tattoo ripon

Today we note the death of legendary singer-drummer Levon Helm. He died in his adopted state of New York, aged 71, after a decade-long battle with throat cancer.
Levon Helm is little known these days and even in his hey-day few outside of a hard-core group of fans knew him, but they knew his band—The Band.
Levon Helm was the group’s drummer and founding member. The Band started as The Hawks backing the hard-drinking-hard-living Rockabilly artist Ronnie Hawkins. Ronnie is purported to have promised Levon and the other Hawks—Robbie Robertson (yes, him), Garth Hudson, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel—no money but “all the pussy you can eat.”
But it was not with Ronnie that they found their fame or even their infamy. It was with Dylan. They became Bob Dylan’s backing band when he went electric. Like him, they were the target of a sustained and vitriolic campaign by aggrieved folkies. Dylan didn’t care. Levon didn’t care. The Band didn’t care. They didn’t even have a name to that point, and wouldn’t have one until they launched their first album, the magnificent Music From Big Pink where Levon and the others were listed in the liner notes under the prosaic heading The Band. The name stuck. At least it did until The Band dissolved in a bitter battle between Levon and Robbie. Their swan song was the live concert movie The Last Waltz—generally believed to be the best movie of its type.
Levon was the only American in The Band. He came from Arkansas; the others were Canadians. He had every appearance of a hokey hillbilly, and probably that influenced the distinctive folk-rock sound of The Band, though it was Robbie Robertson who wrote most of The Band’s Songs, such The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and The Weight. Levon did lead vocals on most of them, one of the few drummers to take the lead—Phil Collins of Genesis was another.
The Band has always been my favourite group—I narrowly missed (by one week) seeing them when they toured Australia. That was post-Robbie and they were shadows of their former selves. But Levon was there, Garth was there, Rick (my favourite) was there and Richard was yet to hang himself—that would happen a month later. Only Garth and Robbie survive today.
So Levon is gone. And with him that ten-year cancer battle. There is mercy in that, I suppose. But for those of us with long memories, those of us who know the tragedy of the barely coherent Garth Hudson and the show-pony antics of the much despised Robbie Robertson we know that with Levon’s passing passed The Band.
This was our Last Waltz.



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Now playing: The Band - Across The Great Divide
via FoxyTunes

As we all know we had a short summer this year. It seems to have spanned Easter and that was it. It truly was a good Friday, and the days that followed, followed a pattern of similar piety. Spirits were lifted.
Fryday’s Easter was spent quietly. I didn’t go anywhere. I spent this longest of all weekends at home apart from a brief and vicarious sojourn in India courtesy of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel—worth seeing, but nothing more.
What I find remarkable though and perhaps in need of some explanation, should someone wish to proffer it, is why so many people spent their Easter at Mangawhai.
Even the most cursory observation of Facebook suggests that the place was packed. I have never been there so I am somewhat of a loss. What is the attraction? Is it the beach—there are closer beaches, surely. Is it the facilities—for I understand Managawhai has none, though that itself may be the attraction. Is it the culture—bikinis and binges are undoubtedly attractive to many. Mangawhai is not Hamilton, that may be it, but nor is anywhere else. All I know is that had I been at Mangawhai over Easter weekend I would likely have met someone I know on virtually every caravan corner—and that may well have detroyed my purpose for being there--getting away from it all does not usually mean taking the “all” with you.
So, whilst I find myself drawn to Managwhai to see for myself what it has to offer, it will not, I think, be during the holidays—bikinis or no bikinis. In my sixth decade, thongs remain an attraction; throngs, however, are not.

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Now playing: Bruce Springsteen & The Sessions Band - This Little Light of Mine (Live)
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The political spectrum will have us on the left, the centre left, the right, the extreme right or a whole lot of inbetweens and extensions. From 5.00 am Sunday anybody turning right will have to give way. Somewhat ironic given that those on the right have long considered themselves the government of choice, giving way to nobody except Bronwyn Pullar. I think I have my head around the new intersection rules but the problem is of course it takes two to tangle and none of should assume any confidence that other motorists will play be the (new) rules. This was borne out by a survey published in the Herald today. It found that one in ten failed a driving simulation test when confronted by the new intersection rules. Drivers were put behind the wheel of a virtual Suzuki Grand Vitara and asked to make rule-based decisions at real-life intersections. They were also timed: those who answered correctly took on average five seconds; those who answered incorrectly 10 seconds. So there was some indecision, there was some time taken and there is a one in ten chance that a mistake will be made, possibly leading to a crash. It does not auger well. Or does it? We Aucklanders might find some consolation by questioning the veracity of the survey itself. The “real life” intesections were all in Hamilton, the respondents all presumambly were Hamiltonians, and the survey was conducted by that hot(not)bed of rational thinking, Waikato University. Given all that we need to ask ourselves whether the survey is responsible, representative or relevant, unless of course we are going to Hamilton, which of course we are not.

