"Gibraltar. Scene During the Plague" by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1836)

At first, I only buried one,
    And she was borne along
By kindred mourners to her grave,
    With sacred rite and song.
At first they sent for me to pray
    Beside the bed of death:
They blessed their household, and they breathed
    Prayer in their latest breath.
But then men died more rapidly—
    They had not time to pray;
And from the pillow love had smoothed
    Fear fled in haste away.
And then there came the fastened door—
    Then came the guarded street—
Friends in the distance watched for friends;
    Watched,—that they might not meet.
And Terror by the hearth stood cold,
    And rent all natural ties,
And men, upon the bed of death,
    Met only stranger eyes:
The nurse—and guard, stern, harsh, and wan
    Remained, unpitying, by;
They had known so much wretchedness,
    They did not fear to die.
Heavily rung the old church bells,
    But no one came to prayer:
The weeds were growing in the street,
    Silence and Fate were there.
O’er the first grave by which I stood,
    Tears fell, and flowers were thrown,
The last grave held six hundred lives,*
    And there I stood alone.

"Madre" by Rodrigo Sorogoyen (2019)

An innocent phone call quickly escalates into a nightmare as a Elena (Marta Nieto) realises that her little son (on vacation somewhere with a father) is left alone and scared on a beach, with nobody in sight. There is nothing she can do from a distance, as nobody knows where the boy actually is - is it Spain or France? All he can say is that he is alone on the beach, the night is falling and there is a man coming over and looking at him. "Run Ivan, run as fast as you can and hide!" is the last thing she can say before phone goes off.

The story continues ten years later - Elena now lives in France and works in a beach restaurant around exactly same area where her little boy disappeared years ago. There is a work and a new lover, caring Joseba (Alex Brendemühl) but we can sense that Elena is deeply wounded and unhappy, her heart is broken and nothing makes her genuinely happy. People are eating, laughing, dancing around her and she is always a bit distant, as she can never truly relax with a secret scar she is hiding. Until one day she spots a group of teenagers on the beach and something about golden locks of Jean (Jules Porier) strongly reminds her of her long vanished son - so much, that she follows him home and peeks trough the bushes at his lunch with a family. From here, movie turns into obsession not unlike Gustav von Aschenbach and Tadzio in "Death in Venice" - middle aged woman stalking a teenage boy who responds with his youthful innocence, curiosity and even erotic interest. Because Elena keeps everything packed up tightly inside and never reveals how deeply she still suffer the loss of her boy, after all these years, the whole story appears kind of sordid - everybody (including Jean himself) thinks this is a crazy lady lusting after a teenage boy and eventually things just fall apart because his family won't allow her close by anymore. The obsession turns almost into madness, shared between Elena and Jean.

I left the cinema very upset - I needed a drink and a good ranting over glass of wine why was this so insufferable, this & that. Everything would have been so much easier had Elena only talk to someone - the whole drama happens because she is keeping everything inside and never even confides what tortures her. People get the wrong conclusion because they don't understand her perspective. Boy and his teenage friends think this is a crazy lady lusting after him. Colleagues at work, people around them, Jean's family - they all judge her and have their own conclusions simply because she never tells anybody "listen, he reminds me so much of my own son he went missing many years ago". Had she only said that out loud, people would react completely differently and might even understand what she is going trough. But she keeps silent and appears as deranged woman running after a teenage boy, who naturally fights with his parents because he is so young that for him this is probably first love and an earthquake. I even suggested that the very first scene could have been placed last, to explain why she behaved the way she did. My friend didn't agree, he thought this was perfect and claimed he was never bored even though the movie crawled and went on forever. There was something intentionally slow about the pacing that made me feel as the movie was going on for hours and hours (its actually two hours long) and frankly, it could have been edited since lots of scenes were not really so important. I was angry, I was mad and upset because nothing was the way I wanted  - later, as I calmed down, I just ad to accept the movie moved me very much and its actually very, very strong drama, even if it had upset me. This was not my vision but directors and he created his own work - later I found out that the whole movie was expansion of that first, chilling scene that was originally a short movie. So from that particular scene - mother on the phone - Rodrigo Sorogoyen has built a whole movie that now follows what happened with Elena afterwards. Now I think its excellent, how interesting that it provoked such strong emotions - I just needed to sleep on it and think of it from a different perspective. I saw it a week ago and still thinking about it. 

