Rain stopped blogging

In case you didn't know already, it's the Duckworth Lewis Method, probably the only band devoted entirely to cricketing songs.

What more could you want? In my case, a few British artists repaying the compliment by singing about the GAA. Imagine for instance Radiohead on the Ulster SFC; Amy Winehouse paying tribute to Kilkenny's hurlers; Belle & Sebastian on Kerry vs Dublin or Dizzee Rascal imagining himself as Seán Óg Ó hAilpín. That would be good.

Solidity and Transcendence

Tomorrow marks the 250th anniversary of Handel's death. To explain his appeal I really cannot do better than Beethoven's formulation about great effects by simple means.

However, by way of a tribute here is a superb anecdote about Fela Kuti:

In January 1984, when I first met Fela, at the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury, central London, I asked him which musician he most respected. The answer was unexpected. 'Handel. George Frederick Handel.' I told him my father was a Handel freak and we discussed, amid the dope smoke, Dixit Dominus and the Concerto Grossi.

Thinking about it, I decided a comparison wasn't improbable. In Fela's music there is the same mix of solidity and transcendence, and I thought I could detect echoes of the composer in Fela's organ lines. He told me he thought he was writing 'African classical music'.

Quite. Let's have a bit of Dixit Dominus then. If you have a joint to hand, now's the time to light it; the version I've linked to is pure skunk.

EDW: Françoise Hardy

I haven't done one of these for a while, but this makes a nice follow-up to my post on Brel and Gainsbourg.

See, I don't think the French get enough credit for their throw-away pop music (much less their first-rate song writers). So here's Françoise Hardy with one of the finest examples of the former.

The combination of jaunty tune and melancholy is not an easy one to pull off (really, I think we had to wait for The Smiths to see its full effect in English) but this is such a fine example of it.

There is something so very French about this video - including the disastrously unsuccessful attempt at slapstick humour - that has an ageless charm to it.

Et la fille de Yé-Yé, elle est assez chic, n'est ce pas?

Ceci n'est pas une relique

Jacques Brel's pipe and other knickknacks associated with the great man are going under the hammer at Southeby's of Paris. The main attraction is the manuscript for Amsterdam, which is expected to fetch €50,000-70,000. The Economist lists some of the other items on sale.

In a remarkably comprehensive sale of Brel's manuscripts, recordings, photographs and personal belongings, which include his pilots' licence, his wallet, and his pipe. Sotheby's refuses to identify the seller, but it is clearly an intimate of Brel's who believed that his reputation would last a lot longer than that of an ephemeral pop singer.

In the current economic climate it might be a smart investment; like wine or maybe a form of cultural gold. A few of these YouTube clips will remind those of you who need reminding why this is so, even if such a comparatively humble item as a concert poster will set you back a thousand euros or so. (Than again, the euro might well be about to collapse, so those with dollars or - better - Swiss francs to hand might pick up a bargain that way).

But it's not the economics of the thing that fascinate so much as the question of why one would want to buy up Brel's personal effects. There is a particular pleasure in imagining oneself smoking his pipe, hoping that the tobacco will transfer - by a sort of spiritual osmosis - some of his qualities to oneself. It's nonsense of course, though one might pick up a sympathetic cancer by so doing, I suppose.

It's a curious thing, if you think about it, this desire to collect souvenirs of the great men of the past. There something of the gathering of relics to it; as if, to get to the French meaning of the word, the souvenirs themselves carried memories - and maybe other qualities too.

As an example of what I mean consider the other pre-eminent French language songwriter of the last century. Here's an excellent Vanity Fair article about plans to turn Serge Gainsbourg's house into a museum – something I would most certainly want to visit. It's understandable that his daughter, Charlotte, should want to keep the house exactly as it was at the time of his death (memory again) but there is something of magical (or at least the would-be magical) about it too - especially in the fans leaving votive offerings, like bottles of pastis, or plaintive messages on the walls of the house. It is reminiscent of the Middle Ages and the cult of the saints. "We miss you Serge – life is such a bore" is a prayer of sorts, after all, a plea for intercession against the tedium of life.

