GLASTO SPECIAL

For anyone who's going to put themselves through the agony of England v. Germany this afternoon, when it's all over, whatever the result, put your headphones on, turn the volume up and listen to this: if I was 30 years younger, this is where I would have been last night. A thousand vuvuzelas wouldn't stand a chance here.

YOU'RE NOT SINGING ANY MORE

French and Italian football fans have been forced to watch their national teams let the side down in spectacular style. I am a great believer in divine retribution, and the chickens have come home to roost for Les Bleus and the Azzurri. The Italians won the World Cup last time by dirty tricks, and the French qualified for this World Cup in an equally ignominious manner. God watches football, you can be sure of that, although she would have been forgiven for switching over to watch the tennis these past couple of days. The grass of Court 18 at Wimbledon will be breathing a sigh of relief after the hammering it's just taken by the two gladiators, Mahut and Isner. I read that Thierry Henry was discreetly received by President Sarkozy yesterday, well out of sight of the paparazzi. In contrast, Nicolas Mahut should get the Légion d'Honneur for saving the honour of his country.

Bert sent me a text message yesterday saying "For you, Tommy Atkins, ze Vorld Cup is nearly over!" German humour can be very dry. I expect I won't be able to help myself, I'll have to watch the match on Sunday, with my hands raised in surrender in a re-enactment of my favourite erotic fantasy.

"You'll never get me to talk, Herr Ballack! Names? Never! I spit in your face, you German pig-dog! Ooh, what are you doing ... ?? OK, Rooney's got a weak Achilles .... "

Let us take a break from sport to remember that one year ago today, Michael Jackson left us. I am wearing one white glove to commemorate the sad anniversary. On my ill-fated tour of the Hollywood Homes of the Stars last month, we stopped in front of the house where he died, and bowed our heads reverently. We then went to visit the public toilet where George Michael got caught soliciting gay sex.


Last night I watched two programmes that helped to crystallize the essence of Jackson in my mind. The first was the other eternal man-child that is Gareth Malone, who seems to be getting younger if anything, trying to form an opera company with a bunch of unruly teenagers. The reaction of Glyndebourne supremo Gus Christie when the little oiks sang like angels in his wood-panelled music room was priceless. The staging of a modern sung libretto in a gang war setting is not new - West Side Story did it back in 1961- but Nicky Singer's Knight Crew is where the leather jackets meet the dinner jackets.



I then switched to a German TV channel that was showing "This is it", the film of Michael Jackson rehearsing his ill-fated show that never was. Contrary to tabloid reports he did not appear to be wacko, weird, wearing a wig, drugged or otherwise out of it. It was illuminating to see a show taking shape without the special effects, costumes, lighting and screaming crowds of hysterical teenagers. His dancing was superb, and he appeared quite the normal mega-star preparing for another tour. More normal than, say, Keith Richards. Perhaps on stage is the only place where Jacko found normality.


As I watched the rehearsals for Earth Song, with its attendant "Les Miserables" theatricals, I realized that Jacko's performances were really veering towards opera, allbeit of the light variety. His songs were often stories that went beyond the usual rock repertoire. MJ's tableau of Jesus suffering the little children to come unto him was in itself no worse than Mick Jagger singing "I shouted out who killed the Kennedys, 'cos after all it was you and me". Although you might say Mick Jagger was never actually charged with shooting JFK. A question of bad timing in Jackson's case. I would be very surprised if the producers of Knight Crew hadn't studied the video of "Beat it". Who knows, had he lived he might have been another Andrew Lloyd-Webber. In more ways than one.




Everyone has their favourite MJ song. I was once working in a small underfunded office in Northampton, where the transistor radio was the only relief from the tedium of the daily grind. One grey afternoon we were all working away assiduously, the only sound the scratching of quill pens, when the unmistakeable intro of Billie Jean pervaded the silence. One foot started to tap in time to the beat. A pencil started wagging on another desk. A couple of heads started to nod. By the time MJ sang the immortal words "She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene ..." the entire office was wriggling in their seats with varying degrees of rhythm. What cared we that the lyrics were about a man denying paternity? For me it is the perfect pop song. Although I'd love to know who first thought of doing the routine from Thriller as a wedding dance.


Michael Jackson never totally rocked my musical world, being a fan as I was of the other MJ, but throughout the 80s and 90s his songs were always there in the background. Now, without his press stunts to divert attention from the music, I am starting to appreciate his talent rather than just trying to moonwalk whilst doing the ironing. One has to put press reports of his private life to one side when listening to titles such as "Pretty Young Thing". He was essentially a performer, rather than a composer or writer. The lyrics he did write were at best incoherent and at worst pretentious or simply nonsense. He was not above pinching material or claiming authorship of somebody else's tune. The unauthorised inclusion of a whole section from West African saxmeister Manu Dibango's Soul Makossa in "Wanna be startin' something" shows that he was influenced by world music (even if he behaved like a 19th century colonialist and tried to rob the African). But even the uber-intellectual New Yorker was gracious after his death.

