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Thursday, October 30, 2003
As I stand here contemplating these gorgeous newcomers (yes, they are doing better and getting cuter every day), permit a glance at the discarded husk of my former self, and a sigh for what might've been.
It's interesting to see another piece from France, this time from someone called "headman," who evidently writes for the French equivalent of CMJ (which is a fucking awful comparison to make, but pretend for a minute that CMJ was not a complete embarrassment to college, music or journalism... try... try...) The other French writer, Richard Robert, wrote a second piece, for a Swiss mag. I may not have posted it, but it complements nicely his beautiful "Les Inrockuptibles" piece, so I'll get to that soon.
Anyway, if the long months of worry and sorrow had allowed, I would have mentioned a New Yorker article that ran a little while ago. The gist of it was that there's a movement in France running counter to the familiar America-hatred we've come to expect from our Gallic cousins.
I was glad to see this, of course, though - solipsist that I am - I was already prepared to assert French superiority over American cultural comprehension, based solely on the reception of my album there. Fact is, my acceptance by French critics (who, unlike American hacks, actually influence record sales) PROVES I wasn't deluded through all my years of music-making.
They have a history of "getting" American artists who've been completely ignored or throughly misunderstood here (and yes, I do include Jerry Lewis). I say this with a genuine sense of satisfaction and a profound sense of futility. The artists these critics cite... the context in which they frame their considerations of my work... the general level of respect with which they treat me... these things move me deeply.
Too late blues.
Yeah, they were wise to Cassavetes before we were, too. Oh wait, we ain't there yet, either.
So if I can loathe French pols as much as the French loathe ours, I must also bow to their appreciation of the importance of Art. Musically, I need only think of Satie, Debussy, Trenet, Piaf, Gainsbourg, Popp, (etc) to feel great glee at my acceptance there. Uncle sold out on Amazon France!
http://dijon.radio-campus.org/test/article.php3?id_article=306
Mike "sport" Murphy - Uncle
jeudi 2 octobre 2003, par headman
Sorti début 2003 outre-athlantique, Uncle, le troisieme album de Mike "sport" Murphy apporte la preuve supplémentaire d'un talent incontestable et pourtant méconnu.
Il aurait déjà fallu rendre hommage en 1999 à ce New-Yorkais qui était parvenu à nous reconcilier avec le solo de saxophone, dans cette miniature de pop ciselée qu'était le single The Night Surrounds. Pour cela, mais pas seulement, car quelque chose de mieux encore couvait sous les lignes et les notes : les mots touchaient au plus profond un monde qui n'a encore de cesse de tourner en rond. Sa voix resonnait admirablement sur ces quatre accords de guitare, dans un détachement et une amertume sensibles. Les disques de Mike Murphy circulaient alors d'une main experte, presque interdite, à une autre. Le monde se divisaient alors en deux catégories de personnes : ceux qui connaissaient Sport Murphy et les autres. Le nom n'était prononcé qu'après une approche stratégique, après l'analyse détaillée d'une pile de CD ou d'une rangée de vyniles. Il y a certaines découvertes plus précieuses que d'autres. Mais victime de cette confidentialité, ce secret le mieux gardé des Etats-Unis faillit poser définitivement la guitare et se terrer à jamais dans un anoymat des plus immérité. Ce sera la mort tragique de son neveu, dans les attentats du 11 septembre 2001, qui donnera naissance à ce troisième opus et à son titre: Uncle. Un disque où les compositions ne cèdent cependant pas à la tristesse ou au désepoir. A travers la vingtaine de titres qui composent Uncle, les influences, des plus respectables, restent les mêmes : cette bande parias celestes et superbes qui auront peint chacun à leurs manieres les fantasmes, la fragilité et la misère du monde : Tom Waits pour le piano d'Everybody's gone, Leonard Cohen ou Scott Walker pour le lyrisme sombre et plein d'une errance souterraine, Nick Drake et ses arpèges intimistes sur No Fair, Van Dyke Parks pour l'orchestration d' In other words. Mike sport Murphy s'autorise également quelques détours par des chemins de traverses, des chemins qu'il défriche à coup d'harmonica bancal ou de casio à 5 $ pour Behistun. Une diversité de pop/folksongs qui n' entame en rien l'unité de ce disque ni la finesse de ses arrangements. 20 titres où , malgré cette profusion, se dessine en filigrane la fragilité d'un homme et d'une vie.