"The Kingmaker" by Lauren Greenfield (2019)

This is one of the best documentaries I have seen so far in 2020. and it was definitely thought-provoking and kind of a movie you just want to discuss with your friends afterwards. It was done with a full co-operation of Imelda Marcos who kind of has a strained relationship with the media - her willingness to constantly talk to journalists shows that she still deeply care about her public image (there is a whole army of people taking care of her hair, make up and the dresses) but no matter from which perspective one looks at it, she is not convincing. What "The Kingmaker" does and it does it masterfully, is to present how history can be re-written if we are not careful and the mistakes from the past are bound to happen again and again if people are willing to be manipulated. 

Imelda comes across as a beautiful trophy wife who overstayed her welcome - long ago, she was the pearl of Philippines, a president's wife and an elegant hostess who had her hand kissed by every visiting politician. Gullible and sentimental population admired the couple for decades, until they brazen political manipulations became unbearable - had they quietly resigned in time, president and his pretty wife might have enjoyed comfortable life out of the spotlight, but it took a revolution to topple them from a throne and even than, Imelda returns to Manilla in order to bulldoze way for her son's political ambition. It is very clear that the son is not really in it but he does it for the mother who is basking in attention and there is a strong hint that grandson might follow the path. While the camera follows aggressive political campaign and election, we also witness testimonies of the people who were imprisoned, tortured and raped during years of president Marcos regime - they can't believe how gullible the population became in the meantime and how quickly everything is forgotten, why are Marcoses even allowed to return to the country, not to mention to participate in a election. 

The secret behind president Ferdinand Marcos power is in the finances given to him by US as exchange for persecuting communists in Philippines - we are talking about billions of dollars meant for building the infrastructure. They surely built and built, but this were mostly vanity projects, palaces and investments that had nothing to do with re-building the country. Not unlike French royal family who had to escape in a carriage during the revolution, Marcoses had to escape with a helicopter while angry mob was demolishing their palace bellow - even than, they had enough wealth amassed in various banks around the world. It took some guts for Imelda to actually return to Philippines and the documentary is now following her attempts to bring her family back in the political frontline. The scary thing is - she actually might succeed. The new president (who appears to be a con man) Rodrigo Duterte is more than willing to help them for exchange for the bribe - however, Marcoses are playing with fire here because this is a very dangerous situation where political opponents and competition are openly murdered in the night. As long as this president finds them useful and non-threatening, he will let them parade around. But there is a cold look in his eyes that suggest he could easily eliminate the whole family once he puts his hands on their bank accounts. 

Imelda herself is simpering and whimpering - she loves to repeat how she lost her mother at the age of eight and was hard-working her whole life. In one of the movie's best scenes, she is again telling her same old story but trough Freudian slip, she said "At the age of eight I lost my money, um, mother"  - no doubt after years of repeating the same script she actually genuinely believes her own words and sees herself as a mother of the nation. Wincing in disgust at the scenes of poverty of children patients in a cancer ward, she quickly gives away some cash "for the candy"  but this is as far as her mothering goes. Realising that Picasso and Michelangelo hanging above her might attract some unwanted attention, she quickly replaces them with some inconspicuous photographs. My issue with all of this is not the wealth itself but the criminal ways it was amassed and used for pulling the strings behind the scenes - its a cautionary tale that probably functions around the world, not just in Philippines. Personally I think that Marcoses are in a danger and would have been far safer living in a comfortable anonymity of Bel Air - Imelda's political ambition will probably get them all killed sooner or later. 

World Press Photo Exhibition 2020

First, I must state how much I enjoy my civilian life now - its been two years already and I am still giddy with joy that I have managed to escape slavery on the cruise ships and finally got out of the hamster's wheel - people think its glamorous life but in reality its everything but. Instead of working seven days a week and wasting my precious "free time" on trainings, drills and whatnot, I am now actually able to have work & private life separated. Work is work, than I switch off. And as Corona epidemics seems to have subdued here, now I am enjoying my walks, cinemas and yes, dear reader, exhibitions.

