Excuse me but I think I've got a heartbreak the size of the sumptuously sky-high splendid talent of battered-and-bruised blues stylist Amy Winehouse, prematurely deceased at the obscenely young age of 27. Did you hear the collective whack ka-thwack I heard and continue to hear ricocheting around Cyberia since the shocking Saturday morning discovery of her lifeless body? (STGM.) The official reason — post-post mortem — will most likely reinforce what everybody most likely already thinks or knows about the final act of one of the world's most preternaturally gifted singer-songwriters to appear on the planet in many a moonbeam:
Deeply distressed, terminally self-destructive and incomprehensibly tormented, the ne-plus-ultra-talented OneOf responsible for tunes the calibre of Stronger Than Me, Take The Box, You Know I'm No Good, Love Is a Losing Game and Back to Black ultimately proved herself incapable of either picking up the kaleidoscopic array of jagged ragged pieces or allowing the precious few around her who truly gave a damn, who did genuinely love and care for her to do something — anything — to help push her towards the kinds of care and unconditional love Winehouse so desperately craved and literally cried out to receive, to pull the emergency brake on her ever-escalating, always accelerating downward descent.
In possession of a natural vocal instrument so singularly identifiable, so stunningly intimate, so hauntingly unforgettable in its timbre, tone, timing and impeccable delivery, the equally literate crafter of cut-above tunes most likely went too far during one of her sorrow-snuffing self-medicating sessions. And yes, she does join an elite clutch of stellar artists who also died during their 27th year, an eerious case of serendipity if ever one existed. Leonard Cohen, in Tower of Song ( I'm Your Man, 1988) refers to "27 angels from the great beyond" on that wall-to-wallop disc's closer because, as some of us obsessive trivia trackers know, that's how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. (Only 26 angels dance tonight.)
If it seems odd I would mention Cohen in this context, please, bear with me while I explain I had planned to begin this post relaying to readers a brief yet telling tidbit concerning the relationship between Marshall McLuhan and the singer-songwriter's singer-songwriter. During one of our discussions in the latter half of the 20th century's last decade, I asked him about the genesis of Bird on the Wire ( Songs from a Room, 1969), but one of the many big sig songs to his credit originally recorded Sept. 26, 1968 in Nashville (which may partially explain why he refers to it as "a simple country song," especially if you consider the implications of nationalism and the country of Greece prior to its first major industrialization / modernization).
Cohen began composing Bird on the Wire shortly after the 1964 publication of McLuhan's Understanding Media during the time he shared his home and bed with Marianne, the woman shown on the back of that album's cover. The pair, madly in love, spent their time on the Greek Island of Hydra, an oasis largely untouched by modern "conveniences" (including hydro, telephones, televisions, et so forthia). Idyllic.
Then, in the same way "they paved paradise and put up a parking lot" (Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi), the island's movers and shakers greenlit the installation of power lines, telephone wires, TV antennae, etc., approving of said items because they would enable its citizens to connect with the world at large via what we now call "the grid." Progress, y'know? Cohen, understandably bummed by such alarming new-fangled developments, eventually climbed out of his near-debilitating depression after watching a bird settle on one of the telephone lines running in front of the house he'd purchased for $2,500 (with the Canada Council grant dollars he received, the only such grant he has ever received from that less-than-august institution).
It was perhaps the best investment he'd made during those tumultuous mid-to-late sixties years. Later, he told me he cherished the house because family could gather there with neither interruption nor interference. The locals kept watch for him, understanding how important his privacy was and is to him (not to mention appreciating the incredible music he'd created because of the island's existence). Still, if he began the tune in a kind of BoHo Heaven, he completed it in an utterly PoMo version of Hell, a down-trodden Hollywood hotel with paper-thin walls.
"When you began writing Bird on the Wire, Boss, had you read Marshall McLuhan's Understanding Media?"