Dear old Jacko. I think of him with affection, and sadness for his lost childhood. For me he will always be that talented little boy with the afro who sang "I want you back". Like Elvis, everyone has their favourite Jacko period. Mine was round about "Bad", but I don't want to believe he was bad. The doctor who killed him was bad. The principled nurse who earlier refused to give him Propofol was good, and she was sacked. Many creative people - and not all of them nutters - loved him. Anyone who was a close friend of Quincy Jones (who did write a lot of material attributed to Jackson) can't be all bad. Just a pity none of them stuck around to look after him. He died alone in a great big house, apart from the doctor and his domestic staff.

But there we are, he's been dead a year and is certainly not singing any more. By now he could probably be an extra in his own video without the help of makeup. Fillum-Boughs among you will spot a cheeky reference to Walerian Borowczyk's 1975 seminal meisterwerk "La Bete" in the opening sequence.

GAME ON

Yes I'm sorry, it's started, and the hypnotic drone of the vuvuzela has already caught me like a dik-dik in a lion's maw. We are a week away from the quarter finals and it's not looking good for Bafana Bafana. War chants in the tunnel, the support of the national vuvuzela orchestra and a juju man in the dressing room have not helped them. They could end up being the first host nation not to make it to the quarter finals. There's only one man who can get them to play like champions, and he's not going to make an appearance.

Matt Damon

I am supporting all the African teams - the Elephants, the Indomitable Lions, the Super Eagles, the Black Stars and Bafana Bafana - for their imaginative names if nothing else. Even the ball has a name: Jabulani. The list of the top ten babies' names in 2011 should be interesting.

Along with the rest of Ireland, I took great delight in seeing France get stuffed by Mexico last night. The French team started the tournament in the naughty corner - as Gary Lineker said, they needed a helping hand to get into the World Cup. Thierry Henry's as it happens. Three of their players have been caught with their pants down, in no uncertain terms. Underage prostitute, no less. Classy.

Maradona: so fat he can't even walk unaided

Diego Maradona prances and postures on the touchlines, the only man on the planet who is not improved by an expensive suit, proving that dishonesty, cocaine addiction and a dodgy mullet will get you everywhere. His latest pronouncement about Saint Pelé showed his true colours. "He belongs in a museum".

As for the England team - well honestly. We watch like hawks to see if John Terry misses a handshake. The Belgians are totally confused, some of them have hung their national flag out of their windows, and they're not even in the tournament!

Nice Young Man Jonathan Spector

The USA's West Ham defender Jonathan Spector is a model of probity, and more articulate than anyone in the England team. He looks so fresh-faced and decent it's like seeing the ghost of Bobby Moore. He probably drives a Mondeo. He recently participated in a campaign to encourage British schoolkids to read more. He chose to read extracts from Huckleberry Finn to a bunch of local primary school kids, and expressed some surprise that none of them had ever heard of the book. At that moment I realized with some shame that I had never read it - a situation I have since rectified. I hope he chose his extracts carefully - it might be the Great American Novel but it's been banned from primary schools in the UK and US for 213 instances of the N-word.



And while I'm being so politically correct, here is the immensely talented and barefoot auburn Antipodean Tim Minchin talking 'bout prejudice. Eat your heart out Jamie Cullum. I dedicate this to Scarlet Blue.

MY GENERATION

Yes I know it's the start of the World Cup tonight, but it's only the preliminaries. I refuse to get excited until the start of the quarter-finals. I also refuse to get excited about the Belgian elections this Sunday. What, again? I hear you cry. For the past two months we in the Manic Kingdom have had no government - again. The whole row is over the suburbs surrounding Brussels, which - to cut a long story short - the Flemish want to steal from the Brussels region. Leaving Brussels a lonely little bilingual island surrounded by Flem.

Meanwhile, I'll quote you some words on the demise of Dennis Hopper, by someone who knew him:

"Word came out earlier today that Dennis Hopper had died at the age of 74, so I'm sitting here having a few snorts of Wild Turkey and thinking back over 40+ years of Hopper's impression on where I live: Taos, New Mexico. I came here in the spring of 1969, somewhere between the filming of Easy Rider and its eventual release a few months after I arrived. I saw ER for the first time at the El Cortez theater in Ranchos de Taos along with half the Hippies in Taos. For those of us who had been through Haight-Ashbury, the insanity of the assassinations, the overcoming of segregation (I grew up in the South), and the ongoing nightmare of Vietnam, Easy Rider seemed to capture the apocalyptic sense many of us felt, especially the no-nonsense ending where we saw that dreams are only a shotgun blast away from being crushed out.