I was walking somewhere (probably hunting for a specific brand of Sangria), minding my own business and humming along, when this poster caught my attention. Some spectacular creature in a food market, totally crazy. Like Carmen Miranda out of place. I thought it was brilliant and actually took a double take, walked back to see it better. Right than and there I decided this would be interesting gift for my friend Ricardo who appears slightly more civilised than my co-workers, so he was invited for a surprise, as I often do. Poor guy suffered trough some bizarre cinema choices with me and never complained, but now I thought enough is enough and before he starts thinking I am some horror freak, lets see photo exhibition of what I assumed must be the best photos of the year. You know, twilights in Andes, lake in China, magic forrest in Germany and such. I am really naive sometimes.

So we came to this exhibition, which mind you is situated in a spectacular place called De Nieuwe Kerk and its actual 15th century Gothic church used nowadays as a exhibition place. Everything around here is old & recycled so its not unusual to see an old butcher sign above what is now a hairdresser or a salt warehouse moonlighting as a luxurious hotel, still the idea of genuine ancient protestant church hosting exhibits about Muslims, Buddha and Sumatrans still gives me a kick - all those admirals and playwrights buried here would probably turn in their graves. So you have this incredibly pretty old space and super modern exhibitions somehow squeezed inside. Fine, after all, why not? 

You can imagine my horror when instead of nice pictures of kitties, puppies and animals I have actually encountered award-winning photos of such happy subjects as protesters beaten by police, Indian girls mutilated as a punishment by their families, young racists, people crying on the cemeteries, African emigrants and Russian Chernobyl ladies - it was one horror after the other and I'm afraid Ricardo now definitely thinks I am some weirdo - mind you, photos were very gripping and provocative but definitely too much to take at once, kind of makes you to cut your wrists right than and there. There were some very interesting images by Italian photographer Lorenzo Tugnoli and I liked those the most. For some reason they spoke to me - he was photographing Middle East and there were some haunting images of Taliban soldiers that I found fascinating, because the Western world describes them as a terrorists but what I saw on the pictures was not that famous, notorious "otherness" but our basic, human tragedy - trough his lenses I could glimpse exhaustion, fear, hunger and uncertainty. Souls in pain. And suddenly here I am, standing in the middle of an old protestant church turned museum and feeling compassion for Talibans. Maybe its good that I came to visit, after all. 

"Color Out of Space" by Richard Stanley (2019)

I have encountered H. P. Lovecraft relatively recently, just a few years ago as I was digging slightly more seriously into horror literature and trying to find out is there something else besides Anne Rice and Stephen King. The answer was yes, but you need to search around in order to discover something that is not a typical pulp fiction - best sellers were not really so memorable and often simply depended on gore, sex and violence. Shirley Jackson was a revelation and than around the same time I finally decided to check this guy, who seems to have cult following - his 1927. short story "Color Out of Space"  was sensational and my first introduction to his style. As brilliant as Lovecraft was, he turned out to be a bit too intense for me so I always read his work cautiously, little by little, short story here and there, never one after the another as with some other writers. 

When I heard that there is a new movie version of this famous story, I was simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive - after all, Lovecraft creates the atmosphere of menace and doom with his words, so transferring this on a screen, into a completely different medium means that story will probably depend on visual effects and acting. I was correct: director Richard Stanley take on it is lovingly twisted re-telling that has almost nothing really in common with Lovecraft but a lot with 1950s monster B movies. And guess what, it worked perfectly. Because even during his lifetime, Lovecraft's writing was never considered a high literature and was always published in a trashy pulp magazines so it kind of makes sense that now comes to the silver screen as a trashy B movie with exaggerated acting and lots of blood all over the place. 

