Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Leonard Cohen sings *his* 'Hallelujah' at Glastonbury 2008
we can die contented for He has walked amongst us.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
"awwww, bless!"
A character study of a person of no discernable character, Mike Leigh’s “Happy Go Lucky”* is pure torture from start to… well, about two thirds through, the point where I was mercifully delivered into the arms of Morpheus. Strangely, I wasn’t that tired when I started watching it. Was it some spontaneous narcoleptic episode brought about by sheer desire to flee the awfulness of it all? Should the CIA be looking for more effective forms of torture lite than James Blunt on heavy rotation, they might do well to consider an endless loop of “Happy Go Lucky”, whose central character Polly is a woman so pathologically incapable of shutting her fatuous trap for two fucking seconds she would have even the most fervent Jihadi spilling the beans on chemical weapons caches within twenty minutes of exposure to her. “Happy Go Lucky” reinforces once again the sober truth that in any sane world the adjectives “chirpy”, “bubbly” and “positive” are all epithets.
“Happy Go Lucky” is a timely reminder of just how galling and depressing the “happy” are, at least in Leigh’s typically reductive and caricatured version of what constitutes happiness: the sunny disposition. Happiness is constitutional, we’re in some pre-psychological universe of types and temperaments with Leigh. There’s nothing wrong with this per se but the conflict between his abilities and aspirations is precisely why, for all the realist tics and nuances his actors elaborate, his world remains resolutely flat and unrecognisable, presenting precisely the barriers to empathy and identification of the more mainstream fare that he imagines his work offers an alternative to. No less so than in Richard Curtis’ horrific, soul-curdling Blairite tryptich “Four Weddings”, “Notting Hill” and “Love Actually” do I find myself wondering “who the fuck are these people?” Hang on, they’re the working class?
Leigh’s reputation as a great essayer of working class life is as mysterious as Almodovar’s repute as a great creator of female roles. At least Almodovar has other strengths, whereas in his attitudes toward women Leigh’s overlap with that other arch middlebrow sentimentalist Nick Hornby is pronounced. For both, men are tortured by invariably ludicrous and self-deceptive “Ideas”, while women are stoical and conservative, making do and getting by. Nabokov’s description of his mother, “ to love with all her heart and leave the rest to chance was the best wisdom she knew,” has the character of an axiom in Leigh’s world. Men are idealistic and therefore conflicted, women are emotional and therefore wise. Leigh’s “women” and “men” overlap with Shaw’s distinction between the reasonable and unreasonable man. “ The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself.” Leigh’s women are Shavian “reasonable men”. What Leigh misses out on is the next line. “Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”
The typical Leigh split is represented in “Happy Go Lucky” by Poppy and her coterie of infantilised, primary-colour clad female idiots, who in their miserably debased notions of “creativity” come on as halfwit Brit cousins to Chytilová’s “Daisies”. The “gang” are introduced in an opening Saturday-night-out sequence suffused with truly hypertension inducing “girlyness” (which here signifies timidly flirting with lesbianism and working oneself up into a state of pubescent semi-hysteria.) Their opposite is her driving instructor, a paranoid, conspiracy theory spouting, angry racist, a weak version of David Thewlis’ Johnny, who was himself simply a more fully realised version of most of the male characters that preceded him. It’s an irony that “Happy Go Lucky” comes out in the same week that “Naked” is finally issued on DVD. It may be true that after “Naked” Thewlis had nowhere else to go, but neither did Leigh (admission: I haven’t seen “Topsy-Turvy”.) “All or Nothing”? Two hours of heavy-jowled lugubriosity as Timothy Spall stares off camera battling quietly with dissatisfaction and his wife tries to reconcile him to the elemental truth, expressed in “High Hopes” with regard to the central male character’s refusal to have a child while socialism has still yet to be realized, that there never was and will be a perfect world, daahhhhling. “Vera Drake”? Two hours of Imelda Staunton shuffling around in her pinny, boiled-cabbage complexion to the fore as a working class Holy-Innocent back street abortionist, who, acting spontaneously from her great naïve wellspring of proletarian female love without the slightest grasp of the social implications of her acts eventually gets gratifyingly sent down for ten years’ hard labour. That’ll learn you. Do a Sociology O-level or something while you’re banged up, for fuck’s sake!
