Late night, mid February 2003.
While peering through the pages of Amazon, I have come across an old review of mine, written in a drunken haze, 3 years ago. I just thought I'd add a couple of thoughts, this time, somewhat more soberly.
Since '99, when, i have to admit, I feared, though did not admit, that the old master may be losing his touch, things have changed. I listened to the excellent Mule Variations, but with the idea that it was the death knoll of a great artist- a parthian shot from the dark, before a timely disappearance to obscurity.
And then came 2002.
Blood Money and Alice are as wonderful as any of his creations, taking his depictions of the carnival to fresh depths of 'beatitude'(in Kerouac's sense of the word), painting, vividly evoking, in red and black, the seedy underbelly of a 'gone world'. They are tremendous albums, and have been rightly placed on many 'best of 2002' lists. If anyone gets the chance- go and see his collaboration with Robert Wilson- Woyzeck. It is a wonderful visual drug, an assault on the senses. And it gives Blood Money real vitality and resonance.
Why have i written this on a review of one of his earliest albums? To demonstrate that, even after 3 years of regular listening, which is usually enough to kill someones love for an artist, he remains a true companion, who has indirectly introduced me to a fantastic world of beat- Bukowski, Algren, Kerouac, Fante, Bryars, Jarmusch, Jack Black, etc
ps. It's a great album
pps. Dont buy Cath Carolls book on him- it's the second worst read in the world, after The Celestine Prophecy