"No, actually, I hadn't. I knew about it and had read a few excerpts from it in various magazines. You know, The New Yorker, Time, Esquire, The Saturday Evening Post . . . so, I guess you might say that when I was writing that song, McLuhan's ideas were definitely in the air." (Wait for it :).)
"Touché."
§¦:•:¦§
Speaking of Leonard Cohen, this year's recipient of the biennial Glenn Gould Prize in recognition of his superior musicianship and communication skills, it is my pleasure to inform IOW regs and readers Our Man (and best bet to snag the Literature Nobel), the novelist / singer-songwriter / short-storyist / world-class indefatigable tourismo dynamo, skipper, monk, and poet — in random order — additionally scooped the prestigious Prince of Asturias Award in its "Letters" division, an incredible honour (to say the least):
"I am most grateful to be recognized by the countrymen of [Antonio] Machado and [Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García] Lorca, and my friend, [Enrique] Morente, and the incomparable companions of the Spanish guitar" (to again say the least :), this time on June 2nd of this year in NY, NY).
Kudos, Boss! Standing O! Somehow, with the timely addition of your name to this esteemed list of world-class talents across a swath of disciplines, it now looks sweet and complete. Good for Canada; but, great on you.
§¦:•:¦§
Welp, there's great need-to-know news that stays news from across the pond which serves to underscore my point that the greatest poets implicitly understand part of "the job description" involves reaching as many ears and eyeballs as possible (as any poet worth their weight in wordsmithing knows), a fact which may explain why Cohen penned That Don't Make It Junk for one of at least four of his certified masterpieces, Ten New Songs . . .
Shakespeare wrote plays; McLuhan wrote (and often co-wrote) mix-'em-up mosaics embellished with art and belle lettristic flourishes from a choir of angelic voices); Laurie Anderson, Guy Clark, Rosanne Cash, Merle Haggard, Linton Kwesi Johnson, John Prine, Nanci Griffith, Ian Tyson, Steve Earle and Patti Smith turned to alternative popular music modes of content delivery to gorgeously enwrap their messages in their media to such intertwinglingly seamlessly effect, it remains impossible to distinguish where form begins and content concludes, to isolate that ineffable point where merge passes urge and one of the above — inexorably — stops their creaky wheels to pick up that pair of hitch-hikers, Tom Waits, Hank Williams and what's her name again? Colleen Peterson.
Each ear-cheerist, however, brought their message to us personal-to-personally; and, sans façon, their messages spoke volumes: These are (but a few of) our true poets. Read these trad troubadours, listen to their diverse bodies of work 'n' rejoice in their incredibly variegated, endlessly yielding lyricality, as polished and layered as any of our finest written-word versifyin' voices, Geoffrey Hill, Derek Walcott, Maxine Gadd, George Bowering, Daphne Marlatt and young Wanda O'Connor, just now beginning to find her own see-legs, her utterly unique voice, to randomly identify but a mere sliver of irrefutably brilliant talents off the top of my crop. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
So, Nein, I don't mean the laudable news UK Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy penned her Official Royal Wedding Poem to honour the marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (although that gesture certainly turned heads and hearts in her direction with at least one notable exception, glaringly unlike the derision, disgust and condamnations heaped upon the hapless head of her predecessor, Sir Andrew Motion, who could not, for the life and breath of him, satisfy a public furiously intent on taking the swaggadociotic braggadociotic straight-shooter down a peg or two.
Thus, yeppers, I do refer to the latest and greatest news, to the encouraging — or, at the least, inspiring — fact that the world's premier publisher of poetry, Faber and Faber, recently inked a deal to publish the poetic lyrics of the guy who rained on Michael Jackson's parade — much to the consternation and chagrin of, well, a few peep-squawkers — with singer-songwriter Jarvis Cocker who, incidentally, covered one of Cohen's tunes, I Can't Forget, for Lian Lunson's 2005 documentary, I'm Your Man (which premiered at TIFF, for the record), one-time Muse frontman, booking agent, roadie, lyricist, accountant, musician, chief cook, bottle washer, mug gluggler . . . you get the idea (despite the outfit's myriad incarnations, discarnations, reincarnations and transformations).
