You read his desperation and you try not to sigh audibly. You, too, are somewhat stripped for cash. For breakfast, you make pancakes with cinnamon and apple slices.
Re-formulate for clarity. His chewing slows. For such a small face that is normally blank, his expression now is more complicated than you know what to do with. For all you trust him, he is still a kid with the social graces of a newborn lamb, stumbling around and bleating mocking jay's news. Kankri has offered to babysit you so that I have one full day alone every week to work, majorly freeing up the rest of my week.
For you. Dave pushes bits of syrup-soggy pancake around on his plate, saying nothing. His feet no longer kick jovially underneath the table. You feel the sting of remorse for doing this to him, making him feel anything other than happy and content, and you get a sense of deja-vu for it.
The cons You are not entirely convinced yet that this is a con for anyone but yourself. Once again, Dave says nothing. He stands up, ferrying his plate from the table to the sink, where he clumsily drops it in without bothering to get his stool first.
He walks past you, towards the stairs, where he stops and turns around. You, vaguely stunned, can only follow him obediently up when he makes a little beckoning motion at you, helpless as you are to this boy's wants. You sit carefully, as if you could set off mines with your weight in guilt alone. Still in his pajamas, he climbs on top of your chest and plops himself down, head turned slightly to the side so that he can stare out of his window.
You wonder if he got that from you. In a put-upon motion, Dave reaches down into his pajama pants pocket and pulls out a damp paper towel. In it are several apple slices, which he begins to crunch on without first moving his head at all. You have no idea when he snuck past you to put those in there, and you are incredibly impressed. You hesitantly reach down, and begin petting his head. You try not to laugh at him, and fail. He looks offended that his previously still bed would jumble him around all over the place like that.
When you come back in, Dave is still watching. Even you got to watch it as a kid. For all Dad was a terrible guardian, he genuinely enjoyed puppet work. Paying little attention to what is on the screen, you change your shirt then wash the oil from your arms in the kitchen sink. Even with vigorous scrubbing and dish soap, some of your skin still stains a darker black in splotches from your fingers to your elbows, but you shrug it off.
However, when you go to relax on the couch next to Dave, he rears back with avid disgust on his face. Unwillingly, you feel cowed. Dave begrudgingly allows you the honor of sitting next to him on the couch, but he still seems dubious about it.
Probably laundry. A little girl puppet with yellow skin and orange hair flaps her hands butterfly-soft and mumbles repetitive words on screen. It might help Dave learn something important. Maybe it will be important to him, if not today, then someday later on.
You swallow the intrinsic shame. So recognizable are you as a series of commonly identified autistic traits shown in a felt fucking girl. Allowing yourself to be pulled out of flow while working is a force against yourself to be reckoned with. Not worth the gentle kindness or the understanding. You sit through the entire episode until the next one comes on. You stand up and go hide in your room like a coward seeking absolution of responsibility from the waiting ghost, who acts not so much as a comfort as he is a distraction made of golden teeth and openly barbed words.
Kankri seems utterly distraught over Rosa being in pain, but is shunted out of the house politely just like all other party-goers.
You give the two a ride home. Kankri offers in return a few hours for the kids to play, considering their full-swing party experience was hacked in half. Their apartment building has a decent green space. Apparently nobody locks the gate to it, though, because Kankri is comfortable with popping it open and dragging out two pool chairs for the adults to sit on.
He then ducks inside for a minute to retrieve some juice boxes. He meets your gaze with rounded eyes. Force of habit. Would you rather have a different one? He props a large textbook onto his lap and opens to a page bookmarked with several sheets of loose paper and a mechanical pencil.
Kankri, on the other hand, seems both utterly entrenched in his assignment and completely trusting that Karkat can handle himself, or will at the very least speak up loudly if he cannot handle himself.
Mostly, you are resigned to kid-watching. Dave, as you slowly begin to note, is acting strange. He trails after Karkat unenthusiastically. You know this is uncharacteristic of him like you know how he tried to eat sand during his last birthday, and that was why Karkat yelled and tattled. This afternoon, however, he seems sullen and unreachable. Karkat, a nuclear warhead condensed down into a couple handfuls of child, reacts by reaching over and smacking Dave on the top of the head, face clear in its anger.
They both go down, Karkat gagging for air, Dave already beginning to rapidly punch him in the stomach with perfectly formed fists. You do not hesitate to launch yourself up from your lounging chair and pry Dave away from Karkat. In your arms, held up like a football, hangs Dave, who continues to be near-limp and completely quiet. You notice a fine tremor working its way through his body, and feel entirely out of your depth.
You flinch. He pulls away. Dave walks on his own. He looks at you with an uncannily smooth slide of his eyes, then entire head. Dave blinks once. And they one you just laid a brick into the foundation of is a bad world where you lose all your friends. Finally, Dave shows some signs of life. He rocks side-to-side restlessly, his pale eyebrows canting upwards into his hairline. You with me? Be who you are, not who somebody else tried to make you.
Dave makes a weak noise that cuts you off at the knees, then pile-drives you in the side with all of his weight. You instinctively hug him, if only to further persuade his body from descending towards the floor. Not physically — but to be better than what you were taught. Kankri cautiously steps out from the bathroom, making you realize that he likely heard most or all of your self-emboldened speech of catharsis. His expression is what you can only describe as one a pastor would make when receiving confessions — contradictorily open yet loftily judging.
Then again, it could be the religious imagery surrounding him constantly; you can spot three crosses mounted on the walls from the couch alone. Your unwitting host clears his throat and looks down on you two. He confessed to hitting first. I… Dave, would you like to go see Karkat? You nudge Dave slightly to encourage him to make less like a barnacle. Slowly, yet obligingly, Dave slinks past Kankri towards the bathroom.
None comes. You both breathe out. In an almost fussy-like manner, Kankri quickly retrieves a glass of water for you, but not for himself. You feel too awkward to take more than a sip, though, as he sits down next to you on the couch. Our mother… Had her hands full. So I took him. You lean forward onto your knees and thumb at your lip in thought. He nods with the slightest of self-deprecating smiles. You put two-and-two together, and come to the conclusion that Rosa must be a woman who is transgender, and that their father was trans, too.
You retrieve Dave from the bathroom. You find him and Karkat both in opposite corners, facing the wall and not speaking. You nearly snort but barely manage to hold it in. Kankri is much more regal about it all, managing to effectively herd both you and the kids back to the living room with only a few persuasive tuts and arm waves.