The Tui billboard “Santa even likes ginger kids. Yeah Right!” offends J White. He says, and Fryday quotes here the NZ Herald: “It (the billboard) is offensive and degrading towards children and singles out a natural occurrence of which a child has no control…” Besides the sentence being grammatically bankrupt, the sentence itself is equally if not more offensive than the billboard. Is J White implying in the phrase ‘has no control over” that, if they did, children would elect to be something/anything other than a Ginga? Well, they may do. But I can’t see the same implicit phrase/aspiration being levelled at a brunette, raven-haired or blonde….well, blonde, maybe. But it was not that which caught Fryday’s attention. It was the brewery’s apology and explanation. They did not wish to give offence, they said. It was a scheduling glitch, says DB. A mistake. It was placed in the wrong location. It was supposed to be placed where no-one who saw it would be offended by it. Where those who did see it would enjoy the laconic and iconic humour. Where there was humour. Certainly not where it wound up…Hamilton.

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Now playing: Leonard Cohen - Democracy
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Saying I worked in advertising is something of an oxymoron. There was very little work, as I now know it, but a lot of drinking, card playing and cavorting. At the time—in the 70s—it was the expectation of that industry and the envy of others. We were the bight young things before the stockbrokers stole the mantle and then destroyed it. I see many of the people I consorted with back then on Facebook. They look considerably older, much settled and, one supposes, a little wiser. There are only two I see in person and regularly. And that is after a hiatus of near-on 40 years in the case of one. The others are probably like me in that they are content in the constraint of the Facebook contact. Facebook is like that: it brings you close but not too close, and as you and I are of an age and of an age, we have various other ways of making contact, such as an old-fashioned method called a telephone. I find it remarkable that my sons employ Facebook as a preference to even email. Is email going the way vinyl and video…obsolete? Maybe text will be next…thank God. So I do enjoy the direct engagement with true friends as distinct to the Facebook kind. In fact I am having dinner tonight with the one of those I have retained from those far-off advertising days. The one with the hiatus and a past propensity to go Greek, so to speak. It should be enjoyable, lively and, if conspicuous consumption makes it far from memorable, it will be just like those far-off advertising days, before our lives became a timeline on Facebook.


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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
via FoxyTunes

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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
via FoxyTunes

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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
via FoxyTunes

The fourth biggest burger chain in the world has been accused of targeting poor New Zealanders. The basis of the complaint, from Wai Community Board chair Derek Battersby, is that Carl’s Jr. is opening stores in “deprived” areas such as Glen Innes, Takanini and Avondale. Oh? They can’t be all that deprived if they have a Carl’s Jr., Helensville doesn’t have one. Mr Battersby’s concern, and for this we can read assumption, is that low socio-economic groups—deprived groups—will be more susceptible to the high calorie intake/menu offered by Carl’s Jr., which boasts by the way a foot long cheeseburger. Mr Battersby recommends what today seems the all-too omnipresent panacea of all perceived ills: “a campaign to educate people about fast food.” Just another case, I suggest, of everybody wanting to teach somebody something. And like every other education campaign, other than Drink-Drive, unlikely to make one iota of difference. Anyway, Mr Battersby’s so-called deprived persons are not being targeted by Carl’s Jr.—they haven’t even opened a store in Hamilton—fast food is targeted by deprived persons—and most everyone else as well. It’s the way the world is. Mr Battersby may not like it, but there is little use in him not accepting it.