Un disque à écouter seul pour rêver qu'à plusieurs millers de kilomètres, nous aussi, nous avons un oncle formidable qui n'hesite pas à declarer à l'intérieur du livret de son cd : "fuck this world"
It's interesting to see another piece from France, this time from someone called "headman," who evidently writes for the French equivalent of CMJ (which is a fucking awful comparison to make, but pretend for a minute that CMJ was not a complete embarrassment to college, music or journalism... try... try...) The other French writer, Richard Robert, wrote a second piece, for a Swiss mag. I may not have posted it, but it complements nicely his beautiful "Les Inrockuptibles" piece, so I'll get to that soon.
Anyway, if the long months of worry and sorrow had allowed, I would have mentioned a New Yorker article that ran a little while ago. The gist of it was that there's a movement in France running counter to the familiar America-hatred we've come to expect from our Gallic cousins.
I was glad to see this, of course, though - solipsist that I am - I was already prepared to assert French superiority over American cultural comprehension, based solely on the reception of my album there. Fact is, my acceptance by French critics (who, unlike American hacks, actually influence record sales) PROVES I wasn't deluded through all my years of music-making.
They have a history of "getting" American artists who've been completely ignored or throughly misunderstood here (and yes, I do include Jerry Lewis). I say this with a genuine sense of satisfaction and a profound sense of futility. The artists these critics cite... the context in which they frame their considerations of my work... the general level of respect with which they treat me... these things move me deeply.
Too late blues.
Yeah, they were wise to Cassavetes before we were, too. Oh wait, we ain't there yet, either.
So if I can loathe French pols as much as the French loathe ours, I must also bow to their appreciation of the importance of Art. Musically, I need only think of Satie, Debussy, Trenet, Piaf, Gainsbourg, Popp, (etc) to feel great glee at my acceptance there. Uncle sold out on Amazon France!
http://dijon.radio-campus.org/test/article.php3?id_article=306
Mike "sport" Murphy - Uncle
jeudi 2 octobre 2003, par headman
Sorti début 2003 outre-athlantique, Uncle, le troisieme album de Mike "sport" Murphy apporte la preuve supplémentaire d'un talent incontestable et pourtant méconnu.
Il aurait déjà fallu rendre hommage en 1999 à ce New-Yorkais qui était parvenu à nous reconcilier avec le solo de saxophone, dans cette miniature de pop ciselée qu'était le single The Night Surrounds. Pour cela, mais pas seulement, car quelque chose de mieux encore couvait sous les lignes et les notes : les mots touchaient au plus profond un monde qui n'a encore de cesse de tourner en rond. Sa voix resonnait admirablement sur ces quatre accords de guitare, dans un détachement et une amertume sensibles. Les disques de Mike Murphy circulaient alors d'une main experte, presque interdite, à une autre. Le monde se divisaient alors en deux catégories de personnes : ceux qui connaissaient Sport Murphy et les autres. Le nom n'était prononcé qu'après une approche stratégique, après l'analyse détaillée d'une pile de CD ou d'une rangée de vyniles. Il y a certaines découvertes plus précieuses que d'autres. Mais victime de cette confidentialité, ce secret le mieux gardé des Etats-Unis faillit poser définitivement la guitare et se terrer à jamais dans un anoymat des plus immérité. Ce sera la mort tragique de son neveu, dans les attentats du 11 septembre 2001, qui donnera naissance à ce troisième opus et à son titre: Uncle. Un disque où les compositions ne cèdent cependant pas à la tristesse ou au désepoir. A travers la vingtaine de titres qui composent Uncle, les influences, des plus respectables, restent les mêmes : cette bande parias celestes et superbes qui auront peint chacun à leurs manieres les fantasmes, la fragilité et la misère du monde : Tom Waits pour le piano d'Everybody's gone, Leonard Cohen ou Scott Walker pour le lyrisme sombre et plein d'une errance souterraine, Nick Drake et ses arpèges intimistes sur No Fair, Van Dyke Parks pour l'orchestration d' In other words. Mike sport Murphy s'autorise également quelques détours par des chemins de traverses, des chemins qu'il défriche à coup d'harmonica bancal ou de casio à 5 $ pour Behistun. Une diversité de pop/folksongs qui n' entame en rien l'unité de ce disque ni la finesse de ses arrangements. 20 titres où , malgré cette profusion, se dessine en filigrane la fragilité d'un homme et d'une vie.