Driving home in a deathly silent truck, you feel a slice of loss still lingering, despite being reassured that you and your charge would be welcomed back soon. Even with the little heart-to-heart about unfortunate childhoods, you and Kankri may not be friends, but instead are partners in an uphill battle. Or, at least, you consider it to be so. Plus, Dave likes Karkat… supposedly.
And you will do anything to give Dave what he wants, even if you run the risk of having to watch him destroy it. Sword of repent dissolved into specter particles, you still carry yet a kernel of guilt. You allow him to sit outside, but ask him to come in before it truly gets dark.
As soon as you cross the threshold, you brace yourself for the inevitable smothering from one resident poltergeist, who makes himself a nuisance when the house has been empty for longer than an hour or so.
He makes one rotation of the room, voice a ghost in and of itself in the way it threads through solid material like water, his presence making all porous and giving. You make a mental note to look up when Swedish Fish were invented. In the sizzling might of a temper tantrum by a powerful poltergeist of unknown creation, you simultaneously fold in on yourself and yet also prepare to take up arms.
It is inescapable. He seems to have not much more to say on the matter, which is just great, because Dave chooses that moment to come back inside. Finally, you think, and wonder what that means, exactly. Afraid that he would be more like Dad or like Hal than like you. Without saying anything, you get up and embrace him.
He blubbers messily into your sweatshirt, reminiscent of his first day here. You decide to ask him one more time why he attacked Karkat like that. You hold the back of his neck supportively. You can learn how to take turns in doing what each other wants — compromise.
You ache for him, being so young and already having to confront such adult topics like abuse, even amongst his friends. You ache for yourself, given the duty of raising him right yet constantly feeling as if you fall short, and will continue to fall short for evermore. As soon as you get him into his room and at least somewhat ready for bed, he faceplants into his pillow and appears to fall asleep near instantaneously.
You bonelessly slump your way to the bathroom, barely remembering to turn the light on. Now, however, its hairline fractures have multiplied like small lies tend to. The kinds made to oneself, never spoken aloud. If you stand at the right angle, there are several Dirks looking back at you. In one of the mirror shards forms the reflection of a cloud of green with nebulous eyes of red hatred vaguely centered in the miasma.
She and Kankri share the same warm eyes, you inconveniently realize at this moment. Starts putting everything and anything in the wagon, walking it a few steps, then going back for more or to rearrange what he already has. Sprite continues to be his main passenger. All you really do is follow a mostly directed deer trail until you find a spot reasonably flat enough to lay down the old quilt you brought.
You set the feast, which consists of whatever Dave could get his hot little pizza hands on and fit into the wagon. For once, nothing in your life currently has any hidden meanings, or second faces, or ignored memories of worse times.
Newly excited, Dave practically launches himself at the wrapped gift that arrived perfectly on time the day before. Inside is a gaming laptop with a few games along with it, one of them being Skyrim. He begs you to set it up as soon as possible without actually begging with words. By the time the day is nearly over, Dave is playing a heavily modded version of Skyrim with no blood, weapons replaced with foam pirate ones or various comically enlarged food items, and rainbow sparkles for magic.
All of the yelling and hitting noises have been turned into cartoonish splats and honks. You sincerely doubt Kankri drinks. You understand that Hal has always been on too many medications to risk it. It was a vice you watched from afar as a teen-aged Rox let it take hold of them, but no more. Dave is at school; you were vacuuming his room. He keeps the floor of his closet mostly clean, so you vacuum that area as well in order to foil any bugs thinking they can hide there.
You were only cleaning, you justify to yourself. Startling badly like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, you whip around with fists full of semi-crushed granola liable to start ripping through their wrappers should you grip any harder. You relax somewhat to prevent this. Hiding it. Went so far, he put a hole in the wall. Green abstract, with an insidious splash of red. Not from him. The force is so gentle, you hardly notice it at first.
The bar tugs itself from your hand the same way a half-asleep kitten would, floating in the air the same way a half-asleep kitten would not. It heads directly back towards the closet, where it deposits itself into the hole in the wall once more. You begin to sweat. For all you uncontrollably leak salt water from places other than your eyes these days, it feels different than when you used to sweat back in Texas. Caliborn moves oddly in a way that brings him no closer nor farther away.
The poltergeist moves above you. You obligingly crane your head back, not out of respect but out of that deep-seated instinct you still harbor that implores you to keep enemies in your line of sight.
Oh, but I have something to report, Your Majesty. He nicks you on the cheek with his claw in one swipe, growling a thunder roll that vibrates your rib cage unpleasantly. You can practically hear the sizzle of your skin, feel the wet, hot cascade of superficial blood that pours down immediately afterwards. And yet here Caliborn is. You scoot the vacuum aside and lay back even further on your arms, not quite letting your back touch the floor.
Coupled with the burn of your split cheek, the painful stretch it provides when holding yourself up in this uncomfortable position, theoretically, helps you think. Your body shakes. Prepared for symptoms you yourself never show. This only proves your horrific theory: Dave was raised different from you and Hal. Thousands- no, millions of different options to pursue rattle around in your skull, making it impossible for you to grasp any specific one. Should you discuss his habits with him?
Should you attempt to teach him that food belongs in the kitchen and nowhere else via discipline? You like that last one the least. It does not guarantee trust, only obedience. You submit to no-one; perfect like this, a butterfly waiting for the pins to come down, for someone to catch you in your elaborate denial-tinged lie. A perfectly organized room in which its inhabitant would notice if anything was a single hair out of place is a witty tactic to adopt, you admit.
The damn hole in the wall, a little less so. Dave will live beyond you. Just like Dad used to. You harshly slap a bandaid onto your face at that thought, then leap downstairs. You weigh the costs and benefits of calling for Cal, of asking him for advice before you do this. In the end, you get Dave home and you sit a no doubt nervous child down in the kitchen with hidden sight burning into the both of you.
You look at him and wonder where his signs of stress are, what they used to be. Wonder where they leaked out to be perceived by eyes that you intimately know looked exactly like yours.
His eyes had the chance to be warm, backed by their shared amber color. He had a million and one chances. But they never were. And now they never will have the chance to fail at being warm again. This feels too much like an interrogation — you feel too much like a monster. The hole in the wall Those things can be fixed. Whatever you need matters more, you get me? It was scary.
You can stay for longer, or even forever. You in? Dave is definitely in, although his part in the process is mostly delegated to jumping around on the couch excitedly jabbering on about the make-believe adventure he made his Horseland dolls go on the other day as you string up the room and start pinning damp, wrinkled clothes. Cal helpfully lights the fireplace to have the drying process go faster, but it ends up making the house unbearably hot, so you and Dave escape outside.