"Despite the scenery, the characters (especially Jack Nicholson's--who was also killed), the music and being on the open road, at bottom it was not an uplifting movie. Woodstock a year later would be the shining moment my generation had been hoping for. Yet in its own crazy way, ER was much more about reality than all the drugs and Woodstock, etc. could ever be. It seems that we live in a world which delights in continuously snuffing out dreams. Yeah, reality's a bitch: that's what we keep coming back to. So I guess we have Dennis to thank for pointing that out to us over 40 years ago.

"Dennis the man was a mess, too, as those of us who lived here were constantly reminded as he ran amuck around town. Every Anglo newcomer to Taos had to atone for the sins of Dennis Hopper. He was our burden, our cross, and we all shared in his angst as he imploded both personally and professionally. His followup to ER was prophetically titled "The Last Movie" and, indeed, it would be his last movie as a director. He became persona non grata everywhere in town, and shortly thereafter slunk off to fight his personal demons for the next several years. Eventually, he righted himself and found his way back into acting, redeeming himself with a series of critically acclaimed roles for foreign directors. In recent times he apparently completed the circle by becoming a neo-conservative and doing commercials on TV for a financial investment company.

"Then last year he returned to Taos to celebrate the 40th anniversary of Easy Rider. The town of Taos (which had railed against the dubious morality of all those unwashed vagabonds 40 years earlier) declared it to be "The Summer of Love", and Hopper celebrated with a show of art (his and the others below) at the storied Harwood Museum. The Prodigal Son had returned. All was forgiven (accept by the remnants of the original summer who chided him under their breath for his turncoat ways), and Dennis basked in his redemption.

"There would be one final chapter to his saga. After years of refusing a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (and amidst growing reports that he was dying from prostate cancer) he accepted his star, fittingly with Jack Nicholson -- who had become a monumental star in the years since Easy Rider -- by his side. A feeble Dennis Hopper read a brief statement at the ceremony and today we know that it was his swan song, both as an actor and as a person. Dennis Hopper is dead. For those of us in Taos it is truly the end of an era, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

I think it is safe to say the Sixties are really over."

Bill Davis

(Taos photographer)

While the Defarges and I were whizzing around the canals of Bruges on my birthday, Dennis Hopper was revving up the heavenly Chopper. (Ooh that rhymes). In tribute, I want you all to click on the widget thingy and sing along with Steppenwolf.

However, I disagree with Bill that Hopper's death marks the end of the Sixties.

Click here to see something wonderful

Lastly, a big up to Savannah who donated her hair to help soak up the oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico! There's patriotism.

(With apologies for the inconsistency in the font, Blogger is leading me a merry dance this week.)

EARTH TO TAOS

Taos Pueblo

I'm not going to bang on about my hols for ever and ever, don't worry. Most of you have probably seen San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas although I bet not many have flown over the Grand Canyon in a helicopter! But one place which was mercifully free of tourists was New Mexico.

The architecture in New Mexico is like nowhere else in the USA. The ancient and native American technique of building houses with adobe - mud to you and me - is still used. It is solid, keeps the heat in in winter, out in summer, and easy to maintain. And it lasts forever.

We stayed a couple of nights in Santa Fe with Smokin' Squaw's friend Sky Raincloud, who lives in just such an adobe house, which is most tastefully furnished and decorated, with lovely gardens front and back. Santa Fe is an old railroad town, and we visited the La Fonda Hotel, which was one of the original Harvey restaurants. I had of course seen the famous clip from the Judy Garland film "The Harvey Girls" but didn't know the back story. It is gorgeous, built in adobe with old Spanish style interiors, with lots of dark wood and Mexican and native American artwork. A jazz quartet was tootling in the corner as we sipped our margaritas and admired the ceiling. If you ever go to Santa Fe, this is where you should stay.

Another 2,000 ft higher up in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, Smokin' Squaw took me to Taos Pueblo, on the "rez" or reservation, where she greeted her fellow native Americans with a cheery "Howdy!" which is, I believe, the modern version of the native American greeting "How". "Five dollars" they replied, impassively. The adobe buildings at Taos Pueblo are about 1,000 years old. They are the oldest continually-inhabited buildings in America. They look like a very basic condominium building, with no stairs. A bit like a student hall of residence. There were ladders leading to the upper apartments, and the entrances were through the roof. This was for security, if enemies were seen approaching, the ladders would be pulled up and the women and children would retreat into their homes.

