Charisma – 𝑩𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒐𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆

Guitarists, of Note.

The twin titans, Robert Fripp and Adrian Belew, share amusements and dovetail perfectly in these performances.

Then, Terry Kath of Chicago. Hendrix had high praise for this great man.

Well. Hendrix himself.

Mr. John McLaughlin and Co.

The mighty and eternal Allan Holdsworth.

Studio version. Holdsworth godlike simplicity and bearing.

“Fred”.

And, of course, the great Pat Martino.

Indeleble performances from giants of the art.

“The High Priest of quasi-androgynous Synth-Pop/Electronica, the Alien Deity, The Gary Numan.” *That* is the short-duration, deeply personal gist of the above Volume Integral symbol. What has been used to calculate Flux Densities, and has served as one’s WordPress Profile “About Me” content, to boot, now is more—much more—much, much more. It conveys gist; Gary Numan gist. This realm. This symbol. This Gary Numan.

“This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…”

We’ll lead off with two {you may see three; deal with it} epoch-defining…”performances” {which will, I suppose, have to suffice, word-wise, as there exist no words suitable…}. He is **up** to something…..

The first and third videos are both from Dutch TV program TopPop, 1979. They are *not* identical, however. One, I believe, was not broadcast {the 1st; perhaps the “smiling” was considered too dangerous…}. Both are sublime.

Praying To The Aliens.

“Praying” would have to rank first, or thereabouts, in my own world. Curiously, very few live/TV iterations seem to exist. I did what I could!!

Um. WOW.

Spellbinding is Numan’s performance on Down in the Park, live at the Odeon, 1979. Doom-y, evocative, remarkable.

There’s a realm where no one can touch Gary Numan. I am *not* going to provide: its Name, Address, or Phone Number, at present. {oh, OK!}

*1 Cock Boulevard, Absorto, Chari-Baguirmi, Chad * {quite near the headquarters for Flux Density-measurin’ Volume Integral, noted Theme Park}.

He created aural landscapes which allowed access to the unfathomable. His performances have been described in so many ways. Strikingly “robotic”. Otherworldly. And there’s an edge, accompanying his trenchant intelligence; a certain wariness. At times, an unnerving camaraderie with….whatever it may be, the ritual held out in the open, hauntingly obvious, yet impenetrable. A language we’ve forgotten; mind-argot beyond our ken.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦-𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑚’𝑑 𝐼𝑎𝑛 𝐶𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠.

Go ahead. Choose a realm, any realm. Ian’s not from there; he’s never taken up residence there, and, for that matter, spends precious little—if any—time there. Yes. It’s been proven.

It’s a damn shame that so little halfway decent video footage seems to be available, of Joy Division. The first two are the cream o’, that I have encountered. Prose ought not storm about in the Video {or Image} playground. I panicked. I’m stalling. Wingeing. And on, now, we go. Unto the Breach. We few. We happy few.

This is their greatest achievement. {Yes. In my opinion.} Lyrics such as “On stranger waves, the lows and highs, Our vision touched the sky” {I hear “skies”, but every “authority” says otherwise. It’s skies.} are lyrics that will stop one cold, transported. He’s Rimbaud, but lots better, genius-y-er. Getting It-y-er. And: past tense. Like he’s not there. Maybe never was. Haunting. As. ___________.

Means To An End’s Twin, spire-wise.

Isolation transcends the Isolation genre, or would, if such a genre existed. “I’m doing the best that I can” not to expound. I give you Ian: ” A blindness that touches perfection,
But hurts just like anything else…” I mean…

Also Quite “Good”.

Ian was not only brilliant, fiercely determined, and a de-framer-of-reference…to whom could he be compared?…but he was one brave man. To go out, in public, put self on display, and take unreal chances, and I mean here with his dancing…this must have been terrifying. For one afflicted with epilepsy, to *intentionally* lose control, physically…unreal. But, he *had* to.

𝐻𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒! {𝑀𝑜𝑡𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒…}

Mr. Ian Hunter, the lead vocalist and braintrust of Mott the Hoople {so named after a 1966 novel by Willard Manus}, realized early on in his life, that, at least in terms of music, he quite simply was *not* like the others. It affected him much, much more powerfully.

Hunter joined a band called Silence, which was then renamed on a whim by the svengali-like Guy Stevens, noted impresario and bon vivant. Mott enjoyed some success, but was nearing the end of its tether, when one David Bowie offered them a song. All The Young Dudes became, of course, a huge hit, an anthem, the sound of an era.

