Deadbeats

I gave magicians a hard time once; talked of them in vaguely dismissive terms in my foreword to The Imagineer. I forget the precise words I used, but the inference was clear: charlatans to a man.

There’s been much talk in this vein of late, what with David Blaine suspending himself over London for 44 days, encapsulated in a glass box with no food. Silly bastard.

For my part I was lying through my teeth. The idea of the stage magician versus ‘genuine’ practitioner suited me in the foreword to a book about the miraculous, it was a nice hook to hang an introduction on. Truth be told, I adore magicians, would desperately like to be one.

As a child I would thrash away at my Paul Daniels compendium set making the same orange sponge ball disappear time and time again (until, eventually, time and negligence performed the feat for good and I was left with a set of meaningless plastic cups and vases). David Copperfield thrilled me with his shocking spectaculars - walking through the Great Wall of China, making The Statue of Liberty disappear, all illusions that made me hate that sponge ball for being comparatively inadequate.

Like many childhood desires (ability on the piano, comprehension of science) my butterfly-like mind with its impatience and intolerance for failure dismissed my attempts to seriously learn the ‘art’. Rather than gently practising sleight-of-hand and card manipulation over and over until my cumbersome fingers did what was asked of them I would get angry at my perceived inability within half an hour and give up. It seems typical that as we grow older, more patient and dedicated to the developing of skills, we have so little time in which to develop them.

I had a second chance later when I needed to learn some brief magic routines to use as filler during my time as a Ghost Tour guide in York. I now have the most basic knowledge of a few close-up illusions and can, on a good day, do incredibly naughty things to a deck of cards while shuffling them.

In recent years there has been a revival in popularity for magicians on our television screens, due, in no small part to the previously mentioned Blaine with his superb close-up magic. Derren Brown (the most exciting and skilled performer for many years in my opinion - whatever that’s worth) finally got the audience he’d deserved. Magic was the new rock and roll…

For a while…

What is it today with the fickle nature of the masses? I’m reminded of my intolerant attitude as a child, throwing something down because it had angered me with its complexity. The attitude towards Blaine at the moment is bordering on the violent, the ‘cage’ being attacked, the ’stunt’ being dismissed as ridiculous by the vocal majority. Derren Brown produced his fascinating and thrilling ‘Russian Roulette’ special which was criticised before airing and ‘debunked’ after. Why? What is it about you bastards that will insist on raising something up before burning it down?

It was this attitude that sparked The Imagineer in me all those years ago; this desperation to engender the ghost of childhood; that joy of spectacle that is beaten out of us all too soundly through adolescence. Magicians also seek to do this, drag your emotions back to the incredulous shock of innocence, make you believe (however briefly) in the existence of more beyond this. They are fantasists in their own way.

It seems we don’t want fantasy any more, has this world become that perfect? Good, I’m glad, just surprised I didn’t notice.

Off to drag my old text books out, beat The Devil’s Picture Book into submission, see if I can’t achieve a little magic…

G.

Spread the love, it’s good for your skin:

	Listen to: Tubular Bells Vol.3- Mike Oldfield Yeah, I know, reeks of ‘cash-in’ but this is my favourite of the three in many ways; probably because it is, in my mind, the soundtrack to The Imagineer, every track evokes a chapter or moment. An album that sounds like magic.
	Read:Mr. Punch - Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean This is the third week running for Mr. McKean, this just won’t do, an embargo must be put in place for awhile I feel. Still, this haunting tale has the loss of childhood innocence at its core, the point when magic fades and real life kicks in. Now if that’s not a perfect choice for this week I don’t know what is! We shall hear much of Mr. Gaiman in these pages, only fair to warn you… if there’s one man who manages to hang on to magic it is he…
	Watch: Derren Brown - Inside Your Mind - Derren Brown New DVD or Video containing material from the ‘Mind Control’ series plus extra stuff. A consummate showman and illusionist this takes the old ’svengali’ routines and gives them an exciting spin. Oh… and if the whole ‘papers said he cheated and used blanks’ crap surrounding the Russian Roulette special is concerning you: A blank bullet fired against the skull would cream your grey matter across the walls with just as much gusto as live ammunition. Don’t fret… it’s just the spoilsports again… watch this and believe for ninety minutes.

Last week I discussed my ability to ‘hold forth’ excessively on any number of subjects with particular reference to a night in my old home town where beer was consumed and the air grew thin around me. One of my pub table colleagues that evening was a young man whose knowledge of twentieth century philosophy is matched only by his ability to look decadently austere in varying shades of black; a man I shall refer to as ‘Neil K’ if only to give him a Kafka-esque quality that would most certainly please him.Neil K has aspirations towards academia; paid for being too clever by half (in my rather desultory defamation of his career choice - unquestionably due to the jealous realisation that being a smart arse is a different ability altogether and unlikely to offer me any great financial prospect).