Dave takes baths often. This led to hygiene problems. People made fun of you at school for many a thing, and the state of your physical form was only one of them. You have no such problem with Dave. Well, you know what would taste even better? An endorsement for a Slovakian yogurt. Could Vanessa Gecko get you that? Hey, did you hear Kazaz got cancer? Herb Kazaz has cancer? Yeah, in the butt. Why would you tell me that now? I want you to have it.
Oh, wow. BoJack, thanks. Na-na-na-na La-la-la-la Na-na-na-na La-la-la-la — What are you doing? Just let the credits roll, let the credits roll. Hey now, boy, come and try My clitoris is ginormous — Hello? Did you get rid of your old TV Guide award? This pawnshop on La Cienega was selling one — with your name on it.
Wait, why were you at a pawnshop? You still there? Everybody out. You are in big trouble, young lady. I just thought your award was stupid, and I already have a billion other awards, and I wanted to get money for drugs. Look, things have been tough for you, and I understand that. Because you were on some dumb kids show a million years ago?
By 20, I was packing stadiums. I get letters every day from boys telling me that I was the first girl they masturbated to. Literally, someone tells me that every day. You sit up here in your little house and feel sorry for yourself?
Oh, guess what, Bo-J, in order to be a has-been, you have to have actually, — you know, been. Who-o-o lit my ottoman on fire? Yeah, you are bad, very bad! You want me to put it out with my boob? What is happening? I think you have a serious drug problem. The only drug I need is horse. Guys, guys, what are you doing? No, no. Why are you This is a very bad idea.
Oh, God, no! That was the longest two minutes of my life. Um, I think it was a little longer than two minutes. It was longer than two minutes. How do you not get that this is terrible? Oh, you mean from a P. I got to take an angry nap. Hey, we both have substance abuse problems — and daddy issues.
Only makes you want me more. Go stand on the other side of the room. You need to go where you can get help, real help. But I thought you were always gonna be there for me like you said. I will always be there for you. These pages are shit. It would defeat the whole purpose of wiping my ass. You get me points on the back end? Well, maybe they could suck some out of my dick! You promised me you would always be there. Sarah Lynn, this is for your own good.
Uh, well, you should not do that. I know, but I can, so I will. Take it sleazy, everybody. No, no, no, no, no! Hey, you guys want to hear my new catchphrase? Suck a dick, dumb shits! Laura, the dummy took the bait. Now for phase two. Is she gone? Is it safe to come out? I mean, maybe you could have been a better role model when she was young, but also, she never really had a chance.
This is what our celebrity culture does to people. Not exactly. I was just saying that Yeah. I like that. Everything is because of society! Everything is meaningless! Nothing I do has consequence! Long face. Horses have long faces. I am a horse, my face is long. You get it, right? Good, good. What about the Rock Hudson stuff? Felt like that flew over your heads. Did you get that? Uh, hey, guys, guys — Hey, let me buy you a drink.
But you gotta stop asking people if they get things. Why are you giving me advice? Oh, God! Goddamn it, Todd, clean up your shit. What am I supposed to do, okay? Not my problem. Clean up your shit! Gloria Steinem, one of the leading lights of modern feminism. You will surely go down in the annals of history just as surely as Lisa Lampanelli will go down in the locker room of the Houston Rockets.
Hey, BoJack, settle a bet. Well, I was talking to Wayne. Fun fact: Wayne is also my ex-boyfriend. Pretty cool, eh, BoJack? My book will be in libraries for hundreds of years. Classic Zoe. Well, are you familiar with Mr. Do you mean his sitcom that coincidentally had the exact same premise as my sitcom? Not the exact same. Zelda was the sunny, fun-loving extrovert. Aww Whereas Zoe was the smart, cynical introvert. Plus, Halloween costumes are a gateway to casual racism.
For example, Nixon was a Zoe and Kennedy, a Zelda. Al Gore, Zoe. George W. Bush, total Zelda. What a crazy world. Said the Zoe. You say something to someone enough times, and eventually, he internalizes it. The system works. Since when are you working on a rock opera?
Oh, no. So far away from home To find a new and better place A planet rich with loam — Loam? These people are simple, agricultural types. On a spaceship? This was stupid. Now, you have to understand that as a port city, Liverpool had unique access to all aspects of American culture, especially Blues music and its unruly nephew, Rock and Roll.
It is. I thought you would appreciate some context. Five years ago, he found his way into one of my house parties and never left. Todd clearly thinks the world of you. Todd thinks the world of Pop-Tarts. Look, I get that helping other people is not your thing, but What?
I let Todd live rent-free in my stately manse. I am his own personal Mother Teresa. That is insane! I would love to be alone. That is all I want. Clean up my shit? Yes, but also, I would like to help you with your dumb-ass rock opera.
Oh, my God, are you dying? I think you have great depth of untapped potential and I wish to mentor you in your art. Wait, is this going to be like that time you promised to take me ice skating, and I got really excited about the ice skating, but then instead of ice skating, you left me at home so you could go to the strip club and then you took the strippers ice skating?
Where to start? Okay, well, the headline is, I hate it. I hate everything about it. The premise is bad and the execution is also bad.
Okay, thank you. Did you get there? Well, what if we move that to the fourth act? I hear the note. Let me see what I can do. Imagine if the Holocaust happened every four years like the Olympics. I would rather that happened than your rock opera. In fact, none of your notes have been notes. Yeah, well, you know what? The Turbidians are a loyal people.
Unless They were working for Queen Darneesa, who gave them a potion that would counteract the effects of the Elixir of Failed Remembrance so they could bring the secret knowledge from the cave back to her, and then establish Newtopia as a vassal state to the Craterman kingdom! Get this down! Oh, you like that. I think you just blew this thing wide open. This train is moving. Then hooray! And that was a last time I worked with David O. Ooh, hold on. I gotta take this. So how long have you been dating Mr.
Is it serious? Better question: How long does it take to write a BuzzFeed article? Diane, Diane, Diane, Diane! We gotta go right now! You know I love Diane Arbus. Her name is Diane, and your name is Diane. I can go to the Arbus show with you, Diane. Oh, man, you guys are perfect for each other. Why did you ever break up?