What Poppy possesses (intrinsically. Well, she IS a bird, innit?) and what we’re supposed to be seduced by, is that great bit of Late Capitalist/ New Age hucksterism, “Empathy” (see also “emotional intelligence” or its middlebrow literary correlate, “Only Connect!”) “Empathy” here stands in for solidarity, the empathetic gaze appraises its object as emotional rather than political/social, thereby divesting both sides of agency. Poppy is so superhumanly empathetic that not only does she have no fear of seeking out violently deranged tramps hunkered down in bits of wasteland ( “is this the bit where she gets raped and murdered?” a small gleeful voice kept asking in the back of my mind as I watched) she can even “relate” to someone incapable of uttering more than repeated monosyllables.
“SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE,” the Tramp splutters.
“Does she?” Polly asks, preternaturally capable of connecting with the tramps pain and healing him, before he wanders off to continue his life of neglect and abandonment. Best not to wonder why the poor fucker’s out there on his own. You think about stuff too much and you get yourself confused, just learn how to feel! More importantly, don’t judge, critical scrutiny is to be avoided, we’re all good people deep down we just need a bit of love to bring it out. There is no concrete or conscious exploitation, people are bad because they haven't been loved enough, a sprinkling of multicoloured magic dust on our grumpy old lives will make it all ok, doing the best we can to make each day fun and happy within our own narrow social world. In this respect “Happy Go Lucky” resembles the genuinely hateful “Amelie” and its Po-mo micro-(non)politics of whimsy. Kitchen sink magic-realism in which everything is made right by a cup of tea and a good old heart-to-heart. The interpersonal and the empathic are the keys to making life more bearable, certainly not the collective and the intellectual. Well we wouldn’t want to do without any of them, but why can’t we have it all? Why must one banish the other?
Even more deeply aggravating than Brenda Blethyn’s interminable, shaky-fag-handed, Spaniel-eyed bawling and shrieking of “Sweetheart, no, sweetheart!” in “Secrets and Lies”, Poppy’s indefatigable chirpiness is a sure sign of a mind radically out of kilter with any reasonable take on things. Poppy never stops finding things funny. She has a bad back, can hardly walk: every twinge of pain sends her off on another bout of giggling and pop-cultural glossolalia. For a moment you’re tempted to think that it might in fact be a study of the last (wo)manish horror of Late Capital, its awful diminution of human capacity. That the film is meant to be a study of the neurotic’s unbearable compulsion to deflect any questions that touch on their condition into an endless, gapless monologue, a self-blinding that occasionally elevates itself to a form of deeply ambiguous ecstatic transport (something “Heavenly Creatures” captured so brilliantly) But that’s too generous to Leigh. There’s no sly, critical legerdemain. Basically, we’re supposed to think Poppy has got it right.
At risk of repeating myself, people like Mike Leigh and Martin Amis, are, at heart, truly horrible little men, (this is their strength), terminal, cancerous misanthropes whose anxiety in the face of their own potentially coruscating negativity means they end up producing lukewarm “humanist” gruel like “London Fields” or “Vera Drake”. Or this. Play to your strengths lads! To quote Monty in “Withnail and I” “ Go with it, it’s like a tide….. it’s society’s crime not ours!”
And re the obvious objection, “so we’re not allowed to be happy until after the revolution are we?” let me assure you brothers and sisters, yes, of course we’re allowed to be happy!
Just not like this.
*On being presented with the DVD on my return from Blockbuster Mrs Impostume stared in puzzlement at the cover for a few moments (see above) before asking, “ why have you brought me this film about a woman with an idiotic face?”
A character study of a person of no discernable character, Mike Leigh’s “Happy Go Lucky”* is pure torture from start to… well, about two thirds through, the point where I was mercifully delivered into the arms of Morpheus. Strangely, I wasn’t that tired when I started watching it. Was it some spontaneous narcoleptic episode brought about by sheer desire to flee the awfulness of it all? Should the CIA be looking for more effective forms of torture lite than James Blunt on heavy rotation, they might do well to consider an endless loop of “Happy Go Lucky”, whose central character Polly is a woman so pathologically incapable of shutting her fatuous trap for two fucking seconds she would have even the most fervent Jihadi spilling the beans on chemical weapons caches within twenty minutes of exposure to her. “Happy Go Lucky” reinforces once again the sober truth that in any sane world the adjectives “chirpy”, “bubbly” and “positive” are all epithets.
