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New York Press April 29, 1998 by J.R. TAYLOR
Column and Review
J.R. TAYLOR _ CHARMER_
OLIVER IS LEGION
I wake up around noon. There's no good reason to get out of bed. There
aren't any pressing duties, and I can't imagine a single simple
household task that I could manage to complete, anyway. But it's been
a while since I checked my e-mail. That seems doable. It's not much of
a walk from the bed. As usual, my e-mail includes a series of missives
from The Nerdiest Pop Chat List in The World. This is usually followed
by a series of deletions. There just doesn't seem much left to learn
about Cartman's father and the lastest really important vinyl-only
album release out of Wisconsin. Then I see that one of the pop nerds
has sent out mail title "Life Is Good." I can relate to this. It's a
lazy and carefree Tuesday. The sun is out, and the temperature's a
bright and breezy 66. Last night's alcohol is burning off my skin, and
the scent of a Brazilian alt-rock girl still fills the room. I won't
change the sheets for at least a week. Sitting at my desk, I try to be
positive about all this. And it occurs to me that Life Remains Good.
Oliver Jovanovic is guilty; the Holy League of Hello Kitty is
appeased. And Diamanda Galas is the only thing on the day's list of
Things To Do. (Although Diamanda has been on my list of things "to do"
since l986, if you catch my drift.) There's a set list of platitudes
that go with Diamanda. She's the sexiest goth gal this side of
Wednesday Addams. She remains- alongside the late Jeffrey Lee
Pierce-the rare modern artists who understands and enhances the blues.
And you can never miss the chance to see Diamanda live, since there's
a good chance that her vocal chords will come flying out of her throat
at any minute. But there's something that people often forget among
her blood-spattered performance art. Diamanda is our country's most
life-affirming artist. That's why she never got mentioned in Oliver's
e-mail. (Joe Christ, however, has probably added Oliver to his mailing
list.) I'm still thinking of Oliver and me during Diamanda's concert
at the Knitting Factory that evening. She's performing the new
MALEDICTION AND PRAYER, which is a pleasantly unnerving collection of
live standards alone to piano. The concert tonight is just as
subdued. That pain-inducing vocal range isn't chasing anyone out of
the club. Diamanda still speaks in tongues when ever the language
comes up short of her voice, but the toes are almost gentle. It's a
real shame that the new album isn't on a big major label, because
Diamanda sounds ready to go platinum. Or she's at least set to become
the true Ally McBeal. Diamanda has spent too much time on bigger
issues to count as a feminist voice, but she's always been the sound
of the wronged. MALEDICTION AND PRAYER is, in many ways, the scream of
a modern gal painted into a corner. Diamanda takes old soul and
country hits that glorify sin and pain, and she strips them of all
entertainment value. What's left is the important emotions that get
buried beneath the marketplace. In the most poppish moment, Diamanda
performs "My World Is Empty Without You" as a cold and solitary dirge.
You can only wonder what patriarchy was being served when the Supremes
made grief sound like fun. This is where Diamanda reclaims the blues.
The genre was once about black folks easing their pain before another
day of slaving for the man. Diamanda isn't interested in easing
anyone's pain. She wants to expose the nerves and strip out the black
stuff. Modern girls would do well to take a lesson from Diamanda --and
W.C. Fields. You can't cheat an honest man, and you can't charm a
woman who doesn't already find herself charming. By the time Diamanda
finishes, I have new sympathy for all those poor shallow bachelors who
haven’t ever assaulted their dates. But at least even that is a
welcome break from the way that everyone is in love with themselves.
The harmless folks end up wrapped in useless obsessions. The sexual
predators find plenty of willing victims. And Diamanda reminds me that
the oblivious, unthinking victims are the absolute worst. They're the
ones who bought into the Supremes instead of the suffering. They're so
in love with themselves that the greatest crime you can commit against
them is not falling in love. Sometimes, the knife really does feel
like justice. And Hello Kitty goes bob-bob-bobbling along. |
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