My, my, my DeLillo...

Donny DeLillo.

I say 'Donny' because, possibly for the first time, in his most recent and first collection of short stories, DeLillo has let his hair down. And let it run excitedly, youthfully almost, inhuming the cautionary excesses of his most recent work.

'The Angel Esmerelda: Nine Stories' is tentatively marvellous. There is a master at work here - as there always has been. With this striking collection however, DeLillo seems to be enjoying himself, swaddling himself in the stickily exotic (and erotic) paraphernalia of living and life.

His characters sing. And each song is starrily alive.

In a recent review of 'The Angel...' for The New Yorker, Martin Amis confessed his admiration for this apparently strident change in DeLillo's direction. I disagree. I think fun and extrospection has always been a part of 'the Don's' work. It's just that underneath all the grimy grimness and importuned propheteering finding the sootily camouflaged mirth has been a tough act indeed.

And 'The Angel Esmerelda: Nine Stories' will be a tough act for Donny to follow. Or anyone else for that matter.

'The Angel Esmerelda'

Black and Blue Velvet

Many writers, musicians and film-makers, of a certain age, or as they get older, are often content to produce work that reinforces the views that their already audience has of them. It's an easy way out, and it pays the bills.

David Lynch and Tom Waits are near contemporaries of one another. They each have a rich legacy of work - both commercially and highly critically accalaimed, complex and startlingly involving, which asks, which demands, that you stop whatever unremarkably inconsequential thing it is that you're doing and begin to listen.

Both David and Tom - my very good friends - have released brand new albums.

In Lynch's case, it's really his first full album of songs (in collaboration with engineer and sonic fraudster, Dean Hurley), and it's a fun packed and packaged ride into doom, murder and voyeuristic despair.

Which, of course, makes it a typical David Lynch joint; the inescapable nuances, jarring juxtapositions and bloody-minded 'awkwardness,' seamlessly and searingly equating with his very best film work.

It's marvellous and you must have it.





Tom - one of my very, very good friends - has, in 'Bad As Me,' produced his best album in over a decade, one of his finest in truth.

Waits has often been accused of overrehearsing his rebelliousness and ootsiderishness - and of making music that sounds as though it was propagandised by a poorly paid impersonator; the snarls, grunts and grimaces, mere affectation.

Here though, Waits has returned to the bruised blues for his inspiration - and it has paid off. Big time (ahem).





So, two more albums to get over excited about. Who'd a thunk it?

The first night of the fair...

Of course, everyone has their favourite...

Today is the release date of the definitive collection of the recordings of The Smiths - from Rhino records.

Rhino make a more than compelling case for the swift purchase of this colossal box-set; undoubtedly it will be a huge success, will quickly sell-out, leaving hundreds of Smiths' completists crying into their luke-warm milk - no doubt allowing some unwell meaning, enterprising young capitalists the opportunity to extort these devotees with alarming alacrity...

Never mind.

The music is all that should ever matter, the format not.

I remember, when I was a clear broth of a boy, poorly limbed, eccentrically excessive - a box-bedroom rebel (Copyright, The South bank Show/Ray Galton and Alan Simpson). The Smiths very quickly became all the music I ever wanted/needed to have.

Here was a big galoot, with flowers in his hands and up his arse, surrounded by more vaguely dangerous boys from the South. I loved them - it was my music, nobody elses, written for me and only for me; I digested it with unreluctant abandon, wiggling my own culpable arse.

It will be John Peel's anniversary tomorrow. Without him, we would probably never have heard The Smiths or the legions of other bands his shows championed. I heard them on his show, head tucked dutifully under the blankets, breathlessly waiting to hear the next wondrous track from these most 'handsome,' of devils.

Thanks John and thanks to The Smiths.