Un disque à écouter seul pour rêver qu'à plusieurs millers de kilomètres, nous aussi, nous avons un oncle formidable qui n'hesite pas à declarer à l'intérieur du livret de son cd : "fuck this world"
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Just an update, since I imagine that the absence of new entries may have worried a few folks, and my intention to actually get to email replies has not yet been realized.
The babies are doing well. They've gained back full birth weight (which is always quickly lost in the early post-wombal phaseoreeny) and then some. They're eating and breathing. Now when I say I am "eating and breathing," it's a literal description of all I actually DO anymore, but these things are huge steps for them. Now there are no more tubes on/in them and we have far more physical contact than hitherto. Now that the "Mexican Wrestlers In Space" phase is ended, we can fully assess their cuteness. Indeed! They are cute. Very cute. They are very cute babies. They'll be in the hospital a while yet; we are hoping they'll be coming home around Thanksgiving.
Shelley's recovery is going well, and after a 10-day spell of very expensive cab rides and a few lifts from obliging friends (of Shelley's), she is back behind the wheel. Today my Dad came home after his post-op stay at the nursing center. He is well. The arrival of Miles and Lily lit a bright light in him, and the stage is set for a nice holiday season. We hope.
For my own pleasure and relaxation I've discovered a great old-school barber shop (Alex's ...in Smithtown on Rte. 111) where, just yesterday, I treated myself to a full shave/haircut/hot towel treatment. It felt wonderful... over a full hour of hot lather and well-stropped razor, shoulder and scalp massage, soothing unguents and bracing Clubman. These guys were real pros, and the only thing keeping it from the Ideal was a droning television set. Should have been Peter Nero tapes.
I'm still listening to a lot of Syd Barrett. He makes more sense to me than anyone else does. I am not writing any music, even though I'll have to eventually come up with some for the album I promised KRS. Of course, they were after me gung ho for a video, which we finally delivered, and I haven't heard a word about it ever since they got it, like, 2 months ago. Makes ya feel all... I dunno... SPECIAL.
Just as people's reaction to my work has always made me feel.
I want my babies home so I can begin my new career, already 100% more successful and gratifying than the last one.
I still have email replies to write. I swear I will.
But bless those of you who've written. It means a lot to me.
The babies are doing well. They've gained back full birth weight (which is always quickly lost in the early post-wombal phaseoreeny) and then some. They're eating and breathing. Now when I say I am "eating and breathing," it's a literal description of all I actually DO anymore, but these things are huge steps for them. Now there are no more tubes on/in them and we have far more physical contact than hitherto. Now that the "Mexican Wrestlers In Space" phase is ended, we can fully assess their cuteness. Indeed! They are cute. Very cute. They are very cute babies. They'll be in the hospital a while yet; we are hoping they'll be coming home around Thanksgiving.
Shelley's recovery is going well, and after a 10-day spell of very expensive cab rides and a few lifts from obliging friends (of Shelley's), she is back behind the wheel. Today my Dad came home after his post-op stay at the nursing center. He is well. The arrival of Miles and Lily lit a bright light in him, and the stage is set for a nice holiday season. We hope.
For my own pleasure and relaxation I've discovered a great old-school barber shop (Alex's ...in Smithtown on Rte. 111) where, just yesterday, I treated myself to a full shave/haircut/hot towel treatment. It felt wonderful... over a full hour of hot lather and well-stropped razor, shoulder and scalp massage, soothing unguents and bracing Clubman. These guys were real pros, and the only thing keeping it from the Ideal was a droning television set. Should have been Peter Nero tapes.
