π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ πΊπ‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘¦ π‘π‘’π‘šπ‘Žπ‘›: βˆ°.

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” 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. Β 

π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π·π‘–π‘“π‘“π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘›π‘‘π‘™π‘¦-π‘…π‘’π‘Žπ‘™π‘š’𝑑 πΌπ‘Žπ‘› πΆπ‘’π‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘–π‘ .

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.

π‘π‘–π‘π‘˜ πΏπ‘œπ‘€π‘’: π‘ˆπ‘›π‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘‘ π‘ƒπ‘Žπ‘›π‘‘β„Žπ‘’π‘œπ‘› πΌπ‘›β„Žπ‘Žπ‘π‘–π‘‘π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘.

“Ol’ Drain”, as Mr. Nick Lowe is called in some circles {i.e.: The None}—it’s his middle name, and a fine one—wears more than a few musical hats, and pulls it all off in such fashion as would create, probably, a dither of aesthetic paroxysms in any milliner or hatter. Earlier on, (than…??) Lowe, often with mate Dave Edmunds, in Rockpile, showed an uncanny talent for creating clever, charming, quite diabolically catchy songs that perhaps represented the very embodiment , the K2-like apotheosis, of Pure Pop Wonderment. Really…well, it was not fair. One had little to no choice but to come ’round to the man’s idiosyncratic ways. No one, however, minded, it seemed; either that, or such monumental courtesy was shown to Nick {OK, I’ll love it…} than to any other mammalian, extant or extinct.

To siphon away all the hysteria sure to erupt the very second one’s “Earlier on…” gaffe—or was it???—becomes public, let’s open our collective aesthetic Golgi apparati to Brinsley Schwarz. No, not the haberdasher. And yes, I understand that a haberdasher by no means specializes in hatwear, except for those who do. Formerly Kippington Lodge, Brinsley Schwarz gave Mr. Lowe a forum for his musical nascence—he penned So It Goes, and What’s So Funny whilst nestled in the Schwarz collective—and also, presumably, provided a harrowing de facto tutorial on how **not** to name bands.

Right. The supremely accomplished Nick Lowe, and the vastness of his achievements, cannot be adequately summarized. It won’t do. And I’ve already squandered most/all of the allocated space, ranting about…well, if anyone figures that out, do contact me, or the proper authorities. Therefore, I hereby resign my post, and retire to private life. To quote the man himself, as he signed off on a certain Elvis Costello LP: “Now, get happy. Your friend, Producer Nick Lowe.” I think that’s pretty damn cool. Because it is. Costello paid his friend homage many years later, quoting what was proclaimed in the midst of Peace, Love, and Understanding, during the Brinsley years. On Letterman. No. Brinsley Schwarz, nΓ©e Kippington Lodge, did not appear on Letterman. {Nick did, obviously}. Don’t be difficult.

π‘Ίπ’•π’‚π’Šπ’“π’”…𝒕𝒐 π‘΅π’π’˜π’‰π’†π’“π’†. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 π‘Ίπ’π’Šπ’…𝒆𝒔.

A bit of existentialism. Martin Rak accounts for the top three images; then Alper Γ‡ukor for the succeeding five. Michel Rajkovic has two more, Shane Lyman one, and the last is unknown. Fittingly.

𝑿𝑻π‘ͺ, π’‡π’†π’‚π’•π’–π’“π’Šπ’π’ˆ π‘¨π’π’…π’š π‘·π’‚π’“π’•π’“π’Šπ’…π’ˆπ’†.

Few bands can match XTC’s accomplishments as far as writing/performing memorably quirky, intellectual, and, yes, catchy songs. Lead vocalist Andy Partridge provides the oddball genius charisma to generate a potent cocktail of aural nirvana.

A masterpiece from Rockpalast.
A brilliant, somewhat crazed version.

𝑿-π‘­π’Šπ’π’†π’”: 𝑷𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 {π‘»π’π’Ž π‘΅π’π’π’π’‚𝒏}.

The brilliant character actor Tom Noonan gives a towering performance as serial killer/child predator John Lee Roche, who may, as it turns out, be responsible for the disappearance of Fox Mulder’s sister Samantha—the entire crux of the series.

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 π‘»π’“π’†π’Œ: π‘ͺ𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕 π‘΄π’‚π’“π’•π’Šπ’‚π’.

Richard Webb {as Ben Finney} and the renowned Elisha Cook, Jr. {Samuel T. Cogley} both give standout performances in this Trek episode, which focuses on a curious concept: Justice.

π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ 𝑋-𝐹𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑠: {π΅π‘’π‘¦π‘œπ‘›π‘‘ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘†π‘’π‘Ž} – π΅π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘‘ π·π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘“.

The brilliant actor Brad Dourif gives a mind-boggling portrayal of convicted—and soon to be executed—serial killer Luther Lee Boggs. In this story, there’s a catch—a quite big one—in that the murderer claims to have acquired psychic powers, and might be able to help capture a predator who has abducted two people, and has killed ritualistically in the past. Mulder (David Duchovny), for one, is less than convinced.

In these two subsequent scenes, firstly… although Agent Scully would dearly love to converse with her recently deceased father, it’s quite possible that Luther Lee Boggs’ (Brad Dourif loses his mind, in the best possible way) intense aversion to the electric chair has even greater motivational potency. Lastly, in the poignant, haunting final scene (the final scene *we’re* going to present…), the correct warning Boggs had given to Scully ended up saving her life, and convinces her that he’s been telling the truth. He’s only willing to convey her father’s message if she is his witness when he’s strapped to the chair in a few hours. Is this one last trick, one potential last act of cruelty? Or does he truly value the agent whose life he saved? This ambiguity is part of what makes him such an intriguing character…and Dourif’s masterful performance makes Boggs truly indelible.

Amen. Simply one of the greatest performances I’ve seen, ever.

π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ 𝐿𝑒𝑛𝑒 πΏπ‘œπ‘£π‘–π‘β„Ž

Bewildering Semaphore-like Movements.

Lili-Marlene Premilovich, later known as Lene Lovich, preternaturally idiosyncratic—and gifted—songstress, happens to play saxophone, is an animal rights activist, and initially wore her hair in braids to keep the locks from the clay, when in art school, studying sculpture. And, damn, she can deliver a tune. With octaves to spare {hear: Momentary Breakdown}.