Okay, less yakking, more snacking. You mean to tell me that for a full year you were on the run — from the Russian mafia? I just thought you were a dumb freeloader who ate all my food and played video games all day. You should have seen me in high school. I was up for Dr. Decapitator in the movie version. They said they wanted someone hipper, but the part ended up going to Robert Downey.
I flunked out of school, my girlfriend left me. Virgil Van Cleef is the biggest name in rock opera. Okay, think of all the great rock operas — from the last 20 years. He had a piece of all of them. Well, I feel like Gotta take this. BoJack Horseman? We have some very delicate pictures you might have an interest in not getting into the wrong hands.
I am very happy with my current — long distance provider, thank you. But if you just listen All right, gang, when Virgil Van Cleef gets here, look alive. I just wanted to make sure he had everything he needs for the big BuzzFeed cover story.
BuzzFeed is a website. There is no cover. Thanks, Mr. Gentlemen, dazzle me. Todd is neither a singer nor a trained musician. In fact, he never even graduated high school, he told me in confidence. Keep all that in mind as you give it up for Todd. Okay, so we start in with a young Emma Goldman. You know, I run a small theater in North Hollywood. We were supposed to mount a J. Superstar revival next month, but of course, Andrew Lloyd Webber has to be a real hot penis about everything.
Oh, Andy. Anyway, could this show be ready to debut in six weeks? Six weeks? Uh, damn. Yeah, I guess so. Juicy J [Prod. Klark Kent [Prod. T-Pain [Prod. Young Buck Feat. Rukus - Bout Money City Paper Feat. Young Buck - Keep It Dirty Charlie P - Broke Bitch Ice Cold Jay - Shine Generation X - My Garage Paperchase Feat. Young Buck - Trap Phone Ctn Feat.
Young Buck - The Ctn Way Bezzeled Gang Feat. Young Buck - Dusted City Paper - God Bless Em Charlie P By Mr. Collipark [Prod. Bubba Sparxxx [Prod. Rhythm [Prod. Ying Yang Twins [Prod. Collipark] 07 Ying Title 01 Young Buck - Check [Prod.
Kokane [Prod. By Young Seph]. Introduction Shortly before his death, Morrison called Densmore from Paris to see how L. Does that mean Morrison had already written some songs we never got to hear? But it certainly had a chance of being better than the pair of utterly unmemorable albums the Doors did record without him. Did Morrison possibly have in mind material that might comment on his dire personal situation particularly the threat of a prison sentence , and push the limits of what was considered acceptable in pop music, particularly via controversial lyrics?
How often the Doors ran into obstacles with presenting their original lyrics. Instances in which the Doors were censored or somewhat self-censored might seem tame now that far more provocative and profane lyrics are more common in rock and rap.
Still, there were a number of interesting cases in which their words were changed for their recorded versions, starting with the opening track of their first album. That always intrigued me, even as a fifteen-year-old back in the late s. She gets what? And the original uncensored studio version was reinstated on CD reissues. Even as someone who advocates free expression, my own feeling might disappoint the Doors and many of their fans. The rhythm of the shorter phrase fits better into that section.
Everybody loves his baby because she gets money? She gets sex? She smokes pot, or even does harder drugs. So what? Does that even make her cool?
And was it really that unusual, at a time when so many people were getting high? It got the Doors fired from their Whisky A Go Go gig when Morrison sang explicit lyrics about having sex with his mother. There was no way that was going into the recorded version when the Doors cut the LP, not in late , and maybe not even today for most acts. Jim did chant the f-word during the instrumental break, and while that was buried on the original release, again CDs reinstate this. Another jolting lyrical change to another song they covered on their first album can be heard on the Matrix Tapes.
Maybe it was removed from the single to avoid any objections, legal or otherwise, from Ajax. And dated. Lots of people would have gotten the joke, i. Not a whole lot of people born after get it now, and even those who saw the commercial back then might have forgotten about it. Considering their career was being destroyed by canceled concerts in the wake of their Miami show, it also took some integrity and courage to sing the uncensored lyric on television, though only PBS would have allowed that then.
Would they allow it now, one wonders? The most celebrated incident in which a Doors lyric was censored, or almost censored, occurred on the most popular network television variety show. By the time of this broadcast, literally tens of millions of people had heard the song in its original unexpurgated guise. Was singing it a different way going to erase the memory of the original lyric?
The Doors did not. The Doors were quite adept at mixing sex and romance into songs that were largely, or at least as much, about other topics. Or not. But in the middle, Morrison purrs to his baby to come back into his arms. What does all this mean? That sex and death are intertwined, as might be one popular interpretation by overenthusiastic academics and psychologists? My hunch is a different one: that for all his anti-authoritarian daring and testing of conventions and limits, Jim Morrison in particular was also something of a romantic.
There was an avalanche of reissues in , even if your interest, like mine, is mostly confined to pre rock, and mostly to the s within that era. My pick for the 1 reissue of One is the growing presence of expanded editions, sometimes radically so, of classic albums or even albums that never sold much or got much critical attention.
And artists who were more resistant than, say, Dylan or Frank Zappa to opening their vaults—like the Beatles—are, a bit belatedly, realizing the commercial benefits of such archival digs. Sometimes those expanded editions do seem like an excuse to market something without much actual benefit to the consumers. As Rolling Stones fans know, there are numerous outtakes from the Beggars Banquet era that could have been used for a multi-disc set on par with the more elaborate 50 th anniversary editions that did make my list.
The other small trend? This spring, however, marked the first RSD when I really did want to make sure to get some of these limited releases as they marked the first and perhaps only time you could buy the material. Regardless of industry intentions, there were enough reissues—or, to be precise, releases with archival material, often as compilations or first-time appearances of previously unissued recordings—to fill a Top 25 list. This might have been the most hyped reissue of , in a year that saw several other high-profile super-deluxe editions some of which are reviewed elsewhere in this post.
Like the Beatles themselves, this was worthy of the enormous hype it was given. The fourth features perhaps the most significant previously unissued body of material the group ever taped—quite a milestone, considering the enormous quantity of unreleased music they recorded while active.
Detailed commentary on this deluxe edition could fill up a lengthy post of its own. The so-called Esher Demos on disc three are really what make this deluxe edition a vital project. But these working versions are largely complete or almost-complete, and make for a superb listening experience on their own, whether as part of this huge box or not. The three CDs of studio outtakes can, to be frank, be a bit underwhelming in the company of the finished record and the Esher Demos.
The outtakes are certainly worth hearing, but like the bonus material on several of the other expanded editions reviewed in this post, usually more valuable for history than sheer entertainment. The Beatles seem to have finally caught on to the potential of expanded CD editions, and not only with the abundance of rare extras.