“Happy Go Lucky” is a timely reminder of just how galling and depressing the “happy” are, at least in Leigh’s typically reductive and caricatured version of what constitutes happiness: the sunny disposition. Happiness is constitutional, we’re in some pre-psychological universe of types and temperaments with Leigh. There’s nothing wrong with this per se but the conflict between his abilities and aspirations is precisely why, for all the realist tics and nuances his actors elaborate, his world remains resolutely flat and unrecognisable, presenting precisely the barriers to empathy and identification of the more mainstream fare that he imagines his work offers an alternative to. No less so than in Richard Curtis’ horrific, soul-curdling Blairite tryptich “Four Weddings”, “Notting Hill” and “Love Actually” do I find myself wondering “who the fuck are these people?” Hang on, they’re the working class?
Leigh’s reputation as a great essayer of working class life is as mysterious as Almodovar’s repute as a great creator of female roles. At least Almodovar has other strengths, whereas in his attitudes toward women Leigh’s overlap with that other arch middlebrow sentimentalist Nick Hornby is pronounced. For both, men are tortured by invariably ludicrous and self-deceptive “Ideas”, while women are stoical and conservative, making do and getting by. Nabokov’s description of his mother, “ to love with all her heart and leave the rest to chance was the best wisdom she knew,” has the character of an axiom in Leigh’s world. Men are idealistic and therefore conflicted, women are emotional and therefore wise. Leigh’s “women” and “men” overlap with Shaw’s distinction between the reasonable and unreasonable man. “ The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself.” Leigh’s women are Shavian “reasonable men”. What Leigh misses out on is the next line. “Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”
The typical Leigh split is represented in “Happy Go Lucky” by Poppy and her coterie of infantilised, primary-colour clad female idiots, who in their miserably debased notions of “creativity” come on as halfwit Brit cousins to Chytilová’s “Daisies”. The “gang” are introduced in an opening Saturday-night-out sequence suffused with truly hypertension inducing “girlyness” (which here signifies timidly flirting with lesbianism and working oneself up into a state of pubescent semi-hysteria.) Their opposite is her driving instructor, a paranoid, conspiracy theory spouting, angry racist, a weak version of David Thewlis’ Johnny, who was himself simply a more fully realised version of most of the male characters that preceded him. It’s an irony that “Happy Go Lucky” comes out in the same week that “Naked” is finally issued on DVD. It may be true that after “Naked” Thewlis had nowhere else to go, but neither did Leigh (admission: I haven’t seen “Topsy-Turvy”.) “All or Nothing”? Two hours of heavy-jowled lugubriosity as Timothy Spall stares off camera battling quietly with dissatisfaction and his wife tries to reconcile him to the elemental truth, expressed in “High Hopes” with regard to the central male character’s refusal to have a child while socialism has still yet to be realized, that there never was and will be a perfect world, daahhhhling. “Vera Drake”? Two hours of Imelda Staunton shuffling around in her pinny, boiled-cabbage complexion to the fore as a working class Holy-Innocent back street abortionist, who, acting spontaneously from her great naïve wellspring of proletarian female love without the slightest grasp of the social implications of her acts eventually gets gratifyingly sent down for ten years’ hard labour. That’ll learn you. Do a Sociology O-level or something while you’re banged up, for fuck’s sake!
What Poppy possesses (intrinsically. Well, she IS a bird, innit?) and what we’re supposed to be seduced by, is that great bit of Late Capitalist/ New Age hucksterism, “Empathy” (see also “emotional intelligence” or its middlebrow literary correlate, “Only Connect!”) “Empathy” here stands in for solidarity, the empathetic gaze appraises its object as emotional rather than political/social, thereby divesting both sides of agency. Poppy is so superhumanly empathetic that not only does she have no fear of seeking out violently deranged tramps hunkered down in bits of wasteland ( “is this the bit where she gets raped and murdered?” a small gleeful voice kept asking in the back of my mind as I watched) she can even “relate” to someone incapable of uttering more than repeated monosyllables.
“SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE SHE,” the Tramp splutters.
“Does she?” Polly asks, preternaturally capable of connecting with the tramps pain and healing him, before he wanders off to continue his life of neglect and abandonment. Best not to wonder why the poor fucker’s out there on his own. You think about stuff too much and you get yourself confused, just learn how to feel! More importantly, don’t judge, critical scrutiny is to be avoided, we’re all good people deep down we just need a bit of love to bring it out. There is no concrete or conscious exploitation, people are bad because they haven't been loved enough, a sprinkling of multicoloured magic dust on our grumpy old lives will make it all ok, doing the best we can to make each day fun and happy within our own narrow social world. In this respect “Happy Go Lucky” resembles the genuinely hateful “Amelie” and its Po-mo micro-(non)politics of whimsy. Kitchen sink magic-realism in which everything is made right by a cup of tea and a good old heart-to-heart. The interpersonal and the empathic are the keys to making life more bearable, certainly not the collective and the intellectual. Well we wouldn’t want to do without any of them, but why can’t we have it all? Why must one banish the other?
Even more deeply aggravating than Brenda Blethyn’s interminable, shaky-fag-handed, Spaniel-eyed bawling and shrieking of “Sweetheart, no, sweetheart!” in “Secrets and Lies”, Poppy’s indefatigable chirpiness is a sure sign of a mind radically out of kilter with any reasonable take on things. Poppy never stops finding things funny. She has a bad back, can hardly walk: every twinge of pain sends her off on another bout of giggling and pop-cultural glossolalia. For a moment you’re tempted to think that it might in fact be a study of the last (wo)manish horror of Late Capital, its awful diminution of human capacity. That the film is meant to be a study of the neurotic’s unbearable compulsion to deflect any questions that touch on their condition into an endless, gapless monologue, a self-blinding that occasionally elevates itself to a form of deeply ambiguous ecstatic transport (something “Heavenly Creatures” captured so brilliantly) But that’s too generous to Leigh. There’s no sly, critical legerdemain. Basically, we’re supposed to think Poppy has got it right.
At risk of repeating myself, people like Mike Leigh and Martin Amis, are, at heart, truly horrible little men, (this is their strength), terminal, cancerous misanthropes whose anxiety in the face of their own potentially coruscating negativity means they end up producing lukewarm “humanist” gruel like “London Fields” or “Vera Drake”. Or this. Play to your strengths lads! To quote Monty in “Withnail and I” “ Go with it, it’s like a tide….. it’s society’s crime not ours!”
And re the obvious objection, “so we’re not allowed to be happy until after the revolution are we?” let me assure you brothers and sisters, yes, of course we’re allowed to be happy!
Just not like this.
*On being presented with the DVD on my return from Blockbuster Mrs Impostume stared in puzzlement at the cover for a few moments (see above) before asking, “ why have you brought me this film about a woman with an idiotic face?”
Update! Some gobby bird starts giving it all that over on her blog. She could do with a couple of kiddies that one, keep her out of trouble. I'd knock her up myself if the missus wasn't always standing over me with the rolling pin. Right. I'm off down the boozer.
Gotta laugh, innit?
Friday, August 15, 2008
ahem,
excuse me a moment.
(takes deep breath)
(sips at water)
I'd just like to say,
(swallows)
YESYESYESYESYESYESYES!!!!!AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!
excuse me a moment.