Now, I like the idea of a lecherous Jewish alcoholic as a Medieval saint. In fact one could extend the analogy. Jeanne Moureau's comment: "Even if you play Serge's songs in the middle of Africa, where nobody understands the words, they'll be caught" is the same principle behind the use of Latin in the Mass. Of course, we live in a post-Reformation age and the message works in the vernacular too. Here's a rare English language performance by Serge, I strongly urge you to listen to it, it'll take you on to another plane of existence altogether; the words may lack the debauched majesty of the original ("Me surexcitent/Tes petits seins de Bakélite/Qui s'agitent"), but the spirit survives the translation.

But then, we live in a post-Enlightenment age too. And yet the desire to collect relics and mementos doesn't translate well into the modern era - as the Catholic church's thwarted attempt to turn the remains of Cardinal Newman into an object of idolatry demonstrates. David T likes to think of it as a secular miracle, I'd rather see it as reminder that there is more mystery and wonder in our modern views of science and time than there is in a Medieval form of religion that dates back to a time when the living and the dead were seen as coexisting on the same plane. (It's hard to stress strongly enough that even today's most archaic Catholics would find that era a terrifying and alien place should they be transported back there).

Now the yearning for a process that turns a souvenir into a relic is clearly something hard-wired into the human soul - it long predates Christianity and will probably outlast it too, sympathetic magic as the Golden Bough described it if I remember correctly.

For all that, the desire to buy, sell and attach a value to mementos from the lives of secular-minded, sceptical singers who specialised in that most transient of artforms, the popular song is – I think – an echo of that. Admittedly it's only a distant echo – but perhaps Matthew Arnold was on to something with his religion of art idea; or it may just be that the most important human quality of all is the imagination and the way it allows us to respond to and understand the universe.

If Jacques Brel's pipe serves as a portal to the sublime then, no matter what it fetches at auction, it is beyond price.

EDW: Mareva

You might think that a former Miss France (so at least she does the wearing clothes well bit of EDW) turning herself into a singer and producing an album of 1960s French pop staples, with plenty of ukeleles, would be a recipe for disaster.

You'd be wrong. For the former Miss France is Mareva Galanter, the record is Ukuyéyé and I will not have a word said against her.

I've featured her on this blog before, and I've had the original version of this song up before too. But this version is considerably enhanced by the presence of right-minded fellow who prefers the pleasures of a dry martini and a good book to anything else.

There's a rake of good stuff featuring her on YouTube (I particularly like this video in which she lives out everyone's fantasy by attempting to kill a David Cameron-lookalike in a duel) many in the same Scopitone-style.

In all, she is a good thing.

More offensive music

Apologies if you've all heard this before; but ever since I reached the age of 25 I decided not to even try keeping up with popular music trends. I figured that things that would appeal to me would filter through eventually and that in the interim I could spend the time increasing my collection of classical music, music from other countries and so on.

It seems to be working as Harry's Place alerts me to something very fine indeed. The comment

I just watched the two videos. It's one thing for rational adults to have to endure that dirge, but there's something quite sinister about exposing those vulnerable children to his particular brand of miserablism. I don't know about myself, but I'm quite certain that Malcolm Middleton is going to die alone, and rightly so.

is an especial commendation.

We're All Going to Die by Malcolm Middleton.

Cliff Richard never sunk so low

I don't have anything to useful to add to the BBC's ridiculous publicity stunt of bowdlerising, then reinstating of the Fairytale of New York – if you're interested there are sensible comments on the Political Umpire's blog – bar to draw your attention towards Peter Tatchell's comments.

What concerns me is not so much the use of the word "faggot" as the hypocritical condemnations of Radio 1's original decision to bleep it out. They wouldn't endorse the use of the words "nigger", "paki", "yid" or "spastic". For the sake of consistency, either the f-word should be disallowed too or these other bigoted words should also be permitted. It's the inconsistency that grates.