The book-length liner notes are extremely informative and perceptive, with lots of cool photos and memorabilia. Yes, the package is expensive — probably too expensive, considering almost everyone who buys it will already have the two core White Album discs, sometimes in a few formats. Is it nonetheless essential? She had, however, made quite a few lo-fi solo recordings, circulated on cassettes known as the Girly-Sound tapes, that had helped pave the way for fuller studio recordings and a deal with Matador Records.
Not long after Exile in Guyville , these tapes started to circulate to a much wider audience, also getting bootlegged. The three-CD 25 th anniversary edition of Exile in Guyville , going by the title Girly Sound to Guyville , finally makes all but two of the forty songs from the original three Girly-Sound tapes widely accessible in one place.
While disc one of this set is wholly devoted to the original Exile in Guyville album, the other two CDs present the Girly-Sound material in its near-entirety. They are among the most notable bodies of unreleased work cut by any significant artist, and not only because of their considerable historical importance.
Just seven of the songs would show up in re-recorded and sometimes substantially reworked and retitled , full-band renditions for Exile in Guyville.
Quite a few are unique to the Girly-Sound tapes, and quite a few of those compositions are very good. Even the relative throwaways are pretty interesting and entertaining. Although the cassettes were sometimes labeled lo-fi, that has more to do with the basic nature of the recordings—done on a four-track in her bedroom—than the actual clarity of the performances, at least in this sonically cleaned-up version. But the compositions are complete, and the singing and playing fully thought out.
Some of the lighter numbers verge on novelty, at least in their subject matter. And yeah, this deluxe edition also features the actual Exile in Guyville album. As good as that is, after immersing yourself in the Girly-Sound tapes, it sounds rather slick in comparison though it was a pretty straightforward production, and certainly not glossy.
And other than the regrettable exclusion of those two Girly-Sound tracks, Girly-Sound to Guyville is an ideal deluxe edition. The extra songs are that good. It was a close call as to whether this or The White Album would make 1 on my list. Although The White Album is undeniably of greater historical importance, the bonus material on Girly Sound to Guyville is of undeniably more consistently high quality.
The immense stature of The White Album was ultimately the tipping point in giving it the nod. This French album, however, really is unusual, and in a good way, not just a weird way. Ribeiro more often speaks-chants with an urgent coarseness, though she has a wide vocal range that can vary from Nico-low to stratospheric eerie highs. More interesting than her singing which is still oft-thrilling , however, is the music, which after a couple moderate-length cuts gives way to two epics one nearly 16 minutes, the other nearly The mood is often ominous and gothic, yet exhilarating, like a soundtrack to some sort of transcendental journey.
This two-CD set marks the first official release of material from the April 6 show. Especially for those unfamiliar with the tracks that have previously been bootlegged from the April 5 and April 6 concerts, the set will come as something of a surprise. Most adventurous of all are two songs stretched out way beyond the length of their studio versions.
Who Came First gave Pete the chance to present rather gentler, more introspective tunes than he usually penned for the Who, and to be the only as opposed to the occasional lead singer in his thin, high, wavering, yet engagingly heartfelt voice.
Such is the quality of the original LP that this would rank higher on this list had this been the first CD release of the record. A longer version of this review appears in the issue of Record Collector News. Seger became a superstar by helping define album-oriented rock from the mids onward. For many years, this material was way up the list of recordings that deserved reissue, but had never came out on CD or LP.
So this official compilation of all ten tracks from his five singles on the Cameo label is welcome, especially as it has better fidelity and good, if not super-lengthy, liner notes that put his early career in context.
Not everything here is that great. My full article on this compilation is online here. And I stand by it, though few others heard their scant body of recorded material, as they never managed to put anything onto disc while they were active.
A cassette-only release of their best tracks came out way back in , but I know just two other collectors besides myself who got a copy. This CD compilation rectifies that long-standing gap and then some.
They veer from straightahead catchy British Invasion harmony dressed pop-rock to blue-eyed soul and odd collisions of accessible pop and psychedelic weirdness. Unlike almost every other garage band who never got to make a record, they also branched beyond the usual rock setup to incorporate sax, flute, mandolin, and harpsichord.
Those ten songs would have made a cool LP, though maybe not the one they would have put out had they been able to back in the day, spanning as it does different phases of their brief evolution. The Choir went through seven lineups in just four years , and this CD at least represents one of them well.
Entirely recorded in February , this has organist Phil Giallombardo, guitarist Randy Klawon, bassist Denny Carleton, drummer Jim Bonfanti the only constant throughout their frequent personnel changes , and pianist Kenny Margolis; all of them sang, and the ten tracks feature material penned by Giallombardo, Carleton, and Margolis.
Particularly impressive is the rich piano-organ blend, more identified with Procol Harum and the Band, but shown to be effective in a more pop-oriented context here. So high marks for the music, but not so much for the packaging. The liner notes are disappointingly skimpy, and do not make it clear whether these tracks were intended to form an actual LP, or are simply sessions done around the same time that have been retrospectively packaged as one.
At least the centerfold features an extensive Choir family tree that clarifies who joined and left when. Not an expanded Cheap Thrills there was already one of those , this two-CD compilation is comprised almost entirely of outtakes from the sessions. Even though they were sometimes criticized for not being able to play well, or at least match the intensity of their live performances, in the studio, I really like how you often hear Joplin and sometimes guys in the band whoop unpredictable shouts of joy.
If it really was laborious to record in the studio, it certainly sounds like they were having lots of fun at least some of the time. This music captures both Janis and Big Brother at their peak. Its mix of acid rock, operatic-to-histrionic Brown vocals, demonic lyrics, and berserk Vincent Crane soul-jazz organ runs was maddening yet exhilarating, sounding like nothing else on the ultra-competitive British psychedelic scene.
But it used up virtually all of their known first-rate material, and less than a year after it hit the UK and US Top Ten, the band were gone. How in the world, you may wonder, can you make a four-disc box out of an LP without any outtakes and few non-LP singles? And disc three has their slim body of BBC radio recordings, as well as the four rare cuts Brown recorded before the Crazy World formed.
Fattening up the LP-sized box is an actual vinyl inch version of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown , in stereo with a sleeve boasting the original artwork. Other significant extras are the three non-LP bonus tracks on disc one, even if none were good enough to demand a place on the original Crazy World of Arthur album. Committed Crazy World fans probably have most or all of the tracks on the first two discs, with even the rarities having often gained exposure on various other reissues.