The pueblo still has no electricity, gas or running water, the Indians want it that way, although I noticed a large number of pickups parked here and there. There were no dances the day we visited, so we wandered around the craft shops. One shopowner had a photograph of his grandfather greeting a very young King Juan Carlos of Spain! Turquoise is the favourite gemstone in New Mexico and is used a great deal in Indian jewellery. They say if you buy turquoise, you'll come back to New Mexico. So I had to treat myself to a pair of silver feather earrings with a spot of turquoise in them.



The Indian reservations are sovereign territory, and have their own government and police force. Only federal police are allowed to enter. The late author Tony Hillerman created a Navajo detective in a series of books set on a reservation. Some reservations have casinos, but these are generally alcohol-free. Fire water is still taboo in indian territory, although they don't object to relieving you of your wampum. Despite the vast tracts of land they now own, they are still the poorest people in America.

We visited the famous old church of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos, which has been painted and photographed by all and sundry from Georgia O'Keeffe to Ansel Adams. We were lucky enough to be able to chat to the pastor, who gave us the history of some of the Mexican artwork inside the church. His accent sounded familiar. He was from Glasgow! Father Francis Malley, for it was he, asked me where I was going next. The words Las Vegas slipped out. He fixed me with a stern eye. "The one in New Mexico, I hope?" he asked. "Erm, no, the other one,". With a twinkle, he told me he had been to Las Vegas, Nevada three times. I had to push visions of Father Ted out of my mind.

Had I stuck around a few weeks more I could have gone to Dennis Hopper's funeral in that very church.



I had to pay a visit to the world headquarters of the Earthship Biotecture movement just outside Taos, having seen a documentary on TV last year about their inventor, Mike Reynolds, the "Garbage Warrior". I vaguely wondered if my little eco-warrior friend Scrumpy (my previous lodger) might have found his way there (although I suspect his search for fulfillment in oriental wisdom didn't get further east than Amsterdam). The Earthships are not far from the vertigo-inducing bridge over the Rio Grande gorge, upon which Smokin' Squaw and I had taken a few tentative steps but retreated to terra firma after only venturing out to about one-tenth of the span. The Comanches are obviously not one of those tribes who have no fear of heights.




The Earthship village is a work still under construction, and I suspect might be so for some time to come. Adobe and old tyres are the building material of choice, with bottles and aluminium cans for decoration and wall filler. The overall effect can be somewhat Gaudi-esque when it is done well, as with the visitor centre.



The rest of the building materials are mostly local and natural (wood, compacted earth). The water they use comes from the melting snow in the mountains and is used 4 times, first for drinking, then for washing, thirdly for the toilet, and lastly for fertilising crops and plants. Their electricity comes from solar panels and wind turbines, and their air conditioning (it gets mighty hot in summer there) is "passive thermal", otherwise known as opening windows.

They haven't solved the problem of eco-friendly transport yet, and a number of cars and pickups were parked nearby. But they are stuck out in the middle of nowhere, give the guys a break. It's not for hippie layabouts either - a 2-bedroom 1-bathroom Earthship "cottage" costs $440,000 to buy plus utilility bills and local taxes. If you want to know more, check out their website.

Smokin' Squaw remarked that "there's a lot of woo-woo in Taos", and one night, returning to the house, I happened to look up and saw why. The most starry sky I have ever seen in my life spread out above me. Millions upon millions upon millions of stars against a perfect black velvet sky. I gazed and gazed until I gave myself a crick in the neck. I stared so long I could almost see the little lines connecting the constellations as in the maps of the heavens. Too much of that and I could go a little woo-woo myself.





The Defarges were in Bruges last weekend, I went up to meet them for lunch and we re-enacted the scene from "They flew to Bruges" where our heroes escape on a motor launch through the canals of Bruges with only European Commission umbrellas for protection. Our pilot was a dead ringer for Binky Beaumont, as played by E.L.Whisty. It was definitely a Group Day in Bruges, with groups of Russian sailors in big hats wandering around mournfully searching for the non-existent red light district, a group of leather-clad superannuated biker gals who we nicknamed the Hell's Grannies, a group from the Red Hat society in glorious technicolour, and a group of lazy people on Segways. As we sat down for lunch in the Square Stevin, the unmistakeable sound of a marching band struck up, and into the square marched the Boys' Brigade in blue shirts, glengarries, woggles, and SHORTS. tootling on their instruments. Some of them hadn't been boys for, oh, at least 50 years, their varicose veins smartly matching their shirts. Ooooh Old Men!