Whatever else he may be, Tatchell is not a Pogues fan or else he would surely be aware that 'yids' and 'Paks' appear in the Sickbed of Cuchulainn.

However, at this time of goodwill to all it would be clearly wrong to focus on one artist's ability to offend when a quick trawl through YouTube reveals a wealth of songs which allude to frankly sickening attitudes about sex, race, power and class. The fact that this includes some of my favourite songs indicates more clearly than anything I might say that I am clearly a very bad person.

In that spirit, I offer you a choice of six supreme examples of musical and moral turpitude. (Feel free to suggest your own things we shouldn't be listening to in the comments box).

1. Brown Sugar by the Rolling Stones.
A song about white slave owners having sex with their black slaves on the plantations. And they make it sound like such fun. The BBC clip linked to here clearly endorses such disgraceful attitudes and could quite easily have let to an epidemic of young plantation owners exploiting their labourers.

2. Kill the Poor by the Dead Kennedys.
Because if a song articulates offensive attitudes, it clearly endorses them. I think it a sad indictment of the Reagan era that punk musicians should have thought it acceptable to advocate the mass murder of people on low incomes, but what did you expect from a band with a name which makes such a tasteless attempt to exploit poor Ted Kennedy's narrow deliverance from a road traffic accident which could have happened to anyone. (Thanks to Quink for suggesting this).

3. Lady by Fela Kuti.
A political activist and scourge of colonialism, corruption and sectarianism he may have been, but Fela,'s attitude here is "women, learn your place and do what men tell you". His later polygamy and dying of Aids may not be entirely coincidental.

4. Handsome Devil by the Smiths.
Mozza's recent Daily Mail-esque comments about immigration upset the perpetual students who inhabit the music press. Twenty years ago the tabloids were getting worked up about his witty references to gay teacher-pupil sex ("a boy in the bush is worth two in the hand/ I think I can help you get through your exams".) I suspect it would have caused more trouble had he produced that gem today (and what a pity he no longer produces such lines).

5. Lemon Incest by Serge and Charlotte Gainsbourg.
You didn't think I'd do a list of this sort without mentioning Serge, did you? It is as well for you that my iron self discipline means I've restricted myself to just the one. His best-known song was banned in several countries. His finest work includes concept albums about deflowering teenage girls, murdering teenage girls with whom one is sexually obsessed, anal sex and the last days of Hitler (the buggery and Nazism are two different albums, by the way. A single long player about butt sex and the fall of Berlin would really be something to treasure). But this duet and video performed with his 13-year-old daughter set the bar pretty high if you are the sort of person to get worked about people exploring the more questionable recesses of the human soul. It is possible Serge was trying to provoke a reaction from that type of person.

6. They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore by Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys.
"And them Niggers, Jews and Sigma Nus all they ever do is breed. And Wops, and Micks, and Slopes and Spics and Spooks are on my list." It's just as well Radio One doesn't play much country music or this record would be beeping like an Italian motorist stuck in traffic on his way to the brothel. This is to say nothing of the potential for religious offence. If there's one thing I can't abide it's an ethnocentric racist.

Just because

Something infective and joyous: Laisse Tomber Les Filles. France Gall, singing Serge Gainsbourg – and as readers of this blog should know, that's a combination that will bring a smile to the face. Groovy, bébé.

And for those of you who are in particular need of cheering up (not me, thanks. I'm fine), Quink has posted a story that has everything. (Larry David would approve).

UPDATE: here is what is, in retrospect, a rather unfortunate picture of the vacuum cleaner man in question.

Keeping it riyal

Saudi Arabia has produced its first ever pop music video. As you might expect, it's a pretty religious affair:

Unlike pop videos popular elsewhere in the Middle East, the video's female star, Ruwaina al-Jihani, appears covered up in black with only her face showing.

