Thursday, August 23, 2007  10:01 pm 

"Mother of God, Cass Kai"

Television today is bad… yadda yadda yadda, bla bla bla. By now most of us know the argument, and its one that I’m inclined to agree with. I don’t feel like I need to go tooooooooo in depth, and explain why I’ve assumed that stance either. Tune into the tube 99% of the time, and it very ably does that for me. Virgins popping their cherry on camera, and reality show participants who think “carnivores” are lively happenings that take place in locations like Rio De Janeiro and Notting Hill, and involve people dressing up flamboyantly whilst dancing to sound systems, are awarded with money for their stupidity. Stick a mini cowboy hat on a hotdog, play some Pussycat Dolls in the background, rope in a popular rapper of the day to make a cameo appearance (Sean Kingston, maybe?), and voila! The latest hit show on MTV. Undoubtedly, this is no golden age.

Of course, its not all bad. Take a metal detector out into a field, and for the most part all you’ll find will be dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Stick with it long enough though, and you’re bound to uncover at least one precious thing, hidden away beneath the surface. This year my great discovery has been John From Cincinnati, a HBO import series. Off the cuff, to label John From Cincinnati a strange show would be a slight understatement. Ingredients have included a heavily medicated, washed up surfing dynasty, incidents of levitation, the reincarnation of a parrot, and the arrival of a mysterious character who mimics people as they talk, makes apocalyptic prophecies, and who may, or may not be an angel, an alien, a simpleton, a straight-up lunatic, or Jesus. PLUS… it also has Luke Perry, everyone’s favourite 90210er, right?! Yes, its a show about surfing, but this isn’t surfing of the eXXXtreme Duuuuude variety, so don’t be put off. Nope, this is surf culture presented as a social phenomena imbued with religious intonations that carries an indefinable mysticism for its devotees, occasionally making gurus out of ordinary people, functioning as both blessing and curse, accordingly elevating subjects to positions of power, all of whom, unaware of the destruction their own human shortcomings will inevitably deliver upon them. Heroes are made to decay. That may be the bottom line of it.

Since John From Cincinnati began airing I’ve watched the series obsessively, and I’m still baffled if I entirely know what its about, although clues have indicated that it may have something to do with the connection that exists between surfers and the awesome molecular force comprised within waves, and/or God feeling a sudden and certain urgency to communicate a message with the human race. Yes indeedy, it is a head scratcher. Sadly, like so many great, misunderstood works of art, John From Cincinnati didn’t find the appreciation it deserved and consequently has been cancelled, meaning all the mysteries thrown up throughout will remain mysteries. Ambiguous endings can be great, usually preferable to the “tied up in a neat package” resolutions that litter so many stories, but in this case it really isn’t great at all. John’s last words were “Mother of God, Cass Kai”. It’s saddening to think I will never know what they meant within the context of the utterance. For shame, TV. For shame.

In honour of John From Cincinnati, I offer up some surf music that in keeping with the skewed nature of the show, defies what the general populace have come to expect of surf culture. No Jan and Dean here, nope, not even a beach ball in sight! Instead what I can offer up are knife edge guitars, ominous electronics, the psyched out wailings of a former free spirit hopelessly lost somewhere inside the bowels of a cave, and a fresh voiced maiden who serenades ever so prettily, but ever so slightly creepily as well. This warped and rather unnerving racket comes courtesy of Tully, who made a whole record of this stuff to accompany Paul Witzig’s 1972 cult surf movie, “Sea Of Joy”. I’ve never actually seen the film, but the music from the soundtrack would seem to confirm what I’ve already read, that Witzig was far too much of an abstract visionary to make a film about sun dappled, teens in heat.

Now… this is a bit of a diversion here, but do you remember that secluded Highlands getaway that was always particularly popular with the pagans, Summerisle, and how it looked idyllic and peaceful on the surface with its community maypole dances, and friendly, singing locals? Do you remember how it wasn’t really very friendly at all though, not unless the residents of the island had some apples growing on their trees, or visitors happened to worship the all powerful sun God in accordance with the land? Yes? Well, and here comes the point, surf culture is a bit like that “quirky” place. The maintenance of a similarly innocent, dew eyed image of beach babes, tanned bodies, and good times is a smokescreen put in place, unwittingly or not, to mask something unquestionably dark, and dangerous. For those who dare to ride the waves, that dark thing is the sea itself, an untameable force that never wanted to be mankind’s friend, and that has always, indiscriminately and inevitably preyed upon the vulnerability of a poor, unfortunate soul. Surfers may appear to have Neptune whipped, but the bravado is a lie, because each and every one place themselves firmly in the palm of his hand every time they venture out into his territory, daring him to take them. Therein lies the thrill.

Tully - Down To The Sea
Tully - Softly Softly

Fitting then that the music to Sea of Joy should evoke both the ecstasy, and the terror of the sport, just as successfully as another notorious collection of childishly malevolent ditties perfectly managed to capture the essence of the “sport” played by Summerisle’s villagers. Tully’s songs teeter on the brink of the hymnal, rejoicing the departure of Artemis, and the arrival of Apollo, only for the celebratory incantations to be interrupted by the undeniable presence of the menace that sprawls before them, unblinking and impenetrable. Sunlight is broken into by the kind of timeless, tenterhook tension suggestive of a panic induced by the realisation of being pursued, and out manoeuvred. Thankfully, the threat always subsides, the clouds part, and the bright shards reappear again, and a crystal voiced spirit signals the shift between the light and the dark. As surf followers, Tully could never leave listeners without a happy ending, but like John From Cincinnati’s, theirs is one that will remain eerily ambiguous for those able to look beyond the surface of things. “The end is near!” “What the fuck are you talking about?” We’ll never know.

* Post by Robin - thanks! *

labels >> Robin, Tully, tubes