Which should come as no surprise to those that know me for any measurable period of a relationship.
After suffering the indignity of look but don’t touch, shake but don’t jerk, and generally cock-teasing myself into a frustrated ball of hormones, I finally let go and just got on with it.
And, to quote the bible, it was good. Of course, planets did not realign their orbits. Tectonic plates did not shift. Fireworks did not spontaneously shoot from my ass. I did not ejaculate lightning bolts.
But like the rehabilitating alcoholic taking the first (of many) sweet mouthfuls of Guiness (in my case, Asahi Kuronama*) in weeks, there was an audible ‘Ahhhh’.
*Kuronama is Asahi’s black lager beer. I believe it translates literally into ‘what the hell is that’?
Because I’m such a puritanical prick when it comes to music sluttery, I have an unfortunate tendency to spend an unhealthy amount of time on Youtube searching for covers of songs. Eschewing the aesthetics of processed pop garbage, I seek out the unheard, unusual and unlikely to engage my rapidly degrading IQ.
Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah didn’t do much for me. He’s historically relevant as a singer, but that’s about as far as it goes. So stone me, some old guys just don’t carry as much oomph as Hugh Hefner as they age. Then came Jeff Buckley, with his shivers-down-the-spine rendition of Hallelujah with his raw, naked, and painfully unvarnished vocals that sent his star supernova. Obviously the logical next step to immortalise his career would be to die in a swimming accident.
Well Jeff is good and dead, and no doubt watching from his divine studio in the stars. Hallelujah still stands, one of the songs that few have done as well as Buckley. Not for lack of trying of course.
Alexandra Burke tried and came off sounding like Wonder Woman and Susan Boyle had a lesbian love child – wonderfully spunky, inhumanly strong, and utterly inappropriate for a song that calls for vulnerability and just a hint of artistic torment.
Imogen Heap, who I think is a massively creative artist in a class of her own, took a crack at it and turned it into an eerie rendition more apt for a Japanese/European horror movie soundtrack.
KD Lang tried. Almost nailed it too, but like Burke, just way too much power. And I daresay too self-indulgent by half. Too much polish in the vocals. Like a world-class hooker who fakes orgasms with a panache worthy of any golden globes, KD wows with her powerful performance and technical precision in every quivering gasp. Still no cigar. It’s a god cover of Cohen’s Hallelujah though. And if that works for you, I wish you well and have a nice life.
She does sport an uncanny resemblance to Meryl Streep in the video though.
So no. Hallelujah has to be done by someone not yet ground to a smooth finish by the music industry. It needs that touch of a raw edge but with that feeling of vulnerability. In the consistency of peanut butter, we’re not looking for creamy smooth, but we’re not looking for raw nuts either.
So, after years of listening to covers, both too creamy smooth good and plain peanut shell bad, here’s the three best covers of Hallelujah, according to me.
Ortopilot.
I’ve blogged about him before. And its obvious I’m a fan of his vocals. And really, in the video, he doesn’t sing Hallelujah, he channels the spirit of the song and binds the soul of Buckley to do his nefarious bidding while he grabs your spine by his vocals. Utterly compelling.
Rea Garvey.
I had some trouble taking him seriously at first. After all, the guy that uploaded this version put a picture of Rea in the midst of devouring his microphone. Still, he is to Hallelujah what Jackie Chan is to stuntmastery. Fearless and somewhat unconcerned by the brevity of his performance, my only complaint is that he didn’t do the whole damn song.
David Choi and Chester See
They look slightly comical at first. David doesn’t smile, and Chester looks like an extra from Entourage. Still, they bring a nice quirk to the unprocessed goodness of acoustic music.
More covers!
Withdrawal symptoms include:
1. Carb cravings on weekends
2. Restlessness
3. Increased online gaming
4. Increased urge to lose temper at stupid people
5. Irregular meals on weekdays
I’m not so sure about 3 and 4 though. Especially 4, since it seems like a convenient way to blame my occasional tempestuous outbursts on the sudden accumulation of testosterone.
An itch I’m haven’t scratched. Born more out of boredom than anything else. I feel a subtle undercurrent tugging at my thoughts when I turn on the computer.
No withdrawal symptoms yet. Except an embarrassing urge to scratch myself inappropriately.
2010. I try to make one new year resolution and stick to it.
So here’s my grand experiment: to spend an entire year without p0rn.
That means not partaking in any purely visual stimulus, delivered electronically or otherwise, that would reasonably lead to masturbatory activity. Which in simple English means i’m going quit wanking off in front of my com for a year.
I figure the benefits are 1) more time to myself, 2) more energy and 3) more things to talk about than the size of Anna Ohura’s boobs.
