Showing posts with label Raymond Chandler. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Raymond Chandler. Show all posts

Monday, May 19, 2014

HIGH ON THE AMPHETAMINE OF FEAR





The subjects of this book share an obsession.  They have all been driven to interpret life in terms of melodrama.  Raymond Chandler made perhaps the best definition of melodrama when he called it 'an exaggeration of violence and fear beyond what one normally experiences,’ and yet all art exaggerates some kind of experience.  The enigma of the crime-artist – a generic term for this group of novelists and a film-maker - is why he chooses to inhabit this particular world, the brutal and menacing and conflicted world of melodrama.


 


To trace the separate lives of crime-artists, from Wilkie Collins to Alfred Hitchcock, is like trying to find the vital but hidden link between the different travellers who passed each other on the Bridge of San Luis Rey. Relating the biographical material to the work and looking for figures in both carpets, I found that they not only have projected a continuous universe in which the dominant reality is criminal, but unfolded a continuous secret autobiography.  For these men to reach the dangerous edge is to find a point of no return.  The crime-artist ends where he began, high on the amphetamine of fear.






Gavin Lambert, The Dangerous Edge -- An Inquiry Into The Lives  of Nine Masters Of Suspense, New York, Grossman Publishers, 1976 

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

THE DAY LOU REED DIED (2): HEAD HELD HIGH






Why Lou Reed’s death set off such a shockwave in me I don’t know, but that’s the way it is with death shockwaves.  The horribleness hits;  you try to push it away either by physically flailing or silently closing the mind;  but it comes back at you, it won’t absent itself, ever.


I first heard Lou Reed’s music on a disposable flexi-disc recording of a Velvet Underground song included in a special Andy Warhol-designed issue of Aspen magazine.  I was a high school freshman and remember the moment perfectly -- unfriendly, unbelievably aggressive & piercing  noise following the floppy item floating down the spindle and stylus hitting the grooves.  I recoiled in the manner intended; I guess that’s what is meant by “épater les bourgeois.”  





By senior year, I was a big, big VU fan and was also addicted to Lou’s first solo album,  the one it's not hip to like, which featured jacket art by the fellow who illustrated the Ballantine Raymond Chandler reissues my friends and I were deep into.  "Lou Reed" (the lp) and the Chandlers were BOTH GREAT and seemed to go together at the time.

Lou made some of the most beautiful music ever and wrote some of the best lyrics, so many of them ("Some Kinda Love"; "Pale Blue Eyes") everlasting eye-openers.  He also sang them better than anyone else could ever hope to, i.e,  naturally and conversationally, as if he were telling inevitable and true stories, weird poetic legends.  I will never understand how Lou was able to make such fine records and be such a terrible live performer.  You can’t have everything, I suppose.


A giant walked the earth. Right now I feel  more than a void, more than a profound sad silence.






Velvet Underground: Venus In Furs (Link)


Velvet Underground: Some Kinda Love (Link)