I'm still listening to a lot of Syd Barrett. He makes more sense to me than anyone else does. I am not writing any music, even though I'll have to eventually come up with some for the album I promised KRS. Of course, they were after me gung ho for a video, which we finally delivered, and I haven't heard a word about it ever since they got it, like, 2 months ago. Makes ya feel all... I dunno... SPECIAL.
Just as people's reaction to my work has always made me feel.
I want my babies home so I can begin my new career, already 100% more successful and gratifying than the last one.
I still have email replies to write. I swear I will.
But bless those of you who've written. It means a lot to me.
Saturday, October 04, 2003
Oy... last night's entry should indicate how tired and all-around non compos mentis I am...
First off: "2 years ago while recuperating from a broken hip, I had to break the news..."
Dad had the broken hip, not me.
And the whiskey is "Jameson" not "Jamison." I write this in shame. Irishmen should mind their grammar and their booze; it's our twin birthright.
Which, of course,brings me to the important stuff. Miles improves steadily. Lily had a downturn, then an upswing and now she's "on the quo," as they say ...uh... nowhere. I am far less acquainted with Dadhood than I am with words and whiskey, but I think I'm gonna like this. A LOT. When Lily gets obstreperous I softly sing "Hi Lili Hi Lo" and she chills right out. Miles doesn't seem to get obstreperous. (I tried to provoke him a bit and he snarled "whaddya think, I was born yesterday?") I have not yet tried singing the Who double header of "Pictures of Lily" / "I Can See for Miles," but as for now, the Kids are all right. All the Syd Barrett they've recently been hearing me play has not seemed to have any ill effect. Shelley has bonded with both of them like gangbusters.
The hospital staff is incredible. Nobody has pissed me off yet at all.
Both babies have long, elegant fingers. Too early to say which instruments, but I'm hoping for a bassoon at least.
Calls and emails have begun to dribble in. Thanks, friends. It is wonderful to talk to yez now that something GOOD has happened here and I ain't just pouring whines. I'll begin the long task of responding to all the accumulated email messages. We want to get more regularly involved with many of you so that these kids can enjoy the abundance of "Aunts" 'Uncles" and "Cousins" that I had in Holy Brooklyn. I wanna write songs and make comics and have parties and laugh a lot. Hearing Lily for the first time reawakened my soul. I can FEEL Pete in Miles. Holy shit.
Shelley is doing fine herself, and should soon be home to heal in anticipation of the babies' eventual deliverance from preemiedom. The baby shower that Shelley's condition forbade will have to be retooled into a "meet the kinder" bash once all is settled down. You can buy us stuff, sure... thanks for asking.
I am fucking wobbly. Good night. Tomorrow is a big day... lots of family converging on Stony Brook for a peek at the dynamic duo.
Wheeeeee!
First off: "2 years ago while recuperating from a broken hip, I had to break the news..."
Dad had the broken hip, not me.
And the whiskey is "Jameson" not "Jamison." I write this in shame. Irishmen should mind their grammar and their booze; it's our twin birthright.
Which, of course,brings me to the important stuff. Miles improves steadily. Lily had a downturn, then an upswing and now she's "on the quo," as they say ...uh... nowhere. I am far less acquainted with Dadhood than I am with words and whiskey, but I think I'm gonna like this. A LOT. When Lily gets obstreperous I softly sing "Hi Lili Hi Lo" and she chills right out. Miles doesn't seem to get obstreperous. (I tried to provoke him a bit and he snarled "whaddya think, I was born yesterday?") I have not yet tried singing the Who double header of "Pictures of Lily" / "I Can See for Miles," but as for now, the Kids are all right. All the Syd Barrett they've recently been hearing me play has not seemed to have any ill effect. Shelley has bonded with both of them like gangbusters.
The hospital staff is incredible. Nobody has pissed me off yet at all.
