Happy Birthday Who?

Townshend

Pete Townshend, that’s Who!  Born today 1945.

Prolific songwriter.  Multi-instrumentalist, and just about the most hard working and energetic stadium lead guitar ever.  He may not be the best guitarist from a technical perspective (only 10th in Rolling Stones top 100), but any band guitar player would do well to watch and learn.  This is a guy who knows how to please a crowd.

This is the guy who gave us the “Windmill technique”.  He has also been known to break a few guitars in his day.  Happy birthday Pete.

 

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70th Birthday Party

Gaza

On Saturday Israel won the Eurovision song contest for the fourth time, despite not actually being in Europe.

Today is the 70th anniversary of the creation of the State of Israel in 1948.  To mark the occasion the US are moving their embassy from Tel Aviv, where most nations have their embassy, for political reasons, into Jerusalem.

When the state of Israel was created the City of Jerusalem and the town of Bethlehem were supposed to remain outside the politics of Palestine and Israel as a “Free City”.  Any movement of political influence into Jerusalem carries very weighty connotations for all sides.

The announcement that the Eurovision 2019 will be in Jerusalem is a further turn of the screw for hardline Jewish nationalism.  Strangely so because the real hardline ultra orthodox Jews absolutely hate the Eurovision, which is the greatest outpouring of gayness of the year for the European LGBT community.

On the Gaza strip Hammas have been leading assaults on the Israeli border all week.  The death toll in clashes with the Israeli military have doubled in one day today.  Tomorrow is the anniversary of the catastrophe, Nakba, when the Palestinians fled their homes, taking the keys they still hold today as symbols of their right to return.  As I have remarked before the Palestinian leaders love to squander the lives of their children in futile gestures because they are bought heavily into the martyr culture.  They fight a propaganda war with the blood of brainwashed innocents.

Keys

The Israeli military are as bad as the Hammas terrorists.  It would be possible to diffuse tensions with non-lethal interventions, but the hawks in the Israeli military like to make their points with unnecessary force.  It is a modus operandi born of too many years living in the shadow of dictatorial Islamic regimes who want to wipe you from the earth.  The truth today is that Egypt, Syria, Jordan and Iraq are no longer a de-facto threat.  Palestinians are a paper tiger, armed with rockets by Iran and Saudi money, but rockets that are barely more than toys.

This birthday party is not a celebration for anyone in the region.  It is like a funeral in a dysfunctional family where everyone is trying not to be the one who starts the fist fight in the carpark, but secretly wants someone else to be that person.

Will the 100th birthday be any different?  Will it be any better?  Are people content to spend the next 30 years doing what they are doing today?

With everything going on in Israel/Palestine the least strange thing has to be an Israeli woman dressed in a Kimono in front of waving Chinese cats singing a song supporting the #MeToo movement.  Sing more, fight less.  The symbol of the Eurovision…a heart!

Eurovision

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr Eurovision

Johnny

Happy Birthday Johnny Logan, born May 13th, 1954.

He first won the Eurovision in 1980 with “What’s Another Year” written by Shay Healy.

Then he wrote “Terminal 3” for Linda Martin which came 2nd in 1984.

In 1987 he wrote and performed the Eurovision winner “Hold Me Now”.

Then in 1992 Linda Martin scored the win with his song “Why Me?”

Although he moved back to Ireland at age 3 Johnny was born in Australia.  So the next time someone attacks the Australian entry you can point out that this particular Aussie was responsible for just under half of all Ireland’s Eurovision success.

 

Hurdy Gurdy Man

It is a mark of greatness in a musician to have just one name.  Jagger.  Madonna.  Sting.

Donovan Philips Leitch was reduced to simply “Donovan”.  His influence in music is enormous.  Today is his birthday, born 1946, herald of flower-power in the UK, a huge influence on others, a highly collaborative performer, writer and producer he touched the lives of many artists as well as fans.

After a successful career in the 1960’s he was written off by the Punks in the 1970s and New Wave in the 1980’s only to give them all two fingers and come back stronger than ever in the 1990’s.  And he’s not dead yet.

His hit “Hurdy-Gurdy Man” was used recently as the theme for the Sky Atlantic series “Britannia”, a rather strange choice for first century Britons Versus Romans but it just works

H.urdy Gurdy Man

Dublin City Bird Market

Linnet

As a small boy I remember my dad bringing us to the Bird Market in Dublin City on a Sunday morning.  Back in those days in the 1960’s you could buy wild songbirds that people trapped in the countryside.  I remember seeing Goldfinches, Chaffinches, Bullfinches and Linnets amongst the Budgies and Canaries.  I don’t know if they still do that, and I hope not.  The wild birds are under too much pressure as it is.