(G'ogle 'im. You'll feel better for the experience of discovering some of the most wildly outlandish and frantic prantics of this true-blue all-round go-to dreadhead man-in-a-million your own selves.)
"Misfits," begins Stephen Thomas Erlewine at the irreplaceable online All-Music Guide, "have often been part of rock & roll, but of the many outsiders, few have been as clear-eyed, passionate and savagely witty as Jarvis Cocker, a bookish sex-obsessed English eccentric who became not just a star but a pop archetype as the leader of Pulp in the '90s."
Hrmm. Perhaps this post ought to be re-titled MisFitz MuseSplashes? Erm, nix that noise, particularly since the following revelation from Faber and Faber subtly undercuts that very notion (and thus proves the greatest pop lyrics are every inch as much poetry as any of the amazing lines Shakespeare included in his mind-boggling genre-blending oeuvre:
"Faber and Faber are excited to announce Jarvis Cocker's 'Mother, Brother, Lover: Selected Lyrics' publishing in October 2011. Here . . .
. . . Jarvis talks to Faber Publishing Director Lee Brackstone about writing lyrics [and] his inspiration, habits and thoughts on putting together his first published collection." (If the above-cited sentences remind you of Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, this video game's abso-deffo up your alley. 'Nuff said, at least when it comes to the X-Rated Room of In Other Words; but, Mr. Murdoch, if he has 'net access following the brouhahaggle surrounding the utterly tasteless and wholly insensitve 'phone hacking affair, can keep his wits about him — something he's failed to do so far — while keeping his mind sharp, could find the game a nice little distraction should the need arise.
§¦:•:¦§
For the past three months concluding June 30th, I have enjoyed the singularly delightful privilege, pleasure and honour of judging the most important online poetry competition out there among Certifiable Cyber Cloud-Niner Diviners, the IBPC one. If all goes according to plan (which means, If the good Lard's willing and the crick don't rise), I hope to bring you a profile of the winningest poet in IBPC's history, Laurie Byro. Not only is she an awesome versifier, she also seems, to me, to be a terrific person, one from whom I am sure we shall be hearing much more in the next few years. Count on it.
§¦:•:¦§
Stephen Bett's publisher, Ekstasis Editions, sends along the following [slightly edited] 'graph for your readerly pleasure: Stephen Bett's [12th] book of poetry, Re-positioning , is based upon a hilarious soft-porn spoof. Each poem begins with a simple blank-face stark-naked line drawings of "boy & girl next door" figures in utterly physically impossible sexual "positions." Accompanying the text are witty cultural or literary allusions, a calorie-burn counter for "him" & "her," equipment required (deodorant, etc.), cautions & hazards (such as requiring a lawyer and/or chiropractor). In this volume, Bett is riffing on language itself. These humorous self-referential poems are tied to the language, the argot, not just comic satire. There's an effort at a more serious humour underlying cultural and philosophical issues that seem to plague us in our increasingly vapid monoculture.
§¦:•:¦§
Last (but not lost): Congratulations to JEW author D.O. Dodd on securing an American publisher for the latest Doddistic sparkler. From The Gemma Agency:
"Maverick American publisher, OR Books, has purchased U. S. rights to D. O. Dodd's third novel, JEW. The novel will be published in early 2012. This will be the fifth territory sale for JEW. Previous rights have been sold in the UK, Canada, Turkey and Italy. Other territories are currently in negotiation . . . Learn more about OR vis-à-vis the JEW score here; as well, OR Books, helmed by co-partners John Oakes and Colin Robinson, looks to be on course to steer clear of the seemingly "harmless shoals" which Canadians naturally prefer to navigate (yet passive-aggressively denigrate to the max). To riff off a line Cohen encarved upon a table in a downtown Montréal café, "Dear Lard, please find us; we are over the legal limit."