The movie itself was great FUN. I genuinely don't remember when was the last time I had such fun in the cinema because normally I watch everything very for analytically and always found old ideas rehashed and presented as new, but here everything was moving in a such speed that there was no time for using the brain - I could just swirl trough some crazy LSD fantasy and enjoy the ride. The first half rolls nicely as a introduction to a doomed family who have just moved to a isolated new property and you don't have to be familiar with the story to understand something bad will happen to them. Director Richard Stanley takes a very basic frame - family living far away from everybody else, gets meteorite in their farm and strange things started happening - but naturally builds his own story around it. While I am not entirely sure how did they get Joely Richardson for this project, it seems like a perfectly natural choice for unrepentantly hammy Nicolas Cage who overacts, exaggerates and basically knowingly winks at the audience trough the whole movie - he knows that we know this is not a high art and here, you wanted camp, I'll give you camp. In a way its a equivalent to those old movies where stars like Joan Crawford in the twilight of their careers valiantly tried to hold on to the very last minute on a screen, covered with blood and screaming while waving the axe/scissors/hammer. Once things started rolling, I spent the rest of the movie with hands covering my face and not only I was squirming uncomfortably but looking away and behaving like a squeamish teenage girl - I honestly don't remember when was the last time I wriggled and wriggled so much in the cinema - as we went out, both me and my friend were laughing like madmen and had immediately to go for a drink out in a open air to get back to reality. I could actually watch it again. It was a breath of fresh air amongst movies full of cliches, it might be derivative from 1950s but today it felt completely new. I actually like this director big time and looking forward to his second Lovecraft project. 

"A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" by Marielle Heller (2019)

Apparently Tom Hanks really wanted to do this biopic of TV icon Fred Rogers because he thought the world needs something positive right now. And I do agree with him. I also happen to love his work, in fact I don't think that I have ever seen anything by Hanks that I disliked - he always came across as a very nice, decent guy, sort of modern day James Stewart who back in his day was one of the most beloved Hollywood actors. There is something quintessentially good about Hanks and it makes perfect sense that he plays in a movie about somebody who was a good guy. Mind you, Mr.Rogers TV show has never been shown in my part of the world so the impact of his fame eludes me but I can imagine and understand he was somebody very much trusted and beloved, in fact movie makes a point that he patiently bore the weight of his celebrity in order to help the people around him. So, there is something unnervingly saintly about Mr.Rogers but the director Marielle Heller leave to the audience to decide is he a good guy or simply a professional who plays his act. 

Making a biopic about somebody who is goodie-two-shoes might not really be a story worth two hours and here is where Heller decided to use her creative freedom and suddenly shifts the focus from Mr. Rogers to a journalist who interviews him - Matthew Rhys is actually very good as a troubled, broken journalist who initially approaches Mr. Rogers with suspicion, just to end up being a true believer. Unfortunately this is where I lost the patience with the movie itself - it slides into sentimental "message movie" (like that awful "Wrinkle in a time") and suddenly its all about forgiveness, emotions, tears and family drama where Tom Hanks/Mr. Rogers looks knowingly from a distance and his blank expression could be zillion different things, from saintly approval to menacing disapproval - its up to a viewer to decide. The whole family drama thing disturbs the balance of the movie so much that I found myself genuinely annoyed - why all of this patronising and why should he forgive alcoholic father who left Rhys when he was a little boy? Would forgiveness now make him somehow happy man? (The movie suggest it does) Well, I passionately disagree and not even Mr. Rogers could twist my arm to forgive somebody who was basically asshole my whole life, just because its his time to die now. I had this exact situation in my life and never, ever crawled, cried or forgave. The parent who had scarred little child for the rest of his life do not deserve any forgiveness or affections. 

"They are like this" said my friend as we left the cinema. We laughed and giggled as I dared to mention that character of Mr. Rogers seems somehow like elderly Forest Gump - its iconic impact hanging like a curse above the rest of Tom Hanks work. In spite of all the warm-hearted reviews, I was a little bit disappointed. This was patronising and sentimental in a way that did not sit well with me at all. Movie directors used to be able to make you think without being obvious about it. 

"The Fog" by James Herbert (1975)

Right after "The Rats" I went straight into Herbert's second novel. 