But the market is still there.  A quick scan of the Internet tells me it still convenes on Sunday Mornings in Peter Street, near St Patrick’s Cathedral.

We used to have birds as pets.  I believe we had a linnet once but I don’t remember it.  I do remember a budgie.  My enduring memory is of its rigid dead corpse lying in the bottom of the cage.  Beautiful plumage.

So to a poem and since today is the birthday of Walter De La Mare let’s have a Linnet from him.  The Linnet is a finch who gets his name for his penchant for Flax seeds.  Flax plants are the key ingredient in linen, hence the Linen Finch, or Linnet.  One of the seven subspecies of Linnet was registered by the Scottish ornithologist Philip Alexander Clancey, probably a relative of my dad.

The Linnet; by Walter De La Mare

Upon this leafy bush
with thorns and roses in it,
flutters a thing of light,
A twittering linnet.
And all the throbbing world
of dew and sun and air
by this small parcel of life
is made more fair;
as if each bramble-spray
and mounded gold-wreathed furze,
harebell and little thyme,
were only hers;
as if this beauty and grace
did to one bird belong,
and, at a flutter of wing,
might vanish in song.

Debauchery

(c) Dillington House; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

John Wilmot portrait by Peter Lely

After years of religious oppression under Cromwell and the puritans Britain was ready to release its pent up frustrations with gusto in the Glorious Revolution.  The restoration of Charles II to the monarchy in 1660 opened the doors to theater, dance, music and art.  Into this world stepped the famous libertine John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester.

Born April 1st 1647.  His father was a famous brave dashing cavalier and smuggled the young Charles out of England.  John had an up and down beginning to his career.  “Debauched” in Oxford, aged 13.  He tried to elope with a rich wife and was imprisoned in the Tower.  He volunteered to fight in the Navy and redeemed himself with heroism in battle.  His wit made him highly entertaining and favoured at court.  His pranks got him in trouble and rose to the level of treason and got him banned from court.

A famous rake in his day, the poem below gives a sense of his style.  He lived and wrote about overt sexuality.   He died aged only 33.  He is described as being drunk for 5 years in the company of what Andrew Marvell called “The Merry Gang”.  This was a gang of noble young blades who engaged in a feast of debauchery in the Court of King Charles.  It is thought that Wilmot died suffering from a variety of venereal diseases including Syphilis and Gonorrhea.

Because of his  lax moral character Wilmot was largely ignored in the Victorian era when poetry had a great flowering.  It was not until the 1920’s that he was re-admitted to polite society.

A Song Of A Young Lady To Her Ancient Lover ; by Lord John Wilmot

Ancient Person, for whom I
all the flattering youth defy,
long be it e’er thou grow old,
aching, shaking, crazy cold;
but still continue as thou art,
Ancient Person of my heart.

On thy withered lips and dry,
which like barren furrows lie,
brooding kisses I will pour,
shall thy youthful heart restore,
such kind show’rs in autumn fall,
and a second spring recall;
nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient Person of my heart.

Thy nobler parts, which but to name
in our sex would be counted shame,
by ages frozen grasp possest,
from their ice shall be released,
and, soothed by my reviving hand,
in former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover’s wish can reach,
for thy joy my love shall teach;
and for thy pleasure shall improve
all that art can add to love.
Yet still I love thee without art,
Ancient Person of my heart.

Happy Birthday Marge Piercy

Marge-Piercy-photo-with-cat1

Poet, Feminist, Novelist, Sci-fi writer, Piercy is quite the woman of parts.  To boot she shares her birth date with some pretty heavy hitters, including J.S. Bach, Andrew Marvell, Joseph Haydn, Edward Fitzgerald (translator of Omar Khayyam), Octavio Paz and Canadian Hockey legend, “Mr Hockey” Gordie Howe.

I choose Marge Piercy because more than ever this is a time for feminist voices.  In Belfast last week “Not Guilty” verdicts were given to four Ulster rugby players on rape and sexual assault charges.  On Twitter a full scale war is in progress between #IBelieveHer and #IBelieveThem.

There is a danger that the war of words will distract from the most important issue.  There is a groundswell of public appetite for reform of the legal procedures in rape trials.  This opportunity needs to be grasped now.  It does not matter who was “right” or “wrong” because past has passed.  It is time to own the future.  Campaign for reform.  Use the energy to deliver a better tomorrow.

What Are Big Girls Made Of? ; by Marge Piercy

The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.

She visited in ’68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse’s mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.

Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.

How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.

A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.

If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?