Visual Music

Not just listening to music

Recently at school we've been thinking about the pervasive influence of music on individual and collective lives, how, for example, "Teenagers listen to an average of nearly 2.5 hours of music per day" and what the content of that music is. We all listened to a lot of music when we were teenagers too, but there's a lot more of it now, and with iPods and cellphones it's available everywhere, pretty much most of the time.
   But there's another dimension that I haven't seen anybody write about that's even more crucial: the visual aspect.
   Most teens, these days, don't simply listen to the music on their iPods and cellphones--they replay the music videos in their minds whilst they listen to the music. And those images are much stronger. We even do this ourselves. You do this yourself. Think about it. Maybe you read The Lord Of The Rings or Goblet Of Fire before you saw the film versions. But now? Is it possible to re-read those novels without picturing visuals from the film in your mind? No, I didn't think so.
   I googled 'content music videos teens' and amongst the first articles I found was one that reported, "On
average, music videos contain 93 sexual situations per hour"; and
obviously the videos also influence attitude, style, and other aspects
of world-view. Recently I overheard some tiny Form Ones discussing a Lady Gaga song; the focus of their conversation was what the artist was wearing in the music video. In fact, very few teens buy albums without having seen a few videos of the music first. It's not the chicken or the egg--it's the chicken and the egg.
   When teens listen to their 2.5 hours of music a day, they are therefore not just listening to music.

Touch

Touch

“You are dangerously pretty,” I said. “Dangerous to all, even yourself. But especially to me. That she was pretty was easy to see but the danger that lurked behind her eyes was dimmed, even in sunlight. It isn't right, I thought, that beauty should present such a risk.
“But you're here,” she said, “you needn't have stayed.”
“You wanted me to,” I replied. It was true; it was in her eyes.
We left the bar; went to the car. Then I drove a way, but not too far.
“I hear you're famous,” she said. “You're dangerous too. And you like pretty women.”
“What man doesn't?” I said, “it's the way we're made.”
The shadows were crawling across the park. We sat and watched them. Then I read the graffiti scrawled large across one corner of the park's perimeter wall. It was more than two years old, acclaim for a once-popular political leader who was now discredited. “Viva X!” it said. That was all.
We sat side-by-side, silently, almost as if we were afraid to breathe. Perhaps we were. We were both waiting for something to happen, waiting for life to intervene.
“Touch me, and I'll scream,” she said. “Don't touch me and I'll die.”
I took a deep breath. And. Touched. Her.

The Tall Grass

The Tall Grass

That tall grass
by the river
that sways in the strong August winds
and shines thick like a spear
when the late sun strikes its back
is what the old women
around here
use to make sleeping mats.

That place there by the river
is where my wife
and I first made love
many seasons ago.

The grass was a bed
for our backs
and a screen
to hide us
from the eyes
of our families.

The grass we lay on
is gone now,
of course,
cut long ago
to make mats
for others to sleep
or make love on.

But on days like this
I still look
and remember,
even though I am now old
and my
love has long gone.

My Problem

My problem

Some people don't have enough money;
some people can't hold down a job;
some people don't act as expected;
some just want someone to rob;

but I pay my bills on time,
deliver assignment when due;
my problem is beyond my control:
honey, my problem is you.

When I reach for you, you're never there,
just the imprint of your underwear;
you say you don't have a phone,
so who should I call when alone?

The light has gone off on my TV,
and I get bored when I've nothing to do;
living alone's never easy:
honey, my problem is you.

The rain outside just keeps falling,
it looks like the sun will not come;
other hearts, other faces, they keep calling:
but, honey, you're still the one.

The light has gone off on my TV,
and I get bored when I've nothing to do;
my problem is beyond my control:
honey, my problem is you.