The four pre-Crazy World cuts ending disc three are the rarest of the set, yet the least impressive. Adding considerable value to the box, the page LP-sized booklet has extensive liner notes by Mark Paytress that tell the confusing story of the Crazy World of Arthur Brown involving numerous personnel changes in its last year or so, including a stint by Carl Palmer on drums better than any previous print source.
Is there any other s rock group that never released an LP during their lifetime, yet was eventually honored with a four-CD box set? Sometimes classified as a mod band a la the Who or the Small Faces, the Action were more soul-oriented than either of those acts. But they were pretty good, putting more guitar and British pop harmonies into their soul covers than the originals boasted, and then writing a few decent originals.
All of those, however, have appeared on other reissues, if rather out-of-the-way ones. All of the twenty tracks on disc three have likewise appeared on pretty obscure archive releases though three of the songs are presented at their full length for the first time , and document their uneven evolution from mod-soulsters to mildly psychedelic and early progressive rock.
But they are eclectic, somewhat ambitious, and grow on you some with time. The packaging on this set is excellent, with lengthy historical liner notes by David Wells, and track-by-track annotation from compiler Alec Palao.
In contrast to most other extant Hendrix recordings, these are low-volume solo endeavors. In large part because of the solo, almost unplugged setting, these show a more sensitive side to the man than his celebrated noisefests do. Some of them did come out on a CD packaged with the Hendrix graphic novel Voodoo Child back in , though that non-standard release might have been missed even by some serious Hendrix fans.
Numerous Hendrix concerts have circulated that have better fidelity and performances than the Hollywood Bowl show featured on disc three. Much of the material has been long available as part of an hour-long-or-so episode of the Classic Albums series since the late s, but this version adds almost forty minutes. A longer version of this review will appear in a future issue of Ugly Things.
It might be an excuse to repackage tracks that have been around the block many times though certainly not often in mono. But am I nonetheless glad I got a review copy? Five more tracks from a different acetate recorded around the same time, as well as an additional unreleased demo from the era, add up to a full CD of Clark. Collectors and folk-rock fanatics will be thrilled to finally have the opportunity to hear these rarities, never previously listened to by anyone save a very few.
That said, however, after such repeated listening—if quite a bit more than some listeners might want to invest—the tunes do grow on you, as does insight into what seems to be a rather fragile, uncertain state of mind when Clark did these sessions. A good number of the tracks are handicapped by rather slapdash backing, by musicians whose identities are unknown, with the exception of pianist Alex del Zoppo from Los Angeles group Sweetwater.
Odd embellishments by calliope and Chamberlin strings a keyboard similar to the Mellotron add dabs of eeriness, but also a sense of mild experimentation without a firm goal in mind. Not all of them are previously unavailable in any form. This Record Store Day release comes close to simulating the LP that might have been, adding a bunch of tracks one without vocals that were unissued at the time.
This track anthology is more promise than realized potential, especially as it had to be pieced together from their two singles from UNI whose pop-oriented production did not play to their strengths or emphasize their strong original material ; demos, a couple of which are instrumental backing tracks; and the rare if good solo single Little Willie G. But they were in fact hipper than either of those groups, without getting the commercial songs needed to gain them a wide audience or even many issued discs.
Skip Spence, Andoaragain Modern Harmonic. Yes, its haunted acid-folk dabbed by more than a touch of acid casualty , with plenty of rootsy blues and country thrown into the mix, is now deservedly hailed as one of the finest obscurities of the psychedelic age. But for all its deserved subsequent cult reputation, it sold barely anything when it was first issued in And the LP itself had such an off-the-cuff, rustic one-man-in-an-empty-room feel that it was difficult to imagine much was left over.
But we live in an age when nothing seems impossible, at least when it comes to poking around the vaults. The wittily titled Andoaragain presents no less than three CDs from the Oar sessions, with two entire discs of previously unreleased material. Previous CD editions of Oar had unearthed ten outtakes, all included here as bonus tracks after the original album plays on disc one.
None were nearly as solidly constructed as the songs on the proper album, and none sounded apt to be as strong as the final contenders with more work. All of which raised alarm bells, when this much more extensive trawl through the vaults was announced, whether such an exercise was worthwhile. Might it even prove embarrassing to Spence, even half a century later?
That in itself ensures the majority are more listenable than the items that have already shown up as bonuses on previous reissues. None of the numerous alternate versions are a match for the finished products. These indicate—as is often, maybe usually, the case no matter what the professionalism or state of mind of the artist—that considerable refinement went into the songwriting and arrangements before the tracks were completed, and that the cull of available Spencesongs was quite selective.
But even if none of the alternate versions are on the level of the LP tracks, some of them are quite nice and worth hearing. Sometimes he succeeds in winnowing them into something pleasing, sometimes not.
But he seldom offends, and often intrigues. And really, with the exception of Donovan, no British acts of the period truly blended much of the best of folk and rock into a new and distinctive form.
Folk, and American folk-rock, was felt more as an influence on pop and rock than it was actually combined with rock. While there are quite a few, these are—even casting aside questions as to how genuinely they blend folk, rock, and pop—pretty uneven, with an absence of lost gems. Here and there, however, are sprinkled some pretty good outings known to few. Unquestionably fine, however, are the page small-print liner notes by David Wells, jammed with photos, sleeve reproductions, and other memorabilia.
The track-by-track annotation tells stories behind the records that are often more interesting than the discs themselves.
For a guy who only put out three true studio albums during his lifetime, the Jimi Hendrix discography has become massive. Almost fifty years after his death, compilations of unreleased recordings continue to emerge from the vault, testifying both to his prolific studio output and the continued hunger for more Hendrix. Both Sides of the Sky is the latest such excavation, and will both relieve some of that hunger and still leave the listener somewhat unsatisfied.
Like much of his work that survives from that time, these find Hendrix working with varying lineups of musicians though most played in either the original Experience or the Band of Gypsys , and struggling to some degree to find some direction.
The best songs on Both Sides of the Sky tend to be the ones that have been available in different versions. The sleepless night, the dull pain in the morning, the weight upon the chest, and other symptoms of disease, foretold the beginning of the end. For six years he had been un- 12 GRAY. Now and then we catch a sigh, as, in mingled pathos and play, he notices the loneliness of his life.