For some reason, it didn't sit very well with me and I could quickly point that Herbert is not really in the same league as Stephen King to whom he was constantly compared - often advertised as "British Stephen King"  Herbert is not exactly there, in fact no one is but the comparisons are actually more hurting than helpful. What they have in common is just accidental - both work in a same genre, both published debut novel in the same year (1974.) and both have tendency to bring the finale in a big, booming explosion that will erase whatever got tangled earlier. But where King really posses a knack for keeping the reader biting his nails constantly from the first to the last page, Herbert is not there. "The Rats" being the first novel, had a special charm and urgency - as soon as we came to second novel, this is gone and replaced by knowing labouring over chapters. 

For example, Stephen King started with a bang - "Carrie" - but he didn't waste any time and continued with even better "Salem's Lot"  which was magnificent and a proof that now when he finally got public attention, he is actually better than ever. On the other hand, James Herbert got a huge notoriety with his debut "The Rats"  but once he became a celebrity, it turned into a slightly gimmicky shock scare trick. You have some calamity that approaches London and destroys helpless victims. What is basically a very thin story is now fattened with pointless chapters describing various unrelated characters who are here to die at the end of the page, often having very graphic sex and there is a very noticeable sense of unnecessary filler in order to extend the story into more substantial novel. To top it all, everything must end in a big fire and explosion. Needless to say, this one did not excite me at all and I ploughed trough it just because I started but it was nowhere near exciting as "The Rats". The story has absolutely nothing to do with the 1980 movie by John Carpenter or the novel "The Mist"  by Stephen King. 

"The Rats" by James Herbert (1974)

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions" - when I bought a bird feeder for my backyard, it never occurred to me that the stupid birdies will spread the seeds all over the place and eventually attract the whole rat family. To my biggest horror, what was kind of cute little backyard now has a very sinister feeling to it and suddenly I am not so enthusiastic about it anymore - the place is exactly the same as it always was but I see it with different eyes and the pest company definitely has to be called in. All of this inspired me to turn to a novel I have never read before, but was aware of it - James Herbert is known as a British Stephen King and interestingly, it seems they started around the same time. Both "Carrie" and "The Rats" were published in 1974, both first novels by young and unknown authors who will eventually re-invent the whole horror genre and create quite a successful careers out of it. I have read few of Herbert's novels and found them entertaining - the very first one I came across was "Nobody True" and so far that was my favourite - not anymore. 

As expected, "The Rats" is extremely gory and disturbing. Herbert writes with a sadistic glee but he also has a relaxed, even funny moments. It is actually very good first novel - just as with King, with time the writing will eventually become more assured and fluid, but there is a certain excitement and raw power in this very first published work - all the pieces are already here, they just need to be carefully assembled and polished. Where some later of his works I found formulaic and uninspired, this one was bursting with white-hot inspiration and I must say that I gulped it in two days. Feverish reading trough the night. Apparently it was a huge best-seller (deservedly) and criticised as worst pulp fiction - interestingly, as today, some 46 years after its initial publication it actually still appears fresh and gripping. I dare you to stop reading once you have started. Not really sure why King is accepted as literature and Herbert is still considered to be pulp fiction, since they are really very similar. 

Lifetime Achievement Porin for Her Highness Josipa Lisac

Porin is a Croatian equivalent to Grammy and it was inaugurated back in 1993, just as Croatia became independent country. Before that, we had all sorts of awards given annually but they were mainly connected with specific magazines, festivals, etc - the most memorable detail from my childhood was that sticker on LP covers that would say "golden", "silver" or "platinum" record, which marked spectacular sales and mass appeal, in hindsight this had nothing to do with quality itself. Croatians take themselves very seriously so they surely do give a lot of awards left & right, even though the music scene is actually small and it looks like same people pat themselves on the shoulders year after year. Along with the regular awards, there is also a Lifetime Achievement Porin given this year to our first lady of Rock, Josipa Lisac who has been around since 1968. 

