Anyone who’s ever subscribed to the Apoplexy Newsletter, read this blog, or met me, will be unsurprised to read that The Fabulous Beth and I went to see Billy Bragg play Edinburgh’s Queen’s Hall last week. And those sorts of people will probably also find it predictable that Billy brought along a quirky support act, made an obscure and humorous reference to Craig Gannon in his stage banter, and was playing in the aftermath of the United Kingdom’s (sic) decision to open a new campaign of war.
I was particularly taken by Duke Special – for it is he – because he has ridiculous/awesome hair, had covered half of the merch table with an eclectic range of different types of art, and he sang a song called Last Night I Nearly Died. (That’s enough rule of three – Ed.)
[Long-Suffering Girlfriend of the Blog Beth and I went to see Kahlil Joseph and Arcade Fire’s The Reflektor Tapes this past weekend. So, today seemed like a good day to repost some reflektions on the album Reflektor and… other stuff.]
One of the many rubbish things about having a massive haemorrhagic stroke is that the ever-present factor of fatigue, and the whole brain lesions thing, militate against a quick return to the traditional, full-time workforce. Continue reading Reflektor Reduks→
As followers of the apoplectic.me Tiny Letter will be aware, the University of Edinburgh’s Creative Writers had their second reading night of the year just over a week ago. I co-hosted with my co-host, the handsome and talented Mr Jacques Tsiantar.
For this event, we only had three minutes for each of our individual slots. That’s about 600 words, which isn’t a lot. But fortunately, the first 600 or so words of my stroke-y memoir of extreme survival stop at a real doozie of a line.
On Saturday, I was walking past George Heriot’s School on Lauriston Place again. This time, with Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth. We carried on behind the back of the National Museum of Scotland, and the dome of the Old College seemed to both hang directly and vastly above us, and stubbornly remain blocks away.
It was neither, of course. The dome was at the far end of the quad as usual, as we approached the Old College from the south-west.
I think Nerd Bait was first described on here as a “Six-Legged Collaborative Creative Collective”, and that is about the size of it. But that appellation was also a reflexively defensive way not to say “band”.
Yes, we’re an odd kind of modern, transatlantic, virtual iteration of a band, but that’s no excuse. The Dave Matthews Band is a pile of shit, and they’ve got “Band” IN THEIR NAME.
In 1991, (the) Pixies didn’t need much in the way of a light show to back up their short, shouty songs of biblical retribution and science fiction. A klieg light would flood a giant white sheet, which would dramatically drop to reveal a knitter, a magician, an occasional computer programmer, and a sweaty bloke in a plaid shirt unleashing fire and brimstone in the form of the opening bars of Rock Song.
As I walk across the tarmac, Copenhagen Airport’s Terminal 3 stretches before me and away from me. As its location requires, it’s the height of good taste in modern design, all low-slung glass and steel. Inside, it looks like an airport in a world capital of design should — like a 23rd century version of Monet’s Gare Saint-Lazare.
The story of my stroke is the story of the characters in my life: nurses and doctors; friends and lovers; and everyone who has wandered through the past twenty months….
In the wake of Jeremy Paxman’s recent call for a poetic inquisition — a call for quantification and measurement and exclusion from a white, male member of the establishment — I was surprised by his premise that the citizens of the British Isles are increasingly rejecting poetry. Continue reading Stag’s Leap→