Ian continued with Mott until December, 1974, then led a somewhat less hectic and more varied lifestyle. He worked briefly with the great Mick Ronson; the final track we here offer is an almost impossibly beautiful, wistful piece of music, and it is enhanced by Ronson’s mandolin. Mott the Hoople leave a unique legacy; a band beloved well beyond what their fame/fortune would indicate…yet they are really not a “cult” band, either. How dare they.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑀𝑢𝑟𝑝ℎ𝑦: 𝑉𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦-𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝐷𝑒𝑖𝑡𝑦.

In re: the above, and the below: One of those riveting performances Peter Murphy has been known to deliver, the kind that provokes ponderings such as “Hmm. Is P.M. the greatest person to ever draw breath? Oh, right. He’s probably *not* a person, as such…”. I’m sure you have entertained such mysteries. Still emphatically vampiric, all the more impressive given the attire; Bela, say, would not be caught dead, undead, or in some interstitial state about which we know little {OK; nothing}, in such garb. But, yep; vampiric as they come. He is in full command of his towering vocal abilities, as per. A mesmerist is in the house. And, *you* let him in!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Cuts You Up {1992, on D. Miller} vid has become somewhat, oh, infamous, due to Murphy’s {elegant} gesture (which was *not* “giving {Miller} the finger”, as the rattled, indignant, incorrect host proclaimed…’twas a nose-thumbing, a snook-cocking); it was a perfect moment in time, making crystal clear that some people are human {Miller, for example: and a jackass to boot. He had just finished offering forth banal, insulting words about his Guest, then plays the Innocent…}, and some are more of the god-like/vampiric/undefinable/ambiguously-formatted persuasion.

{above prose appended 8/8/2019; I’d already referenced this topic in post originale, below, but I feel a need to avoid revising/excising. And, you cannot make me.}

The ever enigmatic and other-worldly Peter Murphy still presents an imposing, daunting figure, one who seems unlacking in self-assurance. And, if anything, his *astonishing* vocal talents are fully—possibly more than fully—intact. Like unto a god. Or whatever he is.

His immense powers, presence, and unearthly priest-like {Ambiguously Benevolence’d Category} attributes are all on display in these videos; and, for the connoisseurs, the Great Man delivers (whilst exiting the stage, post “Cuts You Up”) unto host and mere mortal Dennis Miller a profound gesture, one flawless, snook-cocking nose thumb, with all the impeccable style and ease that would be expected.

To reiterate: I am *not* removing, now, or ever, the Miller quasi-debacle bit here, addenda or no addenda.

𝑅𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝐹𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑟.

This masterful, stylish Swiss athlete, Roger Federer, has achieved such towering heights, in tennis, that he is *generally* considered the sport’s greatest ever practitioner. He has given many, many thrills over the years…with his nonpareil artistry and creativity; his indomitable will; his uncanny proclivity to produce his best when it matters most, when so many others wilt. At his best, Roger’s game was—and, is—nothing short of poetry, the poetry of a genius…a slightly mad one, at that.

I’ll always recall my first viewing, against American Andy Roddick, in the 2003 Wimbledon semi-finals. His preternatural grace and *feel* for the game I simply found astonishing. Magical. When Federer closed out the second set with, really, something no one had seen—a running, forehand half-volley {usually a defensive shot} utterly whipped into the corner for an uncontested winner—both men had to smile. Commentator John McEnroe, quite capable of producing his *own* magic with a racket, was incredulous. “That’s not possible.”

On a personal note, I was fortunate enough to partake of the Great Man at very close quarters; a practice session. Being at such proximity to Mr. Federer would have to be included in one’s rather intimately scaled coterie of “Religious Experiences”. Plus, he also rather casually did something impossible. He’s like that.

𝑺𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏.

The song Badlands is belted out with supreme force (Get It Straight!!) and something else I won’t attempt to name. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crowd react in quite this way. 2002, in Barcelona. Badlands, defiant and uplifting, is one of Bruce’s best, to me—the first cut off Darkness—but this is simply transcendent. One sees here, for reals, why many witnesses to Springsteen’s legendary shows view him as an almost religious figure.

From 2009. The mighty and just a bit intense Bruce Springsteen unleashes the goods, ALL of ‘em, on the moving Something in the Night. This song, from the great 1978 album Darkness on the Edge of Town, is, probably, if gun were put to head , to me, the greatest song the great man wrote. There are many. But this, this just totally embodies Springsteen.