Paramore

Paramore

Paramore are amongst my fave bands, although difficult to get to hear in this part of the world. I loved Riot!, have been playing it for years, so I was at first surprised when I read this morning that their new album had entered the UK chart at the very top--numero uno. But only surprised at first. The reasons came to me quickly:
1. Paramore had a song or two on the 'Twilight' soundtrack. Although fans of the band weren't entirely impressed, the fact that Twilight (book and film) is so big has obviously helped;
2. the UK is a lot more open and 'trendy' than the US. Remember that Kings of Leon (another fave band) have always been huge in the UK, with the US only starting to wake up now.
Rock on, Paramore!

At the Salon

At the Salon

I think the Serpent was a hairdresser
at the Eden Tree Salon
where Eve went one time
to get some styling done.
Whilst he was rewiring her roots
he gossipped about the fruits
hanging juicy and ripe
outside on the tree.

Moreover the day was probably hot
and Eve forgot
to pack a lunch-box that morning.

Sitting on a stone chair
without underwear
(this was before she wore clothes, you see)
the day wore on
and Eve was yawning
by the time he'd finished her hair.

The fruit was hanging there,
the temptation was great,
so she altered her fate:
instead of singing Hosanna
she chose the banana.
(You didn't really think it was an apple,
did you?)

From there all Heaven broke loose;
our modern world began:
clothes, work and babies' nappies—
and following women around
shopping malls too.

Yes, that was a fateful day
down at the Eden Tree Salon.

Pamela's Popcorn

Pamela's Popcorn (27th September)

Oh, Pamela, when did you last serve me popcorn? When did you last bat at no.9 in a limited-overs match?

I respect your cooking, I admire your line, and of course I love your... but... it's your after-shave I really like and the scent of the cream that you wear throughout the day. We perspire when we play,  never shirk the work of the rolling fire, the rush, the big-up desire to be there, to be really there, whatever the emotional weather. We play cricket on a sticky wicket knowing it's always a thrill to score.

Don't tell me the season's over: there's still more: it's only September; don't tell me you're busy; only remember how it was, how good it was. The ball remains clean in the hand, the catch is still in the slips.

Oh, Pamela, when did you last serve me popcorn? I'm stuck in this bar with a packet of chips.

On Finding a Small Fly...

Charles Tennyson Turner wrote a poem entitled On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book, and whilst my students were perusing it I wrote...

On Finding a Small Fly with a Crush on my Glass

I was drinking red wine, you see,
and this fly was bothering me,
circling around my glass,
giving it the buzz
whilst I was making a fuss
shooing it away
waving it away
even if it was thirsty.

I mean, I'm not mean
but flies aren't clean:
they're dirty mucky things
and I don't like them
sucking up to my glass like that:
when I find a small fly with a crush on my glass
all I want is to squash it flat.

My Menagerie of Desires

My Menagerie of Desires

The weather's a dog,
and I'm sleeping with a cat:
as they say in Portuguese,
I'm likely to get scratched.

Her mood matches the weather:
foul. And it's fowl
that brought me down:
chasing a feather
was all my undoing
and right now my ruin.

Maybe it's not the weather
that's the dog.

You

You

You colour my soul
in monochrome
like a pageant from the past.

You move me
like a movie
shot in black-and-white.

You view me
like a low-slung Samsung
video camera
hanging loose from a tripod
in the coolest studio
of our days...

I think you're all right.

But you know,
I've always preferred plays.

insane sanity?

Re: Tiffany. Just a thought.

I think sometimes it's quite easy to give in, to think--whether you're young or old--that your life ultimately has no purpose and that therefore there's no real point in continuing. Why don't more people kill themselves? Knowing that death is coming--soon or later--why don't people go around screaming? There's a kind of insanity about the sanity regarding death. The thought must occur with some frequencey for most people. The Christians have heaven, the Hindus have eternal rebirth. What keeps me going is my art, which is mainly my writing. Whether people read my books now or after I'm dead doesn't really matter; what matters is that I write them. My art is a way of scratching my mark on the world and therefore a purpose for continuing.