There’s an old Swedish idiom which roughly translates as “Even pretty birds take a dump”. This was beautifully illustrated last night by Rafael van der Vaart, whose sneaky attempt at biological warfare against the other substitutes on the Netherlands’ fixture against Romania barely went unnoticed. Something is rotten in the state of Holland, indeed.
(Whether it will earn a spot in the “My Greatest Moments” section of his website remains to be seen.)
Being a former chess maestro turned expatriate politician trying to gain some wind in a de facto totalitarian state is hard enough without having your speeches interrupted by flying penes and scrota, as Gary Kasparov experienced first-hand last week.
Four years later, Strindberg and Helium is still one of the weirder things to be found on teh internets. Whether the annoying pink ballon is supposedly real, or just an absinthe-induced figment of the tormented playwright’s imagination, remains to be said. Either way, it’s clearly time to revisit From an Occult Diary.
The Eurovision Song Contest isn’t known by that many Europeans. It should be, if for no other reason than the knowledge of how to avoid accidental exposure. The contest is an utterly perverse, nihilistic assault on all musical and aesthetical sensibilities – a take-no-prisoners orgy of Balearic power ballads and ethno drums, mashed up with hoi polloi euro techno and non-existent hooks. If this in itself is the stuff of nightmares, the effect is only enforced by the fact that the ”songs” generally are performed by either overweight transvestites or surgically enhanced blondes, sporting outfits straight from the combined horror cabinettes of H.R. Giger and John Waters*. All in all, a rather excruciating exercise in sheer eurotrash deviance.
Needless to say, it is not a common thing to see real artists cross over to the dark side, and take part in the black mass of dorkiness. Enter Sebastién Tellier, long-time Daft Punk affiliate and household name of the French electronica scene. Not only did he enter the French branch of the competition with the song Divine - he won it, and will represent the Tricolore in the Belgrade final on the 24th of May.
Much like Romeo Stodart of The Magic Numbers, Tellier’s Rasputin looks are utterly misleading. Rather than the expected seedy stoner rock joint, the track is a glorious little Beach Boys by way of Jean-Michel Jarre ditty, complete with doo-wop harmonies and all. I for one will push my chips for Sebastién Tellier in Belgrade, come May**. Who knows what will follow his path - Interpol competing for GB, 22 Pistepirkko for Finland or The Knife for Sweden?
*Samples of the monstrosities committed to tape can be found here and here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
**(Oh, and don’t miss out his new release, Sexuality, either. Not only is Sexual Sportswear the best song title in a very long time – the album itself is a worthy contender for the best electronica release of March, along with the Hercules & the Love Affair debut.)
…Grattis Linkan! Nu har du på allvar tagit din plats bland Gösta Knivsta, Tjalle Mild och de andra legendarerna.
There is a lot to praise about No Country For Old Men, the latest effort of the Cohen Bros (and the bleakest Western this side of The Great Silence). The rugged choreography, the relentlessly graphic yet understated violence, the abruptly ended story archs which owe more to the unsatisfying randomness of reality than the crowd-pleasing conventions of narratology. All in all, pretty much an upgraded return to their first Texan film (and directorial debut), Blood Simple.
Yet still, it is the incomprehensible evil in the form of Prince Valiant-haired Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem), dispatching unfortunate victims with a cattle stun gun, which will haunt this viewer for ages. John Doe, Hannibal Lecter and Keyzer Söze will now have to make room in the Pantheon of Penultimate Cinematic Evil for a new name.
OMG. OMFG. It can’t be. It’s just too perfect – everything from the angle of the switch to the disturbing location of the little girl’s hand. But it is. As a matter of fact, Caucasian Light Switch Jesus™ is a genuine artifact from the golden age of Christian America*. Every conceivable joke about Catholic priests and altar boys does come to mind, but I’ll just let the clever folks over at Pharyngula take care of that instead.
(*Clearly on par with the classic religious album covers covered here earlier)
In the news, Mike Huckabee has finally dropped all pretenses of being anything but a raving, theocratic nutjob. One might wonder to what lenghts he wants to go when it comes to “amend the constitution so it is in God’s standards”. Introduce the death penalty for witchcraft and homosexuality? Prohibit the consumption of shellfish, pork and other ungodly dishes? Don’t ask, don’t tell.
För övrigt så har Nina Hemmingson klivit fram som ett svartsynt geni i dignitet med Jocke Pirininen eller Ulf Lundkvist. Jag är din flickvän nu är en grotesk skrattspegel för idealen, som obarmhärtigt och systematiskt lyfter fram allt det som ena halvan av befolkningen inte får vara men ändå är. Hemmingsons kvinnogestalter är fula, skiter och har panikångest, precis som vanligt folk. Det här är vad Goya hade hållit på med om han hade växt upp med Sköna Söndag och knipövningar.
