We live in a society which sees high self-esteem as a proof of well-being, but we do not want to be intimate with this admirable and desirable person. We see moral and social conventions as inhibitions on our personal freedoms, and yet we are frightened of anyone who goes away from the crowd and develops 'eccentric' habits. We believe that everyone has a singular personal 'voice' and is, moreover, unquestionably creative, but we treat with dark suspicion (at best) anyone who uses one of the most clearly established methods of developing that creativity — solitude. We think we are unique, special and deserving of happiness, but we are terrified of being alone… We are supposed now to seek our own fulfillment, to act on our feelings, to achieve authenticity and personal happiness — but mysteriously not do it on our own. Today, more than ever, the charge carries both moral judgement and weak logic.
How To Be Alone (2014)
Use the link below to visit the website of British novelist and social theorist SARA MAITLAND:
I have never really wanted to be a novelist. For me the word carries a load of bad connotations –– like author and literature and reviewer, only worse. It suggests something factitious as well as fictitious, insipidly entertaining; train-journeyish. One can't imagine a 'novelist's' ever saying what he actually means or feels –– one can hardly even imagine his meaning or feeling.
These words have bad connotations because they suggest that in some way writing and being a writer aren't central human activities.
I've always wanted to write (in this order) poems, philosophy, and only then novels. I wouldn't even put the whole category of activity –– writing –– first on my list of ambitions. My first ambition has always been to alter the society I live in; that is, to affect other lives. I think I begin to agree with Marx-Lenin: writing is a very second rate way of bringing about a revolution. But I recognize that all I am capable of is writing. I am a writer. Not a doer.
Society, existing among other human beings, challenges me, so I have to choose my weapon. I choose writing; but the thing that comes first is that I am challenged.
I Write Therefore I Am (1964)
Use the link below to visit the website of British novelist and former teacher JOHN FOWLES (1926–2005):
It seems nothing short of miraculous that an artist as uncompromisingly non-commercial as Laurie Anderson not only landed a record deal with a major US label but that her debut album for that label –– titled Big Science and released in 1982 –– delivered an unexpected hit in the form of O Superman, a minimalistic spoken word piece that clocked in at an unthinkable nine minutes. It defies all logic, economic and otherwise, yet somehow it happened, launching the career of one of the world's most genuinely experimental artists and introducing an entire generation of clueless teenagers, myself among them, to the undiscovered pleasures of avant-garde electronic music. To the casual listener it may appear that Anderson isn't really doing very much in Let X = X. The track begins as a quirky little tale about a guy who works at an ice rink and ends with what purports to be a direct quotation from a postcard, backed by gently pulsing synthesizers and subtle percussion enhanced by ethereal robotic vocal effects. Anderson's beguiling vocal performance is a masterpiece of irony, each word carefully positioned and precisely phrased to emphasize its oddity and maximize its aural impact. Let X = X transcends its various parts to emerge as a compellingly unified whole, part humorous anecdote and part sci-fi prophecy, quintessentially modern even as it seems to recall (and perhaps mourn for?) the vanished pre-digital world of 1950s North America. (How many hat check clerks do you ever meet these days? And if you do meet any, how many of them are ever employed at ice rinks?) Some may argue –– and I used to be acquainted with several people who believed it to be their sworn duty to do so –– that Anderson's work depends on the listener reading their own meaning into what is essentially the audiophonic equivalent of a blank page. But I'll say to you what I used to say to them –– isn't that the case, not just with her music, but with virtually everypiece ofmusic a human being is exposed to over the course of his or her lifetime? Don't we all project our individual thoughts and emotions into the music we listen to, be it Let X = X or Ride of the Valkyries or Mood Indigo or Thank U, Next by Ariana Grande? Consciously or not, we value a musical composition for its ability to transport us into the private realm of our mind and keep us temporarily suspended there without evoking unpleasant sensations of ennui, restlessess or both. Of course, the work of an artist like Laurie Anderson does not just 'happen' as though it's the product of some benign cultural accident. She had a long grounding in the world ofperformance art, beginning with her first symphony, written for automobile horns, which received its debut performance in 1969. By 1981 she was sharing the bill with writers John Giorno and William S Burroughs on the spoken word LP You're The Guy I Want To Share My Money With and establishing herself –– with her waifish persona, trademark spiky hair and glowing electric violin –– as an artistic force to be reckoned with.
But it was the release of O Superman, part of an extended stage work titled United States, that introduced Anderson's music to a wider and surprisingly receptive audience. Originally released on the small independent label One Ten Records, the piece became a breakout hit in the UK following repeated airplay by influential BBC disc jockey John Peel. So many orders were received for this esoteric electronic curiosity that the buzz it generated brought Anderson to the attention of Warner Bros Records who quickly signed her to a seven album contract. The timing could not have been better, given the changes that were beginning to occur in the early 1980s in relation to how popular music was recorded, promoted and marketed. Suddenly, any music that sounded even vaguely futuristic was deemed to be 'cool' by mainstream urban audiences, while the film-clip for O Superman became something of an audio-visual cult object in itself which would go on to become a staple of the early MTV era.
Big Science was an album that reflected its time while simultaneously transcending it to become, in the truest sense, timeless. And I'm far from being the only person who holds that opinion. In her marvellously insightful review of the album posted on Discogs (and her own Bandcamp page), fellow Anderson fan Jenell Kesler does a superb job of capturing what continues to makeAnderson's music so fascinating nearly forty years after its original release:
Laurie Anderson’s Big Science touched my heart in 1982. The movie Blade Runner was just out, with Laurie’s music sounding for all the world like some futuristic bedtime stories, designed to make us all feel comfortable in the electronic age… it was accessible, perplexing, intoxicating and dreamy, just listening to these tracks was akin to walking spiraling up through the Guggenheim museum. The album can be a bit scary, due mostly to Anderson’s deadpan delivery, while other tracks often come off as being prophetic and filled with nonchalant wisdom… In the end, Big Science, as the androids in Blade Runner, resounds with more humanity than almost anything you’ve ever, or ever will hear… where if you fall in love with a hat check clerk at an ice skating rink, then there’s actually hope this weary old world might spin on for a few more days.
If you haven't been exposed to the work of Laurie Anderson then you're missing out on something very special. I would urge you to seek out a copy of Big Science at your earliest opportunity, always remembering as you listen to it to keep your mind fully open along with your ears.
Use the links below to visit the website of North American artist, composer, musician and director LAURIE ANDERSON and read the complete review of Big Science by JENELL KESLER on the Discogs music website. (Be sure to scroll down to the bottom of the page.)
When I first began writing, my songs were coming at a rate of two or three per week. Sadly, almost nothing comes at that rate anymore. But when you're young, you're full of it and it pours out of you –– piss and vinegar, fire and brimstone, and my personal favorites, Sturm und Drang. Later, the output slows down, and eventually you're just left with a trickle. If this is getting a little too urogenital for you, let's switch metaphors. Fishing. Writing songs is like fishing. You sit in the boat and you wait. It's true you have to know the best spot, time of day, what bait to use, the difference between a nibble and a strike, and most important, how to get the damn fish into the boat. Talent is essential, craft is crucial, but for me it's mostly down to waiting and luck. And in my line of work, luck is not random. It's definite and discerning. It's invisible, but it's there. It's mysterious and also obvious. I don't understand how inspiration works and I don't want to. Don't mess with grace and divinity. You can write songs with hard work, sharp pencils, and a rhyming dictionary, but without luck they won't swing. No luck means no fish.
Liner Notes (2017)
Use the link below to visit the website of North American singer/songwriter LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III:
