voodoo, video and death.   Leave a comment

OK, so today I have to click on everything three times with my mouse before it responds. Really. Fucking. Annoying.

And I can’t stream media files off the web, or not the sound anyway. And when I tried to sort this out I lost my Internet Explorer and so I have to use Avant, which slowly gives you the percentage of how fucking arsed it can be to do what you just asked it.

Say I wanted to go to http://www.youtube.com/ to watch some damnsavage (which is my username) videos, I’d have to click at least three times on the link to get there. It’s probably OK for you though, if you wanted to try…

Ivor Cutler died. I saw him once at the Corn Exchange. I think Sam took me as a birthday present or something. She’s a bit shite with birthday and Christmas gifts but she has come through on occasion. I’m glad I persuaded her to stump up the 35 notes for my Sharp GF-777 that time, for instance. The guy wanted forty quid but was amenable to a little haggling. I think I’m repeating myself here aren’t I? Still haven’t told you about my copy of Threads Of Life, by Alco though…
I did have an Ivor Cutler story but I’ve bloody forgotten it. Steve Adams’ ex Charlotte met him once and he said something brilliantly eccentric and witty to her, but…it’s gone, man. May I recommend Life In A Scotch Living Room, Vol. 2? Don’t bother with Volume One.

Ali Farka Toure died. On two occasions in the last few months I’ve found myself DJ-ing quite late at night when the party has almost completely wound down and I’ve just stuck on Ali Farka Toure and left the job to him. At Christmas I watched this programme on The Festival In The Desert (in Mali) and AFT was on it being as awesomely good as you would expect. The narration explained that some of the traditional music in that part of Africa is characterised by a rhythm originating in the peculiar gait of a camel in motion.

Anyways, one of the best pubs in Cambridge is The Jubilee, in part because they have a whole Ali Farka Toure album on the jukebox, as well as some decent reggae. I duly dragged Dave in there to mourn the great man’s passing, and to be beaten twice at pool. Oh yeah and Phil from Broadcast pitched up eventually in his new red shoes on his way to France. When I went up to get the second round I mentioned AFT’s death and asked the landlord if he had heard about it. “Yes,” he said, “I read about it in The Times. Well, I couldn’t read it all because I can’t see very well because I have cataracts…” Here he pointed to his eyes. He is a very softly spoken man, possibly of Caribbean origin, with a shy manner that isn’t usual in people of his profession. We exchanged a few more pleasant awkwardries and I went and sat down again, pleased at least that Ali Farka Toure wasn’t just on his jukebox entirely by accident. About two minutes later I see the landlord entering the public bar and looking around. When I see he is holding a newspaper I realize he is looking for me and I shift in my seat so he can at least fix upon the movement (note: Charlie says he has only seen him beat once at pool so he can’t be completely unsighted). Anyway, sure enough he brings over the paper with Ali Farka Toure’s obituary spread open. “I don’t want it back.” He says, so I don’t have to go chasing after him to return it. I was really touched by this little episode, you see. Apparently AFT was the tenth child and the only one to survive infancy. One only hopes his parents survived to see the international recognition he received so late in his musical career.
Dave Allen died last year, didn’t he? He was my favourite comedian as a child.

And Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. One of my favourite writers. Extraordinarily punchy and lucid style, and very funny. The diametric opposite of a hack, he just wrote all the time. His collected letters are full of 30000 word demands to editors for further funds or extended deadlines that are often longer and more brilliant than the finished pieces. I love his gonzo drug tales, but he is equally good on American football or coverage of the 70s political scene, two things I know almost nothing about apart from what I’ve read by HST. Also amazing that such a sensitive and astute personality should be such a tough fucker physically, making his death by his own hand seem particularly poignant.

Rest In Peace, also, my two Uncles Gerry and Paddy.

Posted March 14, 2006 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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