Now, this would all be fine and dandy if not for past February when Josipa made a bad decision to perform at the president's inauguration where her idiosyncratic performance of national anthem turned the enormous tide against her. If not for this, Josipa would have been going from strength to strength, selling our concerts and collecting awards at the grand age of 70, her legend firmly cemented and the respected well earned. Personally I am still not sure why there was such an outpour of strong hostility towards her - considering that all these decades she was very well known and indeed  celebrated for being fiercely individual - and I am actually following all of this from a distance, so I can't say for sure but I do remember that even in the days of my earliest childhood she was a highly divisive artist so perhaps this new, modern era with its social media gave a spotlight to lots of suppressed frustrations and jealousy. It was a highly controversial subject for a while, with angry discussions and arguments raging far & wide (somebody even appealed to a court to get her fined for mocking the anthem) but what is the most important is that all her hard-won respect, dignity and status infamously crashed overnight and she became a focus of ridicule. Even her most loyal supporters must have agreed that it would have been better if she never accepted the invitation for this political circus, where unfortunately she just couldn't resist to do her schtick and to play around with the melody, but that is besides the point - if we are going to threat the artists with a jail for being creative and individual, than not only this is reflection of a very conservative society but it erases everything that all her life Josipa was striving to do. 

As expected, world epidemics eventually swept that scandal away but the public anger persisted. I watched televised Porin last night, this year directed under unusual circumstances, with majority of artists participating from their living room and there were only two hosts talking in a empty TV studio. Josipa did appear herself, introduced by passionately loyal Siniša Škarica who reminded the audience that Josipa deserved her status and award ten times over but the whole affair had a sad atmosphere to it - maybe it was the empty studio with handful of people applauding, the physical distance between everybody or frail Josipa herself who did not appear strong, victorious or unrepentant but had a air of theatrical sadness about her. It actually felt as a closure of one chapter and I really regret that damn anthem from the bottom of my heart. She decided to remind the audience of gratitude and love for her late, beloved Karlo Metikoš  with this poem:

"Life and its beauty

Are opening to me

When I think of your eyes

Under this fading sky.

On this clean and wet grass

You don't hear my footsteps

They don't stop birds from singing

The Fog is already coming down

In your absence and this suffering

I love you more than ever." 

Update:

Lady herself appeared in TV interview, charming and witty as usual. Absolutely no trace of regret or misgivings. Firmly but politely she skipped the question about the anthem and insisted that she won't explain herself and her music. Best of all, there was a All Star video clip where lots of musicians sung her famous song - clear and obvious message of support and I love it. She is a classy, important and unique artist who enjoyed successful and long career, at this point she should be loved and celebrated instead of criticised. I just love her to bits.

"Zdenka" by Zdenka Vučković (1983)

In Croatian pop music we have two ladies named Zdenka - they were both born in Zagreb, both belong to same generation and were probably mingling in the same circles but could not be more different: where Zdenka Vučković had her commercial peak in 1960s and everything afterwards was a long twilight, Zdenka Kovačiček blossomed much later in her 50s and is very much active today. There is some common confusion between these two and people often assume its the same person, where in fact one was singing children songs and novelties, while the other went for rock and blues, so its definitely two very different people. 

Sadly, Vučković recently passed away and although she is remembered with great affection, closer look at her recording legacy shows that she was very much neglected artist who really never recaptured earliest glory days - inexplicably, "Jugoton" has never explored her 1960s hits and they were first time compiled in 2002 (!) while one LP and this compilation (confusingly using same title) are literary all that is left behind her. It seems that Vučković was very much loved as a teenage pop star but as soon as she grew up into adulthood, the success evaporated and fickle audiences lost interest. That one LP went nowhere and dozen singles recorded trough the next decade also failed to leave any great impact. This compilation, released only on cassette tape have a obligatory feeling to it, as "Jugoton" was closing a chapter - even though Vučković actually sounded better than ever as she matured, sentimental schlager ballads and international covers could only bring her so far, it really seems that with time she merged quietly into anonymous festival background - as those were less relevant, so were its performers. 

Again, the compilation failed to compile her singles but focused on various festival performances - by far the most interesting song here is actually great "Ugasi Svjetla" resurrected from B side of 1972 single (!) but the rest is reflection of a mellow MOR artist who still posses that wonderfully clear, instantly recognisable sound. For whatever reason, singles were completely ignored - and there were actually quite a few of them - so this hodgepodge of odds and ends happened to be the last project she will release in her lifetime. At her passing, there were comments about spectacular and successful career but frankly, we have to be realistic. Vučković epitomised one particular era, post-WW2 enthusiasm and energy in the 1960s - her last genuine hit was 1971 single with children's songs and after that she valiantly persisted on festivals, eclipsed by younger generation. Charming, sweet lady, though. 