In its place, I’m gonna download a bunch of meditation torrents and teach myself to spontaneously have multiple dry orgasms. It’ll be interesting if nothing else.
The average condom must hold at least 18 litres of air before bursting.
Guess Bob didn’t quite call it.
Market: S&P 500 @ 1115.10 (as at 3 January 2010)
Direction: Big Up/ Up/ Sideways/Down/ Big Down
Target level: 500 – 600
Timeframe: September 2009 – December 2009
Like they say on National Geographic…BUSTED!
It’s the 5th of November.
A plump woman, old enough to be my aunt, has my hand clasped in hers and she’s rubbing a slightly saggy tit against my arm.
I’m sitting in the cushioned seats of a smallish club. The seats are made of cheap polyester, the stain resistant kind. Loud techno music pumps beats into the walls of the room. Red, blue and green disco lights blink on and off. In the center of the room, the longish bar sits with a pair of long metal poles at each end.
My travel partner sits stiffly on my left. On his left is an unusually tall woman with an unusually broad set of shoulders. She smiles a lot and doesn’t really talk, except to say, ‘you buy me drink?’ in an unusually deep and husky voice. Ladyboys, or ‘kathoeys’ are common, my newfound aunt purrs. She even points out two girls on stage who completed the surgery.
Sex tourism is nearly a requisite experience in Thailand. Pat Pong resembles a tourist trap more than sleaze street. The streets are lit by the night markets seeking to make a quick buck from tourists and locals. The touts are a constant presence.
As if to reinforce the tourist trap image, a group of two white girls and one indian guy are escorted into the bar. They’re here to watch the ping pong show, my aunt tells me. She unzips her jacket, letting loose a noticeable paunch, and smiles to me, saying, “I go do show now. You wait for me ok?” I try to be encouraging by giving her a thumbs up.
The show involves one woman with amazingly acrobatic vaginal muscles. She lubes up her vagina, in much the same way a gymnast rubs their hands with chalk. Smiling to the audience, she waves a large marker and a piece of paper, before setting the paper on the floor and sliding the marker up her vagina.
Squatting, the woman half squats and starts gyrating her hips. Her movements are quick and professional. I find it hard to imagine anyone who’d be turned on by this. Pulling the marker from her vag, she picks up the paper and displays it to the audience: Welcome to Thailand!
Aunt is up next. She climbs on stage, breasts bare, and unties her bikini bottom. An assistant hands her a basket with ping pong balls and a lube dispenser. She lubes up before reaching into the basket, holding up one ping pong ball for all to see.
Lying sideways on the floor, she turns to my direction before lifting up one leg and sliding the ball into her vagina. Her legs bend slightly as she contracts her muscles and with a sudden jerk, send the ball flying out about one meter in my direction.
Being the touristy idiot that I am, I stupidly applaud. This of course, is not the correct response, because everyone, from the older Thai uncles watching the show, to the bare breasted waitresses serving drinks, turns to stare at the sole moron clapping away. I give it two more claps before their withering gaze sinks in.
Aunt repeats the performance, making sure every patron in the bar has a ball flying his or her direction. Somewhere between the third and fourth ping pong ball, a fully clothed and stocky woman waddles over with a calculator.
She settles down, strategically positioning herself to completely block my line of sight. I get her meaning even before she starts jabbing the calculator and scribbling down numbers. Still, I’m slightly shocked that the finally tally comes up to B4000.
Just for perspective, the bar fine for taking a girl out for a shot is B500.
Taking her out for an entire night will set you back about B1500.
So for B4000, my travel partner and I could have gotten two hookers (each!) for the entire night and still have B1000 for dinner.
Regardless, we pay up. And by pay up, I mean we empty our pockets and hope we’ll get away with a mere B3000. The calculator looks at us, smirks dismissively, and sweeps our notes and her calculator into her basket with a well-practised motion.
On stage, aunty has a blowpipe in her vagina. She fires needles at balloons. And she doesn’t miss. And at this point my travel buddy and i decide that we’ve seen enough. We get up and leave for more of Thailand’s nightlife.
Caught this clip of one Mark Dice, trying to sell an ounce of gold for US$50. Last I checked, gold closed at above US$1100 an ounce.
While Mark concludes that people are too stupid to know the value of gold, I’d like to point out that if someone’s selling something at a greater than 95% discount, my initial reaction would be one of intense skepticism.
And really, it’s highly unlikely anyone can verify on the spot that it’s a real gold coin he’s holding and not some well-made imitation.
Plus, as one of the respondent’s pointed out, ‘I don’t need it.’
