Merry Christmas

In what may yet become a holiday tradition, to one and all, including Oasis fans and people who want to defend Captain Beefheart from the charge of being a credit-stealing asshole, Merry Christmas. With the music of ARNOLD SCHOENBERG.

Good god y’all. One of the things I like about Weihnachtsmusik is the way Schoenberg can’t resist introducing his trademark sense of drama into it; everyone’s having a good-old sing-song around the tree and then they start bickering about how it’s your fucking fault that the potatoes weren’t crispy and you’re ruining my life, etc., and then they calm down and eat something involving brandy butter and everything is fine again.

Happy holiday season.

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Merry Christmas

Tired. Aphorisms. Can you write them when you’re tired? Probably not

I’m tired. Dexter, the baby, has been keeping us up. Plus our daughter had a sleepover tonight, meaning two of her friends are sleeping over. That’s OK, we’ve had sleepovers before, and this was less stressful than some, but still, you don’t want to be shushing small kids late at night and listening tensely to hear if they’ve woken the baby. Not when you could be listening to Bach.

So, aphorisms. I like aphorisms. Maybe I’ll try and do some.

Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and Black Sabbath were the trinity of British classic rock. Zep were frightening because they were inhuman; Robert Plant’s voice is that of an angel, which is never reassuring. Deep Purple were the most human, because they had a sense of humour (see ‘Anyone’s Daughter’ on Fireball if you don’t believe me.)

Black Sabbath were the damned: four Brummies in hell.

Mr Turner, while good, was heritage cinema compared to Topsy Turvy, which had a story.

Enough for now. Sleep well.

Tired. Aphorisms. Can you write them when you’re tired? Probably not