B
Bosie
Guest
In Stratford, Ontario, a play about Glenn Gould has rekindled interest in Gould's recordings and the biographic work about him. At 50, he re-recorded his first best-seller, Bach's Goldberg Varitions. This would be like Morrissey re-recording his first album with The Smiths. It is a vintage stunt.
This summer I was commissioned to write an article covering Glenn Gould's performances and direction of the Stratford Festival Concert Series over a ten-year period (1953-1963). While researching, I read _Conversations with Glenn Gould_ and it struck me that someone with such a massive intellect, who could interpret notation, history, literature, art, politics, etc. in vivid lyrical prose - right off the cuff - without backspace, did not write more creatively. He did, however, write and publish several articles.
At 40, it seems that Morrissey's career has come under much speculation on this site, especially with latest latin rumours. After reading his early essay "James Dean Is Not Dead" more than two years ago online (whose site???), I can't help hoping for him to return to the exhaustive craft of writing prose, even if sedatives are involved to keep him seated, sedated, and sequestered longer than the thirty odd words of a three-minute pop song (see _Thirty-Two Short Films about Glenn Gould_ for a list of productive pills). I wouldn't want him to suffer through the labour pains of tradional English narrative (ie: Stephen Fry's _The Liar_ or Jennifer Lash's _Blood Ties_ that birth characters from foetus to full-grown failure). Perhaps, a peroid in life as long as apple rot, or a good 40,000 words about your average Dublin trist.
Anyway, my impeteus for writing this has little to do with anything I just wrote. It was supposed to be about the fact that someone like Morrissey doesn't have to write books because everything they ever wanted to say has an eager microphone waiting to record it; it doesn't have to be wrapped in fictious dinner parties and fake-fur. And, over the years, there is an oral record which has literary merit.
Swallow Shirts
This summer I was commissioned to write an article covering Glenn Gould's performances and direction of the Stratford Festival Concert Series over a ten-year period (1953-1963). While researching, I read _Conversations with Glenn Gould_ and it struck me that someone with such a massive intellect, who could interpret notation, history, literature, art, politics, etc. in vivid lyrical prose - right off the cuff - without backspace, did not write more creatively. He did, however, write and publish several articles.
At 40, it seems that Morrissey's career has come under much speculation on this site, especially with latest latin rumours. After reading his early essay "James Dean Is Not Dead" more than two years ago online (whose site???), I can't help hoping for him to return to the exhaustive craft of writing prose, even if sedatives are involved to keep him seated, sedated, and sequestered longer than the thirty odd words of a three-minute pop song (see _Thirty-Two Short Films about Glenn Gould_ for a list of productive pills). I wouldn't want him to suffer through the labour pains of tradional English narrative (ie: Stephen Fry's _The Liar_ or Jennifer Lash's _Blood Ties_ that birth characters from foetus to full-grown failure). Perhaps, a peroid in life as long as apple rot, or a good 40,000 words about your average Dublin trist.
Anyway, my impeteus for writing this has little to do with anything I just wrote. It was supposed to be about the fact that someone like Morrissey doesn't have to write books because everything they ever wanted to say has an eager microphone waiting to record it; it doesn't have to be wrapped in fictious dinner parties and fake-fur. And, over the years, there is an oral record which has literary merit.
Swallow Shirts