(takes deep breath)
(sips at water)
I'd just like to say,
(swallows)
YESYESYESYESYESYESYES!!!!!AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I drink to drive away all the years I have hated, the ambitions frustrated that no longer survive. I drink day after day to the chaos behind me, yes I drink to remind me that I still am alive. So I give you a toast to the endless confusions, to the lies and delusions that have swallowed my life. Yes I give you a toast to the wine and the roses, to the deadly cirrhosis that can cut like a knife. I drink to catch a gleam of the love we degraded, of a life that has faded like the vanishing moon. I drink as in a dream, to my waning desire, to the passionate fire that has burned out so soon. I drink and I drown in a promise you made me, all the times you betrayed me in your anger and spite. When you put on the town, when you looked for the action, when you took satisfaction like a whore in the night. I drink to make believe that my life is worth living, that the gods are forgiving at the end of the day. I drink because I grieve for the dreams when we started, for the innocent hearted who got lost on the way. For the children unborn, for their dead phantom faces, for our sterile embraces in the tomb of your bed. I drink and I moan for the harvest that failed, for the ship that has sailed, for the hope that is dead. I drink to find a place where the darkness can hide me, 'til the terror inside me can at least disappear. I drink to my disgrace, 'til oblivion claims me, 'til there's nothing that shames me, 'til I'm blind to my fear. Yes I drink 'til I burst in my own degradation, to the edge of damnation that is waiting below. Yes I drink with a thirst that destroys and depraves me, engulfs and enslaves me, and will never let go. I drink until I'm lost and the street is my hideout, where I hope and I cry out until I'm gasping for breath. I drink to count the cost of a life I despair for, until God hears my prayer for the compassion of death. So I spit out my bile at the gods who demean us, and the silence between us, and the love none can save. For a life that is vile, for a soul that is ailing, for a body that's failing as it heads for the grave. I drink without a care, drink because I must, drink to my despair, I drink to your disgust, I drink, drink, drink, by God I drink. Yes, I drink.
(italics mine)
lyric transcription and mp3 courtesy of this fine blog
Monday, August 11, 2008
Saturday, August 02, 2008
I quite understand Blissblog’s deep seated aversion to the bongo and general hatred of “organic” percussion in the hands of Womad and Big Chill loving types trying to cop a bit of sophisticated outernational one-world vibeism, as though a love for painstakingly Artisanal “ real” instruments somehow tallied with authentic humanism. Yuk, awful!
Besides which, in my ongoing simple disbelief at the ludicrous self-deception evident in other people’s tastes, I refuse to believe that the rhythmically unsophisticated white booshwah British ear can really hear the groove in most Salsa, Afrobeat etc let alone dance to it. In fact they can’t, I’ve seen them. The vital disconnect between the brain and hips, the current effectively bypassing them and going straight to the weirdly pivoting leaden feet, violently compromises any attempt to appear crotch-led and sexful. We are a nation, at best, of hoppers, and stampers, terminally foot-focused, though in moments of high excitement we may flail and windmill, channelling the rhythm section’s kinetic force through our arms, like a mighty two branched Oak in a violent storm, trunks rooted firmly to the ground, limbs thrashing violently and a-rhythmically.
I’m always a bit suspicious of cross-cultural epiphanies, too. Lots of the music I grew to love when I was a teenager I got into through making a concerted effort to listen to it. It took me years to actually enjoy stuff like The Birthday Party and early Sonic Youth and it was forced self-exposure that eventually got it into my brain and provided a kind of foundation stone for later stuff.
Same goes for Tango*, for years it just made no sense to me and it’s only after prolonged and repeated exposure that it finally took root, that it developed any affective value, that I could “recognize” it , that it solidified into a coherent object with an apparent structure rather than just a load of disparate bits of alien disjecta, (Nabokov’s “ random series of more or less irritating noises.”) and then dissolved in me, passed on to become something moving, something that attached itself to my skin and nerves, that brought on yearning and delight, and all the physical responses, tingles, lugubriosity, gooseflesh etc that are the corollary of something now being of you. Music works through a mysterious slow symbiosis, it’s a benign tyrant in some ways, a piecemeal, dripfed form of colonization and internal recalibration. The analogies with language learning are apposite, I think, it is a language of a kind, acquired through exposure, assimilated as a language is assimilated and it’s the assimilation that’s vital in it becoming of you rather than simply something learned, an object or a set of tools to be manipulated. The great moment in language learning comes when you realise you’re not translating anymore and that you’re saying things which simply don’t have an equivalent semantically or structurally in your mother tongue. You’ve been overtaken by something, now it has you, you’re in a new territory, but getting there takes years of engagement.
Besides which, in my ongoing simple disbelief at the ludicrous self-deception evident in other people’s tastes, I refuse to believe that the rhythmically unsophisticated white booshwah British ear can really hear the groove in most Salsa, Afrobeat etc let alone dance to it. In fact they can’t, I’ve seen them. The vital disconnect between the brain and hips, the current effectively bypassing them and going straight to the weirdly pivoting leaden feet, violently compromises any attempt to appear crotch-led and sexful. We are a nation, at best, of hoppers, and stampers, terminally foot-focused, though in moments of high excitement we may flail and windmill, channelling the rhythm section’s kinetic force through our arms, like a mighty two branched Oak in a violent storm, trunks rooted firmly to the ground, limbs thrashing violently and a-rhythmically.