He was not to suffer a long sickness. The dart struck him in the College Hall, during dinner, July 24, The complaint was gout in the stomach, of which he had previously spoken to Walpole. Between the 30th and 31st, about eleven o'clock, in the words of a friend who sat by his bed, unconsciously expressing the thought of all men of taste who should come after him, " We lost Mr.
Fifty-five years the hand had moved before the clock stopped. Within that period of time, the greatest works of genius have been brought to their full beauty, the wonders of Shakspere, the eloquence of Taylor, the brilliancy of Pope ; and of one of these the latter days were worse than the beginning.
We have the confession of Pope, five years before his death, that the little toils of the day weighed him down, and that he hid himself in bed, as a bird in the nest, and much about the same time. The admirer of Gray thinks a poet's journey sweetly ended in the early evening, before the shadows of the dark mountains have covered the road. He might have lingered like the "Minstrel" 2 whom he esteemed, until the giddy head kept him nearly motionless, incapable of 1 " The woods of the park shut out the view of West End House, Gray's occa sional residence, but the space is open from the mansion across the park, so as to taki- in the view both of the church and of a monument erected by the late Mr.
Perm to Gray. This is composed of line freestone, and consists of a large sarcophagus, supported on a square pedestal, with inscriptions on each side. The tomb of the poet himself near the south-east window completes the impression of the scene. It is a plain brick altar tomb, covered with a blue hlate slab, and besides his own ashes contains those of his mother and aunt.
The materials for building the character of Gray lie in heaps around us. His letters are a biography, and no author's face was ever thrown more full, or bright, upon his page. The poem and the note are glasses differing only in the size and the frame. Every feature shows the accomplished scholar, in whom taste was refined into affectation.
No sense of personal inconvenience could persuade him to use spectacles ; his common manuscript was the work of a crowquill ; and he felt a pang when that he saw Dodsley printing his name without " Mr. A shade rests upon his religious principles. We are assured, and readily believe, that the impulse of his mind was towards virtue, which he himself expressed by the Platonic phrase, " The exercise of right reason.
Did Gray go beyond it? And was there before his eyes the one Shadow of the Cross over life? In want of direct evidence, we can only look at his works, and their voice gives an uncertain sound.
Wise lessons, tender morals, pathetic pictures, instruct and enchant us ; but we discover no angel in his churchyard, sitting on a tomb. He pursues the insect through its summer day, sees time and grief spoiling its wings of the fair colours, and leaves it with a sigh in the dust.
The fact is, that theology was the element of learning in which Gray was weak. Mason could never persuade him to read Jeremy Taylor. Sterne was his model of pulpit eloquence.
Yet what notion of Gospel sanctity could he have formed, who thought, it to be worthily enforced by the dramatic extravagance of YorickP His social qualities throve in a bad air, and people who knew him intimately formed contrary judgments. Beattie declared his talk to be as pleasant as his correspondence, and Walpole found him the worst company in the world.
But who, among the brotherhood, has escaped this strife of tongues P We have heard of Addison, the charm of one table and the frost of another ; of Pope dazzling his club with epigrams to-day, and sleeping before a prince to morrow ; and of Armstrong, now pouring out the stores of a wealthy mind, and then represented in the "Castle of Indolence," as " one shier still, who quite detested talk.
The poetical temper is a sensitive weather-glass, which the flying showers and sunshine of April raise or depress. Very seldom the hand points to " set-fair. The dullard of the morning sparkles at night, and the style changes with the hour. The story is this : A certain member of the College, for some unknown reason peculiarly obnoxious to Gray, was standing by the fire in " Hall," and observed to the poet, " Mr.
Gray, I have just rode from Newmarket, and never was so cut in my life ; the north-west wind was full in my face. After Milton, Gray has been pronounced the most learned poet in England.
He lived upon books, and com pared his life to the supper of hens in Boccaccio, reading here, reading there ; nothing but books with different sauces. No branch of knowledge, except the mathematical, was overlooked. He sat in the broad shade of the tree. Aristophanes and Tacitus took their turns with Linnaeus and Hacine. Of course, the page was often run by a hasty eye. One panegyrist, indeed, boldly affirmed the poet's familiar acquaintance with all the historians of England, Italy, and France ; but his own letter dispels the romance.
In reference to Froissart and the Chroniclers, he speaks of " dipping" into their works. He says not a word of drag ging the great deeps of history. He kept a watch upon the shore, and cast in his net wherever he expected to find a large draught. Classical literature he treated in the same manner. Thus he made the past his own present, and found the peacock of Lucullus as natural as the joint in " Hall. The assertion of Cole that he was deeply read in Hearne, Spelman, and their kindred, may require the caution already suggested.
Such books he consulted. Nor was his knowledge of Italian poetry very extensive. Mathias, drawing his information from a friend of Gray, found him to have been unacquainted with Guido, Menzini, Filicaia, and nearly all the writers of the Componimenti Lirici. The princes of Tuscan Song he knew and reverenced, Dante affected him with a sort of religious awe, and Petrarch was his companion.
The choicer authors of France won a large share of his time and regard, and his taste extracted the fine honey from the philosophy of Montesquieu, the luxuriance of Rous seau, and the fresher bloom of Gresset. His sofa, and the " eternal new novel" of Crebillon have become a common place. As we advance, the prospect opens. Natural history, in its broad and by-paths, was a favourite and constant pursuit, and sometimes his pen supplied illustrative forms of birds and insects, with equal accuracy and grace.
The fine-arts were not less dear. A picture, a cathedral, an old house, a ruin, alike engaged his curiosity. He could sit in the British Museum transcribing a pedigree, or wander into the fields and gather the first violet under the hedge. He valued the smallest things in nature or learning, and traced a coat of arms with the same care as the " Bard. It will not be supposed that music was forgotten in these accom plishments.
He had collected several volumes in Italy, and sometimes contrived to make a " smattering" of Carlo Bach's lessons upon the harpsichord. He could not want GRAY. And we find all hia recrea tions to have been intellectual. He was believed never to have been upon a horse, but at one time he kept an owl in the garden, as like him, he said, as it could stare. The entertainment he seems to have enjoyed the most was a visit to home-scenes in England or Scotland, of which he has left descriptions so engaging, that even the rugged captiousness of Johnson was smoothed into a wish, that " to travel and to tell his travels had been more of his em ployment.
From such quarries what palaces might have been built! But we are reminded that his situation released him from the drudgery of the pen. His income amounted to nearly seven hundred pounds ; and Mason has told his readers how his own interest in " Carac- tacus" went off, as the tithes came in. Of English poetry Gray was an elegant and a profound student, and the remoter wells he had visited and analyzed.