Both babies have long, elegant fingers. Too early to say which instruments, but I'm hoping for a bassoon at least.
Calls and emails have begun to dribble in. Thanks, friends. It is wonderful to talk to yez now that something GOOD has happened here and I ain't just pouring whines. I'll begin the long task of responding to all the accumulated email messages. We want to get more regularly involved with many of you so that these kids can enjoy the abundance of "Aunts" 'Uncles" and "Cousins" that I had in Holy Brooklyn. I wanna write songs and make comics and have parties and laugh a lot. Hearing Lily for the first time reawakened my soul. I can FEEL Pete in Miles. Holy shit.
Shelley is doing fine herself, and should soon be home to heal in anticipation of the babies' eventual deliverance from preemiedom. The baby shower that Shelley's condition forbade will have to be retooled into a "meet the kinder" bash once all is settled down. You can buy us stuff, sure... thanks for asking.
I am fucking wobbly. Good night. Tomorrow is a big day... lots of family converging on Stony Brook for a peek at the dynamic duo.
Wheeeeee!
Friday, October 03, 2003
FATHERS' DAY
Yesterday I visited my Dad in the nursing center where he is recuperating from the aneurysm surgery. This turns out to be the SAME EXACT ROOM where, 2 years ago while recuperating from a broken hip, I had to break the news that his grandson Peter had been in the World Trade Center when it fell.
Yesterday I walked down that same hall to give him the news that his new grandson and granddaughter had been born.
Yup, they're here.
Miles Peter Murphy and Lily Roberta Murphy.
October First.
Premature but doing OK …their Mom is doing well too.
God, they're beautiful.
I don't believe I'll ever feel the way I did in those few ecstatic minutes as our babies entered the world… It was like hearing notes H through Z and seeing every infra- and ultra- spectrum yet unimagined.
My Dad, who was inches from death last week, looks better than he's looked in over 2 years, and this news lit him up like a beacon. My Mom brought along a tiny bottle of Jamison's so me and he could have a wee toast. She didn't know, but that was Pete's drink.
After I first left the hospital - dazed - to get a needed night's sleep, I glanced up at a restaurant sign with a huge illuminated Tao. The balance of life: Pete called me from Korea when he was in the Air Force, asking me to design a Tao tattoo for his arm. The Yin-Yang thing, y'know. They identified his body by that tattoo. Keep an eye on things, bro.
Shelley is the strongest person I know. She is blissful now, and terrified, as is old Sport. Our babies will be in hospital for a long time, but we're hopeful for a very happy holiday season.
God, they're beautiful.
Yesterday I visited my Dad in the nursing center where he is recuperating from the aneurysm surgery. This turns out to be the SAME EXACT ROOM where, 2 years ago while recuperating from a broken hip, I had to break the news that his grandson Peter had been in the World Trade Center when it fell.
Yesterday I walked down that same hall to give him the news that his new grandson and granddaughter had been born.
Yup, they're here.
Miles Peter Murphy and Lily Roberta Murphy.
October First.
Premature but doing OK …their Mom is doing well too.
God, they're beautiful.
I don't believe I'll ever feel the way I did in those few ecstatic minutes as our babies entered the world… It was like hearing notes H through Z and seeing every infra- and ultra- spectrum yet unimagined.
My Dad, who was inches from death last week, looks better than he's looked in over 2 years, and this news lit him up like a beacon. My Mom brought along a tiny bottle of Jamison's so me and he could have a wee toast. She didn't know, but that was Pete's drink.
After I first left the hospital - dazed - to get a needed night's sleep, I glanced up at a restaurant sign with a huge illuminated Tao. The balance of life: Pete called me from Korea when he was in the Air Force, asking me to design a Tao tattoo for his arm. The Yin-Yang thing, y'know. They identified his body by that tattoo. Keep an eye on things, bro.
Shelley is the strongest person I know. She is blissful now, and terrified, as is old Sport. Our babies will be in hospital for a long time, but we're hopeful for a very happy holiday season.
God, they're beautiful.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
WHILE IT'S STILL THE DATE... I AM A DAD.