The saucy minx. I've a few Arab songs on my iPod. I fondly like to imagine that some of the young ladies singing on them, who have voices that could make an imam kick the kaaba, would show more than their faces. Very sensual it is, anyhow, and not very religious. Anyway, I digress, because I can't imagine they are officially available to the Saudis (who would at least understand the lyrics). Back to the topic in hand.

The song tells of a young Muslim who strays from the true path by smoking, flirting and skipping prayers.

You know this will end well. The noteworthy thing is that this morality tale seems to echo the spirit of a 1950s American pop song (although I'd say it lacks the verve of that sub genre):

He suffers by losing his fiancée, falling behind at work and then having a serious motorcycling accident.

Only he lives, and goes back to the mosque – along with his motorbike gang – and all is well again.

Here is the vid, anyhow. Slick, though they make it pretty hard for anyone not get the message: Western ways, having fun - bad. Praying - good. (I particularly like the bit with his colleagues dressed in traditional dress praying while he lounges at his desk smoking and wearing, the horror, jeans and t-shirt). The music, well, it's no worse than most of the shite godless infidels turn out.

PS: Here's something that I imagine will not be available in Saudi Arabia anytime soon, though I can't rid myself of the suspicion it's all an elaborate joke. (It includes a sample of Serge Gainsbourg's 1967 paen to the Israeli armed forces, which is how I found it in the first place. Do you think I'd go looking for French Hassidic rappers? Now if only he were a techno artist, I could end with a Hassid House gag to complement the headline).

Kalakuta Show

Much more important than a change of government: Fela Kuti's legacy. "My name is Anikulapko. I have death in my pouch. They can't kill me."

What a life story too: he declared his home to be an independent republic, ignited protests across western Africa, became the unofficial leader of his country's opposition (and suffered a brutal retaliation from the authorities), married 27 women in one go – and he founded his own musical genre: Afrobeat.

To mark the 10th anniversary of the great man's death – it's worth remembering that it was from Aids, something too many of his African admirers don't want to accept – the Beeb has a look at how his lyrics are still relevant to Nigeria's problems (down even to the families involved: Obasanjo and Yar'Adua).

Of course, it's really just a chance to remind ourselves of Fela's fantastic musical and cultural legacy because an article restricting pointing out that Nigeria has problems with corruption, undemocratic practices, exploitation, poverty and religious division would be an exercise is stating the bleeding obvious. Although this is a good example of how an artist can be the most astute and articulate voice pointing out these facts.

However, if I'd been writing the BBC piece, the song I'd have chosen to demonstrate the malign influence of religious conflict on Nigeria wouldn't have been Coffin for Head of State, which is more about religious hypocrisy. It would have been Shuffering and Shmiling: a song which has almost everything: mesmeric grooves, explosive lyrics, incisive commentary on religion and one section of scat in Yoruba (I've no idea what he's saying, but I like the sound of it).

And if you doubt my word about what a fantastic musician and performer he was there's always YouTube to set you right.

Finally, my favourite Fela story, from here: "I asked him which musician he most respected. The answer was unexpected. 'Handel. George Frederick Handel.' I told him my father was a Handel freak and we discussed, amid the dope smoke, Dixit Dominus and the Concerto Grossi."

Robot is a Czech word, you know

I've been in Prague for a few days, spending much time wandering the streets at random, seeking enlightenment in strange corners in a Quink-style derive or (to be more accurate) bar crawl. I won't bore you with what I did on my holidays stuff or pictures – not least because I must be the last person to visit the place – save for one thing. Whilst browsing in an old print shop I discovered the print you can see to your left here.

I know nothing about the performers, (1920s cabaret/nightclub thing); but doesn't the cover remind you somewhat of Kraftwerk's The Man Machine? It's the way they're regimented and the colour scheme, mainly, although I'd love to have seen Kraftwerk adopting the Bertie Wooster on the golf course look. It does make me wonder, though, if there's some influence there - conscious or otherwise. Just because I don't have a clue who they are, doesn't mean that everyone else is so ignorant, right?