I’m always a bit suspicious of cross-cultural epiphanies, too. Lots of the music I grew to love when I was a teenager I got into through making a concerted effort to listen to it. It took me years to actually enjoy stuff like The Birthday Party and early Sonic Youth and it was forced self-exposure that eventually got it into my brain and provided a kind of foundation stone for later stuff.
Same goes for Tango*, for years it just made no sense to me and it’s only after prolonged and repeated exposure that it finally took root, that it developed any affective value, that I could “recognize” it , that it solidified into a coherent object with an apparent structure rather than just a load of disparate bits of alien disjecta, (Nabokov’s “ random series of more or less irritating noises.”) and then dissolved in me, passed on to become something moving, something that attached itself to my skin and nerves, that brought on yearning and delight, and all the physical responses, tingles, lugubriosity, gooseflesh etc that are the corollary of something now being of you. Music works through a mysterious slow symbiosis, it’s a benign tyrant in some ways, a piecemeal, dripfed form of colonization and internal recalibration. The analogies with language learning are apposite, I think, it is a language of a kind, acquired through exposure, assimilated as a language is assimilated and it’s the assimilation that’s vital in it becoming of you rather than simply something learned, an object or a set of tools to be manipulated. The great moment in language learning comes when you realise you’re not translating anymore and that you’re saying things which simply don’t have an equivalent semantically or structurally in your mother tongue. You’ve been overtaken by something, now it has you, you’re in a new territory, but getting there takes years of engagement.
With Salsa** we’re talking about a really rhythmically dense and complicated music, with little in the way of Trad rock/pop dynamics and few textural considerations. I’ve been trying to listen to it for years and my experience is always the same, it’s just a load of frantic baseless clatter topped off with horrible vocals. It eludes me still. About the only thing I can enjoy at this stage is stuff like this, which as you’ll notice is basically built around Mack the Knife anyway, and that’s partially down to the great lyrics and Blades’ charisma. So quite how your average Pop-reared Brit suddenly clicks and goes, “This is the stuff!” on a purely musical level without it bleeding into all other kinds of disavowed fantasy projections and needs is a bit of a mystery to me. Some people assimilate quicker than others, sure, but that instantaneous sideways shift, rather than a lateral, branching, forward surge up to the next level (which is legitimate enough definition of an epiphany, anyway) always seems to address deeper underlying needs (in the same way sudden religious conversion does).
All that said, however, this is my favourite record of the moment. Go figure!
All that said, however, this is my favourite record of the moment. Go figure!
*Interestingly one of the complaints that Argentineans have about Brit tango dancers is that while they might demonstrate a high degree of technical competence they tend to ignore the simple pleasure of concentrating on the rhythm and moving to/being moved by it and instead simply use it for flashy demonstrations of “expertise.” They’re too busy turning it into a competitive display to really get any deeper-level feel for it, effectively too mediated by self-presentation to surrender to being pulled along in it’s undertow.
** A guy I knew who used to teach Salsa classes wondered why the English never started dancing until the last hour or so of the class and initially assumed it was some arcane social ritual he couldn't grasp as a Venezuelan. After a while he realised, aha! it’s because they’re not drunk enough until ten thirty. What a bunch of emotion-shy, anxious, hyper self-conscious geeks trying to kid themselves that they’re wild, free and passionate via the consumption of a music that they don’t really relate to except on the level of the ego! Know Thyself!!!!!
** A guy I knew who used to teach Salsa classes wondered why the English never started dancing until the last hour or so of the class and initially assumed it was some arcane social ritual he couldn't grasp as a Venezuelan. After a while he realised, aha! it’s because they’re not drunk enough until ten thirty. What a bunch of emotion-shy, anxious, hyper self-conscious geeks trying to kid themselves that they’re wild, free and passionate via the consumption of a music that they don’t really relate to except on the level of the ego! Know Thyself!!!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)