Oh, Babe, What Would You Say

There were a couple of interesting reviews in The Times on Saturday. Seeing a new book on Kraftwerk given a page to itself I landed the odds that my old teenage heroes, Faust, would get a mention and, there it is, in paragraph six. What I didn't anticipate was how much it would make me laugh,
Into this vacuum [of German pop culture] came Krautrock, a colourful musical explosion of experimental music by Can, Faust and Amon Duul, which made Pink Floyd sound like George Formby.
And, ahead of the new Graham Swift novel, Johanna Thomas-Carr is not impressed. Having made further inroads into the Complete Swift recently, Here We Are seemed very promising, on the subject of Brighton end-of-the-pier performers (just like Sickert's Brighton Pierrots) and the possibility it might not feature a corpse but Johanna's not having it so we will see.
These days perhaps I prefer to have a clear run at a book but I will be on the lookout to see if she's got a point because if a writer keeps pulling ofF the same trick one does start to detect how they do it. I'll be letting you know. Not only is prose fiction a very hard thing to do, it is a hard thing to have undisputed favourites in.
Whereas music is the opposite with Johnnie Walker playing Get It On and Let's Stay Together on Sunday. T. Rex and Al Green are among the select few protected by haloes of wonderment, bathed in a glow of 70's light that never dims.
And Ates Orga's book on Beethoven that has been in my possession for decades without me reading it until now, makes a compelling case, alongside the brilliant Kovacevich Hammerklavier I picked up for less than the price of a sandwich last week, with a wonderful Les Adiuex into the bargain. With Chichester next week offering more, I'm having quite a 250th anniversary centenary and why not. At the time I was into Faust, I was very into Beethoven, too. But no matter what he does, or what further glories I find, I can't see him getting past Bach, Mozart and Handel into my Top 3. He does, however, make a case- which isn't mine to make- that there is a Top 4 that no other composer comes anywhere near.

And finally, a word for a film. A film, indeed. I've watched a film. Love is the Devil with Derek Jacobi the very similitude of Francis Bacon. I recorded it off the telly and then found that I had, gladly. What a relief they closed the Colony Club before I found it. I wouldn't have lasted long in there.