There is no doubting his abilities, the man is genetically wired for tweed jackets, dark wood halls and words longer than my attention span; yet during our long and varied conversations that particular evening (when the poor sod could get a word in of course) something occurred to me: we shared a passion for creativity, yet we looked for it in almost polemically opposite areas; areas we shall define (if only to please Neil K further by adhering to a strict ‘thesis’ framework as well as using the word ‘polemic’ - albeit in a rather tautological fashion) as High Art and Low Art.

Neil K’s bookshelf is beautifully adorned, books of quality and intellect, good books. Samuel Beckett rubs wizened shoulders with Angela Carter, seminal texts prop up decadent volumes of poetry in such a respectable fashion they would make a intellectual come. It shamed me in its respectability.

My bookshelf? Pulp horror sidles up to Ian Fleming and pokes a finger in his eye; children’s classics cower in innocent shock at the images from my collection of books on Italian Thriller movies and Exploitation Cinema in general. Joe R. Lansdale shucks a Texan boot in the direction of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle forcing the venerable doctor to take refuge behind a selection of Spike Milligans and at least one Peter Sellers biography too many. The collection is eclectic, and every one of them dear to my heart, but it is hardly the sign of a ‘High Brow’ reader even before we move on to my wall-filling Doctor Who collection (hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds; the only thing that would store them all is a TARDIS) and several-thousand-strong comic collection.

You know all this I suspect, I wear my tastes on my sleeve; what you may not know, for I scarcely acknowledged it myself, was my utter determination and devotion to, so-called, Low Art. It means more to me to find words that resonate, images that expand, emotions that rush within the pages of these lowly cousins. I love the way that what some would define as ‘trash’ has the subversive ability to sneak up on the literate and out-think the thinkers. There is no expectation (other than to entertain - an ability that cannot be underestimated) amongst the Low Art, no perceived need to prove its cleverness.

I am the anti-academic, unreasonably dismissive of ‘Quality’ literature producing eye-opening prose because, in my rather twisted perception that ’s exactly what it’s being paid to do so what’s so damn clever?

In my ‘recommendations’ at the bottom of these pages I have consistently avoided books of perceived quality - Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One for example, a recent read that utterly blew me away; as black as wet coal in a power cut and funny as an otter in a frock. Yet everyone knows Evelyn Waugh writes good books, they even told you at school, so why should I state the obvious? I just cannot bring myself to do it, I want to offer up the bastard freak mutations of Waugh; tatty denim clad and pierced but packed full of hidden pleasures.

I adore sneaking ‘unworthy’ references to my gutter children into intelligent conversation. A perfect example: “Logic merely allows one to be wrong with authority”, it sounds so ‘clever’ doesn’t it? Sounds like someone ‘academic’ came up with it. It is, of course, a quote from the 1968 Doctor Who story The Wheel in Space written by David Whittaker and the fourth in the series’ history to feature the Cybermen. The line is uttered by dear old Patrick Troughton in his role as the Doctor. I could even tell you the story’s production code if you want (or, if my memory fails me, it’s bound to be in one of the books I’ve got here). It’s tragic, I know that, but look at the title of the page, read my ‘manifesto’ in the archive section… I’m an anorak… A geek… The typical ‘only child’, the consummate fantasist, the adult who still believes in magic.

We ‘bottom-feeders’ of the artistic world (an aquatic allusion for those of you with no books at all), are rather plentiful… just a little quiet about it. It’s acceptable to flaunt one’s intelligence to a degree, to discuss Cartesian philosophy and understand is impressive (if a little pretentious) to think it’s all about natural wells makes you look a tit but you would still have more respect from some than an ability to list the production order of the third series of Blakes 7 or sing the theme tune to Fraggle Rock.

I may not be able to change this attitude but I can, at least, officially state this area a Low Art zone and have the courage of my convictions. Like a closet homosexual I shall ‘out’ myself as a sad bastard and woe betide anyone who doesn’t like it.

G.

As a final point I would like to mention that despite his rather ‘clever’ leanings, ‘Neil K’ has read the previously recommended Arkham Asylum Graphic Novel and liked it. So there’s a hope for ‘outing’ the trash monger yet.