"Cementna Prašina" by Stijene (1981)

Croatian rock band Stijene might have been a brainchild of leader/composer Marin Limić but more importantly, it served as a showcase for the awesome powerhouse female vocalists who one after another stole the spotlight - each of these girls had a specific, strong voice that could soar above rock guitars, they kind of sound alike and all of them had to follow in the footsteps of the first vocalist, mighty Zorica Kondža. Even though I understand this was guy's band, Limić wrote most of the material and there had to be some yīn and yáng energy going on, if you ask me, Stijene was all about Kondža - her voice commanded attention, it was instantly recognisable and seemingly there was no limits to where she could go. She might have been inspired by Janis Joplin (a subject of a 1982. hit single for the band) but this was still an individual, distinctive sound that separated her from the rest of the competition and Kondža was so important for the band that after her exit they never really recovered. Valiantly they soldiered on with one after another excellent girl singers but the success was elusive. 

Initially, I have dismissed their debut "Cementna Prašina" as pretentious, meandering prog-rock that did nothing for the band and resulted in no hits. And than, just to contradict myself, yesterday I listened it again and found it was excellent, creative and interesting because less known material now sounds fresher than hits. Yes, the sound here is deeply rooted in 1970s rock and it does kind of reflects that guys were looking backwards instead of forward, but that is part of its charm and there is a certain spirit of youthful energy and enthusiasm present here that has not been compromised by demands of industry. Even if they meander a bit, guys are fiery and determined to conquer the world - it helps that girl singer understands what they are trying to do and she perfectly embodies rebellious spirit, where somebody else might have spoiled the effect with soft touch. Back in the day, there was one particular rock ballad that got radio attention - "Ja Sam More, Ti Si Rijeka"  which is kind of re-write of their first big hit, classic "Sve Je Neobično Ako Te Volim"  and it was clear from the start that Kondža was the band. The debut was not commercial and yielded no big hits but it  did served a purpose of introducing the band to wider audiences and very next year they will come up with their most perfect work. I found that it sounds surprisingly good because these songs are not overplayed. 

"Listening to Bach’s B Minor Mass in the kitchen" by Elizabeth Burns

Finally, I’m done with the phone calls and everything else

and when I switch on the radio it feels like lying in salt water –

all I need to do is breathe: Bach will keep me afloat.

I’m mixing yeast into flour, making rolls for my daughter’s

birthday breakfast in the morning, kneading and kneading

the dough then setting it to rise; arranging in a glass

the last of the tiny pink roses with a sprig of green,

finding the blue candles and ironing the tablecloth,

the one my granny embroidered, sweeping the floor,

thinking about the hot August night of the birth,

and about the people we met on Westray last week,

and the presents I still need to wrap, and Bach himself

who is like a mountain covered in wildflowers,

and the singers in the Albert Hall who, the conductor says,

get close to godliness through this performance;

and I’m wondering, as all those voices fill my kitchen

with the Mass, if this is what he means: the sense

of time and place dissolving, so what divides us

from the past and elsewhere, and from each other,

falls away, and everything’s connected and we are all

drops of water in this enormous breaking wave.

"Legends & Folk Tales of Holland" by Adele De Leeun (1963)

This is something I have picked up in a library some time ago on a whim - the idea behind my membership was to find some material for my language lessons but eventually I got overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of material and decided to stick to my course book. However, I did took several books about the history of the place where I live now, thinking it might be interesting to comprehend little of the culture and tradition. Besides, I was planning to enjoy some fairy tales for a long time so this came handy.

As I expected, it is a very mellow, nice and comforting read. 

