committing grievous violence with the intent to impose one's political or religious views on others", my translation)

For one thing, this is one massive non sequitur. It either presupposes a means making one's political or religious views intentions clear in the violent act, or supposes violence itself as an act of communication. Suppose you're at a shopping center. A bomb goes off. Would this in any way lead you to think: My, maybe I'll convert to Islam. No. Unfortunately though, this monstrous deformity of a definition is what we have to work with. So, the perpetrator had allegedly murmured or gargled some feeble words to the first police officers at the scene. This must have been some statement indeed: Evidently, his words were so clear and unequivocal as to assert beyond any reasonable doubt that: -yes, this man was premeditatedly assaulting the Queen and -no, he had no political view to impose on anyone by attempting to kill the monarch. I hope you see my frustration at the incredibility of such a statement.

What I took it to mean in stead, was that this man had absolutely no connections to any groups or people our national security services are currently monitoring. Quite disturbing. This would mean that the term 'terrorist' is a label these security services can arbitrarily attach to an individual, completely disregarding whether this person's actions or stated intentions resemble in any way the definition of that term. Let's hope this label does not entail exclusion from the civil order.

Oh, wait. Don't I remember the Senate passing a law just a few years back, through which anyone on the European Union's list of terrorists automatically falls under European jurisdiction, forestalling his right to legal claim? Being labeled a terrorist places one outside the polity, effectively classifying one persona non grata. This is not a power I would entrust any leadership.

I hope I'm wrong.

Please, someone... Prove me wrong, because these and other observations are forming a very ugly picture.