Spread the love, it’s good for your skin:

(Produced with extra trash this week, just for you…)

	Listen to: Escapology [Explicit Lyrics] - Robbie Williams The fact that I include our Robbie in this weeks ‘extra trashy’ edition rather sums up the point. I don’t do ‘pop’, I loathe it and all its banal cheap ways. Yet, against all odds, I really bloody like this album. I know, I know, but try it - anyone who can write about Monkey whores and come up with the classic “Have I gone up in the world, or has the world gone down on me?” has got to be worthy of a little more credit than his previous history (and demographic!) would suggest.
	Read: Blood and Black Lace by Adrian Luther Smith The most wonderful collection of synopses and production information on a host of Italian Giallo movies (literally “Giallo” means ‘Yellow’ the traditional colour of the thriller paperbacks in Italy; much like the orange Penguin livery we have in this country) most of which you have little chance of getting your hands on in this country! Lurid and sensational they range from the seminal work of Mario Bava (director of the title film, Black Sunday, Five Dolls for an August Moon and Lisa and the Devil to name but a few) and my personal favourite Dario Argento (he shall mentioned frequently in these pages, spaghetti fiend and celluloid god that he is) through to the schlock of Lucio Fulci (Never Torture a Duckling - Now that’s a title) and various one hit glories en route. A sub-culture singularly unappreciated over here; you’ve seen what the Italians can do for Westerns (Dollars Trilogy et al) now see them play in their favourite leather glove and dagger sandpit.
	Watch: Frightmare A marvellously gritty shocker with a sixties ‘kitchen sink’ feel about the difficulties of growing up with a cannibalistic mother. From director Pete Walker who also produced the wonderfully lurid House of Whipcord (that had far more to say about Crime and Punishment in its time than a film with this much gratuitous nudity and suspect French accents had a right to) and The Four Dimensions of Greta, ultimately disposable (as far as a seventies soft porn movie shot in 3D can be).

I’ve been drinking again. Regular readers of the old tour journals will be familiar with this particular pastime of mine. Never knowingly shy of Stella, that’s my problem.

As always it was being back in Stratford-upon-Avon that did it, Mr. Jarrett and I know too many people in that town and are inevitably raped with alcohol at the behest of these bastards when we visit.

I suffer from a number of predictable supping symptoms, falling over and looking a twat being only the final in a long list; I have noticed, however, that one of those symptoms is growing alarmingly powerful of late : a drunken aptitude for ‘Holding Forth’.

It should come as no surprise that I can be an opinionated little sod (it is, after all, the point of the column you are now reading); it is only to be expected, therefore, that after the odd sherry I may become increasingly intolerable to listen to on any number of particular subjects. It concerns me though, as the one who felt the need to go into Waterstones Booksellers the next day and apologise to all of the staff for demanding they leave their jobs and picket against the ‘Big Mac of Book Shops’ for its potentially damaging no-risk book stocking policy (no new authors but enough Simon Schama to bludgeon a Whale). The fact that this policy has a knock-on effect to the publishing of new authors in the book industry and could irreparably…

I’m sorry, there I go again. Anyway, I apologised, and there the matter shall lie… ’til next time. And that’s the point rather… it’s getting frighteningly difficult to reign the mouth in these days, even without the potentially justifying beer, it’s likely to run off guns blazing at the slightest provocation.

Old man before my time, I feel the ‘curtain-twitcher’ in me begin to grow. Sure of nothing so much as the crumbling values and predilections of the society I feel I’ve left behind. Any day now the word youth will shift from a description of myself to a curse; a cover-all term that explains just exactly what is wrong in the world we live. Ironing socks cannot be far away.

But what to do? Soon I will be a danger to those around me, the air in the room growing thin as I rant and rave to anyone who will listen. Art, religion, politics and sex will be dissected over and over to my ever-dwindling audience as I build to a crisis point capable of tearing the very fabric of space and time asunder.

Not that I concern myself with mere trifles my children; dear Lord no… Did you know that Tesco’s own brand of Extra Strong Mint contain elements of Beef and Potatoes? Pour gravy on the buggers and tuck into a packet this Sunday people! Beefy sweets, the way to a contented life! The veggies secret path to perdition! Bring on Lamb Lollies, pray for Pork Chews!

Have you noticed how Simon Le Bon has aged into a carbon copy of Judy Finnegan?

Continuity buffs: Non Smoker now for just one week.

I really do need to learn to relax, the fate of the world may well depend on it. Gratuitous sex or knitting: answers on a postcard please.

G.

Spread the love, it’s good for your skin:

	Listen to: Up - Peter Gabriel This is another man who brings the anorak out in me, beautiful, fascinating, layered stuff that manages to sound like no one else. There was a ten year gap between this album and his previous, listen to this and then join me in my death threat campaign to make it quicker in future.
	Read: Cages - Dave McKean Almost agonizingly beautiful, this is the collected graphic novel by the exceptional Dave McKean, long time collaborator with Neil Gaiman and one of the most innovative and exciting artists at work today. The book is pricey, picture a hardback telephone directory printed on glossy paper and you’ll begin to imagine why.
	Watch: Falling Down [1992] A flawed yet very watchable offering from uber-camp Joel Schumacher. The subject matter is just too close to the above sentiments to not offer it as a glimpse of my possible future.