Most of the stories here are only few pages long so there is a feel of "reading before sleep" and this makes for a very warm-hearted atmosphere, almost makes you forget about the life around you. Adele De Leeun dedicated the book to her father who was her "friend, companion and delightful teller of tales" - it is a very moving and affectionate dedication, so naturally the collection itself lives across time and space, it is really wonderful how in a way we can make ourselves immortal trough art. Since I knew absolutely nothing about Dutch fairy tales, traditions and customs, while my knowledge of local history is fairly vague, this actually came as a nice surprise - there are lots of magic creatures behind some natural disasters (for example, imprisoned mermaid is responsible for flood that destroyed the whole town) and almost every single story is actually moral fable, where greed and cold-heartedness are eventually punished. There is also a very touching story about the besieged Leiden (here written as old-fashioned Leyden) where starving inhabitants must sacrifices their animals and Barend must give up his beloved horse just at the brink of victory - when Leiden finally was liberated and church bells rang victoriously, everybody was celebrating but poor Barend who cried for his horse. Another interesting story was about shoemaker who dreamt that he must leave his village and travel to Amsterdam where he will find his fortune at certain bridge - after many complications, he finds the place and naturally there is nothing on the bridge but a beggar who tells him HIS dream that a shoemaker in a small village has a fortune buried in a backyard. To be honest, I approached this collection a bit skeptically (because I am grown up?) but before you know it, ended up really drawn into it and time just flew before I realised that pages were turning by themselves. It is very easy read and quite enchanting, must admit. 

"Priđi mi bliže" by Vesna Kartuš (1982)

Out boredom and curiosity, I decided to check some albums from the archives of "Jugoton"  that escaped my attention the first time around. Unlike today, when production depends on re-packaging and countless compilations, back than music industry was going full blast and there was literary something for everybody, be it hardcore traditional folk, jazz, classical or latest pop star. Around the same time, "Jugoton"  decided to give a chance to two newcomers, Božica Jurić and Vesna Kartuš whose albums forever graced bargain bins ever since and who quickly disappeared without a trace, which was reason for me to have a closer look. 

There was something slightly anonymous about both ladies but Vesna Kartuš was actually surprisingly good. So much, in fact, that I have returned to her album "Priđi mi bliže" several times and it has never failed to lift my spirits and always made me sing along. It is a wonderfully sweet, light and breezy pop collection that was specifically tailored for younger singer by talented composers as Dejan Petković, Stjepan Mihaljinec and Arsen Dedić (Kartuš herself wrote one song which is actually not bad at all). To be honest, this unfairly neglected and completely obscure LP is genuinely much better than works by some artists who were at the same time doing routine work - for the life of me I can't understand why this wasn't bigger success or more popular. This is now pure speculation but it might have something to do with lack of promotion or the overall atmosphere where media focus was on either latest rock or hardcore folk artists - 1980s were all about loud image, big hair and attention grabbing costumes so girl-next-door image might have worked against her. However, Kartuš left handful of sunny, cheerful singles and her recordings, inconsequential as they might have been in the bigger scheme of things are very pleasant to this day - she comes across as a good natured younger sister and sometimes we are in the right mood for something that is not too heavy, music that is lighthearted and melodic as it is. "Renault - Peugot" , "Posudi Mi Tvoj Kišobran" and title song should have been hits and there is a certain sweetness and innocence that Kartuš  shares with older Zdenka Vučković - very appealing artist. 

"Weathering" by Alastair Reid

I am old enough now for a tree

once planted, knee high, to have grown to be

twenty times me,

and to have seen babies marry, and heroes grow deaf –

but that’s enough meaning-of-life.

It’s living through time we ought to be connoisseurs of.

From wearing a face all this time, I am made aware

of the maps faces are, of the inside wear and tear.

I take to faces that have come far.

In my father’s carved face, the bright eye

He sometimes would look out of, seeing a long way

through all the tree-rings of his history.

I am awed by how things weather: an oak mantel

in the house in Spain, fingered to a sheen,

the marks of hands leaned into the lintel,

the tokens in the drawer I sometimes touch –

a crystal lived-in on a trip, the watch

my father’s wrist wore to a thin gold sandwich.

It is an equilibrium

which breasts the cresting seasons but still stays calm

and keeps warm. It deserves a good name.

Weathering. Patina, gloss and whorl.

The trunk of the almond tree, gnarled but still fruitful.

Weathering is what I would like to do well.