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Now playing: Kris Kristofferson - Broken Freedom Song
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Two Kims have figured prominently in Fryday’s life of late, the first with pleasure the second vicariously. Our friend Kim Gordon and her husband Glenn gave birth to their first child, Lola. From the photographs I have seen Lola looks a delightful little baby and, even if she is giving a Kim a few sleepless nights that suggest the baby could be more aptly named Barry, Kim and Glenn are still wonderfully blessed. Congratulations.
The other Kim is also a baby, a big bear of a baby: Kim Dotcom. I knew nothing of him before the police raid on his Coatsville rented mansion, but I have taken a fascinated, vicarious and voyeuristic interest since. Who hasn’t? Go on, admit you have. This is not how the other half live; this is how the other 0.00007% live. Not for the likes of you and me. And am I full of envy? Of course I am. They say that money can’t buy happiness. That is so much BS. Of course it can; it can also apparently buy you a prison term but that is another story. One sidebar story was that Mr Dotcom has been refused bail because he posed a flight risk and allegedly had the resources to falsify the necessary documentation—presumably a passport. Hello? The guy is six foot zillion—are you going to tell me that Emigration won’t recognise the differentiation, discrepancy and distinction between the imposing figure in front of them and whomever the passport identifies? I am not saying let him out; but really this reason, if alone, is such a crock.
I am ambivalent about Dotcom. I know nothing of him, other than of his lifestyle. I have never used his on-line service—never knew it existed. I am in no position to judge him, nor would I want to. What I can say is that for however brief a moment Kim Dotcom added interest to an otherwise fairly dreary summer.
Kim and Glenn Gordon would not have thought it dreary I think; summer gave them the most blessed gift possible. But for the rest of us it’s somewhat worrying that Kim Dotcom and his mansionarial machinations are all we got.


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Now playing: Neil Young - Someone's Gonna Rescue You
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HE: Kia Ora Bro.
ME: Kia Ora.
HE: Happy New Year, cuz.
ME: And to you too, Whetu.
HE: Got the place lookin’ nice.
ME: Thank you.
HE: The old lady well?
ME: Yes. Yours?
HE: Dunno. Hasn’t seen her for days. You going to write about Waitangi this Fryday, Bro?
ME: Don’t see why I should. Doesn’t interest me really. Why?
HE: ‘Cause if you was I could save you sending the koha up there. I could collect it here.
ME: This is the koha that Maori are charging the media to write about the Waitangi celebrations?
HE: Not charging, bro; expectin'.
ME: Well I am not writing about Waitangi, so I am not payin'…paying.
HE: You are not writing about Waitangi?
ME: No not at all.
HE: You are not even going to mention it at all?
ME: No.
HE: Not once?
ME: No.
HE: Four times…
(PAUSE)
ME: How much?
HE: Fifty bucks should do it…Kia Ora bro.
ME: Happy New Year Whetu.


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Now playing: The Byrds - Ballad OF Easy Rider
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Yuletide is a word rarely heard these days. It is archaic, and irrelevant, like Hamilton and Hone. Yet it is a lovely word that evokes a more pleasurable and innocent past. It smacks of logs on the fire and snow on the sill. It’s better than the more didactic Christmas, which is in reality two religious words stung together. But Yule (a pagan festival) and Christmas (another) are not about etymology, they are about serenity—the time in which the little pleasures of life reign over the self-absorption of other times of the year. A time to share good fortune with friends and family. I will have my brother staying with me, and that is the first time that has happened at this time of the year in, well, years. I have written of my brother before. He lives in Christchurch. He is completely unfazed by quakes, or anything else for the matter. He loves his dog, and to him that’s all that matters. The little pleasures. Serenity. Looking back on my own year, I have met more good people than bad, and again it has been a long time since that happened. It’s been a great year, and it’s going to culminate in a great Christmas…Yuletide, with friends and family. Here’s wishing the same for you, for everybody, even, yes, Hamilton.

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Now playing: Joan Sutherland, Zubin Mehta; London Philharmonic Orchestra, John Alldis Choir - Puccini: Turandot - Diecimila Anni Al Nostro Imperatore!
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This morning the Prime Minister revealed on Radio Sport that he offered All Black captain Richie McCaw a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List. John Key further revealed that Richie had declined because he (McCaw) felt it was too early for such an honour. Implicitly that left the door open for one later, and most New Zealanders would probably applaud that. Having said that, I can think of a number of New Zealanders who have accepted the honour who are far less deserving of it. The criteria of who gets a knighthead these days seems to be a lot looser than that of the Knights of Old and Knights of Bold. If we go back to those days, to gain a knighthood one had—generally—to be brave, chivalrous, to exhibit considerable prowess on the battlefield, and to be diligent in protecting the sanctity of a woman’s maidenhood. Well, if we replace battlefield with rugby field and acknowledge that protecting maidenhoods may be more honoured in the breech than the observance, nobody would be more qualified than Richie. But it won’t be this time. Richie’s decision. But when they do come knocking again—as they will, perhaps on your retirement Richie—accept it then. You deserve it. We deserve it. It honours you. And in some way it honours us, and who we like to think of ourselves as New Zealanders—the Real McCaw.

Footnote: In the same interview, the Prime Minister would not be drawn on whether Graham Henry had been offered and accepted a knighthood. We were simply invited to “wait and see.”