Category: Blog

Bpb Dylan

Bob Dylan posed an artistic challenge simply by proving that great art could be done on a jukebox.

Bob Dylan cited Allen Ginsberg as a literary figure he admired. Ginsberg returned the compliment by praising Dylan. He said Dylan posed an artistic challenge simply by proving that great art could be done on a jukebox. Dylan is one of the geniuses of the sixties. Not just for his unique use of the English language. That alone was remarkable. His songs a new form of poetry for people who no longer read poetry. He began as a folk singer, but by following his own intuition, his music moved ahead of the cultural current. He was both the Tambourine Man and the Pied Piper, leading us along he restored the authority of modern poetry. Then added the rhythm section. When he moved to electric music, many fans accused him of selling out. Ginsberg dismissed that complaint as one of those

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black and white photo of Slim Gaillard

Do people remember the amazing Slim Gaillard?

When I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, it never occurred to me that Slim Gaillard might be a real person. A dip into the archives was a revelation. He played the guitar and tap danced, sang duets with Dizzy Gillespie, spoke eight languages, and even invented his own language. His comic performances were a unique brand of nonsense jive talk — a variation on hipster slang and nonsense words known as Vout. Gaillard’s words are weird, yet curiously logical, and superbly rhythmic. In “Flat Foot Floogie” he sings: “Flaginzy at flagat, flaginzy ooh flagoo-jigee.” And you can hear the chuckles coming through it all. Spoken and sung slightly off-kilter, it kept me listening, kept me guessing, kept me wanting to hear more. Rap singers could learn a lot from Slim Gaillard. If you listen to him on YouTube

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Sugar Daddies

Is it a  form of payback that many a young girls see Sugar Daddies as objects to be used for their own benefit?

The world loves to mock the old fool in his last gasp, who runs off with a young floozy, so this tale is pretty much a classic laugh. Yeah, whatever age men are, they tend to believe they are still young cockerels and up for the hump if a young chicken comes on to them. You could gob-smack me with a hundred reasons why an old guy might dump his wife for a younger model. But few men would be quite so foolish as my husband Arthur, who, after a four-day sex orgy with a Colombian gold-digging groupie, dumped his ever-loving, clever wife. Yeah, I prefer to think about myself as the ever-loving, clever wife—it makes me feel less humiliated. I had been walking along the beach of destiny with Arthur, the love of my life, when in truth I

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New York artist Ray Johnson and his ‘moticos’ – collages of celebrities

Ray Johnson was an American artist, often referred to as New York’s most famous unknown, known artist. Born 1927—died 1995, he was a seminal figure in Neo-Dada and Pop Art. More importantly he is considered founder of a far-ranging Mail Art network which continues today. Ray began to develop the Mail Art movement in the 1950s with the aim of circumventing museums, art markets, and galleries by using the postal service for the dissemination of artwork. In his early years he had periodically staged events which he called Nothing, described as an attitude as opposed to a happening. His work parallel the Happenings of Allan Kaprow as well as later Fluxus artists and art performance. The first of these events in July in 1961—Nothing by Ray Johnson, were performed in a weekly series of New York events, in George Maciunus

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Ghislaine Maxwell holding a photograph of her father

A Sleazily father – Sleazily daughter. By Karen Moller.

Robert Maxwell still haunts England. Nobody forgets notorious crooks like Madoff and his Ponzi scheme nor Maxwell who fraudulently appropriated 440 million pounds from the pension assets of Mirror Group Newspaper. Money which rightfully belonged to the worker’s pension fund. I should think his disreputable plundering of Mirror company’s pension funds to the tune of £440 million was simply a continuation of his own belief that he was simply grabbing a handrail to prevent his falling down the cellar stairs of financial ruin. Maxwell was a typical 1960’s character. A flamboyant liar and rogue whose aim was to make a life away from the Holocaust and the earth floored shack of his childhood. Hired by the British intelligence service at the end of the war he seeded disinformation to Soviet contacts. Later he got hold of a huge catalog of

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As Oscar Wilde said we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars––by Karen Moller