His remarks on Lydgate are a model of criti cism. Goldsmith showed discernment in tracing to Spenser the compound epithets and the solemn numbers of Gray, who never sat down to write verses without reading him for a considerable time. It inflamed and fed it. After Spenser, he admired Dryden, whom he exhorted his friends to read, and be blind to his faults. By his side he placed Pope, especially commending his perfection of good sense.
To the translation of the "Iliad," also, he gave the warmest praise, not for its truth, but as a work of consummate power and skill, which would never be excelled. Of later poets he was not always a patient or a generous judge. Akenside he rather turned over than read ; Thomson he slighted ; Collins he misunderstood ; Beattie satisfied him, I think, less than Goldsmith, whose restless vanity might have been calmed, 18 GRAY.
In his superior learning, his subtle taste, his deeper thought, and his more vigorous sense, we should have found the elements of a more philosophical criticism, with a more searching and comprehensive intellect, than can be awarded to our old favourite Thomas Warton. Beattie, in the spring of , declared him to be, of all the English poets of that age, the most admired; but he confined this fame to the " Elegy," by which alone "by no means the best of his works" he was known to the public.
Upon another occasion, Beattie had contrasted the popular tone of the "Elegy," with that of his own " Minstrel," and shown the former poem to express senti ments familiar to all men ; while the latter speaks only to certain individuals.
The admirers of Gray claim for him the invention of a new lyrical metre in English, before unknown in its sym metry of Strophe, Antistrophe, and Epode. The " Bard" is a noble specimen of this verbal architecture, which Dryden has not equalled in his " Ode for Music. In Dryden, while we applaud the torrent of language, the animated "Amenities of Literature," i.
Hallam, see some lines sinking to the level of a drinking- song. The stateliness of Gray is unbroken. Here, as in all his poetry, appears the Artist, disposing every colour, face, dress, and expression, according to the light and the general effect. No pencil ever possessed a finer touch than his pen.
The exact elegance of his diction is the delight of the scholar. An epithet is a picture ; a word is a land scape. The verses of Gray are the reproof and the lesson. His habits of composition as sisted him. Walking with JNicholls, in the neighbourhood of Cambridge, upon a fine spring morning, he turned to his companion, ex claiming, There pipes the wood-lark, and the song-thrush there Scatters his loose notes in the waste of air. Two lines, finished with such exquisite skill, will hardly be received as an impromptu.
The descriptive fitness of the epithet "scattering," must strike every reader who has watched the lark in the blue sky. Warton discovers a pleasing art of rural poetry in the 20 GRAY unexpected introduction of a wise sentence, or lesson.
The fancy is moralized in its play. This charm is conspicuous in all the verses of our author. He portrays a natural object, not so much by its effect on the senses, as the mind.
The landscape is viewed in relation to the sentiment it in spires. If Gray had drawn a sea-view, it would not have been shipless. The originality of his genius has long been a question. D' Israeli compares the poems to a rich tissue woven on the frames and with the gold threads of others. The thought is ingenious. But even if he borrows the material, he in vents the design ; or if a former work suggested it, he so enlarges and embellishes it, that the copy breathes a new life.
A passage in the " Merchant of Venice," Act ii. In the drama, she is driven back to port, battered and torn ; in the lyric, she sinks behind the ocean line, and the imagination, foreboding danger, already catches a murmur of the storm. Shakspere addresses the eye Gray, the heart. Poussin produces the same effect in his " Deluge. The artist in colour, as in language, leaves room upon the canvass.
The daring of Dryden 2 carried him very far, when he compared the employment of a poet to that of a curious gunsmith, or watchmaker, who gives to the iron, or the 1 See M. Quatrcmcrc dc Quincy on " Imitation of the Fine Arts," Gray, who read the verses of Green with much admiration, acknowledged his debt to him in this poem, of which the moral turn is taken from that writer's 'Grotto;" not knowingly, but the passage, once imprinted in his memory, became so blended with later reflections, that he took it for his own.
Gray must have forgotten, also, the lines in Thomson's "Summer," which Wakefield pointed out, as breathing the same serious tone of observation : Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways, Upward and downward, thwarting and convolved, The quivering nations sport ; till, tempest-wing'd.
Fierce Winter sweeps them from the face of day: Even so luxurious men, unheeding, pass An idle summer-life in fortune's shine, A season's glitter!
Thus they flutter on From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; Till, blown away hy death, Oblivion comes Behind, and strikes them from the book of life. His obligation to Horace " Ad Sestium" is likewise noticed. An affecting incident is connected with this ode. Gray wrote it at Stoke, in the beginning of June, , and sent it to West, who had already passed away from earth. The letter, with the ode, was returned to the author unopened. The ivied banks, and the moss-grown beech, are familiar features of Buckinghamshire, where in the warm spring, from every thick copse The Attic warbler pours her throat.
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring : While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, 1 Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think At ease reclin'd in rustic state How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care ; The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon : 2 Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gayly-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. Night's Dream. Lost, vii. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive, kind reply : Poor moralist! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone We frolic while 'tis May.
Then, as to your handsome cat, the name you distinguish her by, I am no less at a loss, as well know ing one's handsome cat is always the cat one likes best ; or, if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the hand somest.
Besides, if the point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred, or so imprudent, as to forfeit all my in- i " While insects from the threshold preach. I feel that I have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it ; I do not mean you, but your cat, feue Mademoiselle Selime, whom I am about to im mortalize for one week or fortnight. Walpole, after the death of Gray, placed the china vase on a pedestal, inscribing on it the first four lines of the Ode.
The fault of this playful and elegant poem seems to be a want of harmony in the images. It opens with an oriental richness, that suits well the scene of the story. Selima reclines on the vase from China.
But the illusion is soon broken. Angels and genii cannot both represent the gold fishes ; and "presumptuous maid," at once displeases the ear and the taste. Fate sitting on the water's edge, and the drowning cat " eight times mewing," as she came up, are most happy and picturesque circumstances ; but the cbarm dissolves before the view of the Servant's Hall, with " Tom" and "Susan," who will not hear the cry.
Pope has taught us the exquisite ma nagement of such machinery. His Sylphs and Gnomes are never confused with human beings ; and the lapdog, in its most poetical development, is always "Shock.
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd ; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw ; and purr'd applause. The hapless nymph with wonder saw : A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch' d, in vain, to reach the prize ; What female heart can gold despise?
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