Sipping my coffee one morning while glancing through a pile of notes and newspaper cuttings that Cy had sent me, I noticed he had marked a photo with the words: “my mother.” The article was titled: ‘A BEAUTIFUL NAZI SPY MAY HAVE ESCAPED THE GALLOWS BECAUSE SHE BORE THE LOVE CHILD OF A BRITISH VIP. A 60-year mystery surrounds the case of Vera Eriksen, a Serbian-born agent who turned up with two other spies in PortGordon Banffshire, a Scottish fishing village in 1940.’ The newspaper article sounded more apt for the script of a fictional film fantasy than reality. The cockeyed German plan appeared to have gone off kilter when the leader Hans Dierks was killed, his car having overturned on the way back to base after a drinking session. The three remaining agents boarded the flying boat in Nazi-occupied

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pink Floyd band of young men

The Pink Floyd and Soft Machine at the Roundhouse 1966

I first saw the Soft Machine and Pink Floyd (their first gig) in 1966 when they played at the Chalk Farm Roundhouse, a launch party for our International Times newspaper. The two groups, virtually unknown, were paid a mere two pounds fifty for the evening. The orgaizers of that event had ripped the boards away covering theentrance of that huge derelict building that had been abandoned since the electrification of the trains. There was no staircase, only a narrow, rickety step ladder at the entrance. When I arrived a long line of colorfully dressed hippies were slowly mounting that fracile strucure and disappearing into the semidarkness. Wow! Was the only word possible to describe the interior. It was a ruin of ancient iron, rotting timbers that smelt of mildew soon replaced by the scent of marijuana. An attempt had been made to clean

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Street fighters: Karen and her banner are lifted shoulder-high by comrades

My part in the French Revolution … a naive London girl’s evocative memories of Paris ’68

At the beginning of May 1968, Paris exploded like a bottle of champagne.  Tens of thousands of students, enraged by university bureaucracy and burning with revolutionary fervour, marched on the Sorbonne, which had been shut by the police.  As the barricades went up and the riots began, I telephoned my friend Adrienne who lived in Paris.  “S***!” she said as soon as she heard my voice. “Right in the middle of Paris they think they can get away with beating kids and herding them into paddy wagons!”  I owned my own fashion boutique in London at the time, but had lived in France and had a great deal of sympathy for the students and their opposition to government repression. I decided to join the protests.  I arrived on May 12. The heavy-handed reaction of President Charles de Gaulle’s government had

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Karen Moller and Cy Lester in 1960

Chasing the stars and hoping to shag the moon

Not long ago, I came across an old sketchbook filled with drawings, literary quotations, and conversations that I had noted in 1959, the year I arrived in Paris. Many years had passed, but I had not forgotten that book and the notes I had made in the hope they might provide some guidance on how best to live my life. Leafing through the pages, recollections flooded back in jump cuts, images here and there, snippets still fresh in my memory. I began again to gather and copy phrases that captured my attention. The first that seemed to hold particular relevance for me were the words of Gertrude Stein: ‘Artists and writers must live abroad to be fully alive to their inner feelings and able to express themselves.’ I mentioned to Cyclops, my friend of those early Paris days that I’d

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Bizot owner of the Underground Newspaper

Bizot the owner of the Underground newspaper Actuel excerpt from Technicolor Dreamin’ in her own fashion by Karen Moller

I suppose most French people remember Jean-Francoise Bizot the owner of the underground newspaper Actuel. Bizot claimed Paris riots and the student protests of May 1968 so electrified him he quit his job at L’Express and decided to launch the counter-culture monthly magazine Actuel. It soon became required reading for the French elite. Actuel was like the independent newspaper of the time typically hippie commune-like in the vein of Village Voice, Los Angeles Free Press, Oz, and London’s IT. In spite of its Underground orientation, it had a widespread influence on French cultural life and was considered by some to be their intellectual bible. Actuel gave voice to ecologists, feminists, gay-rights activists, squatters, but it also included the arts and poetry, writing on existentialism, surrealism, articles about Bob Dylan, Frank Zappa, and Soft Machine. Well actually anything new, which meant

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