Skip to main content

The first time ever I liked Celine

A propos nothing in particular, I spent a few minutes yesterday on YouTube listening to covers of Ewan MacColl's brilliant love song "The first time ever I saw your face." And had two related revelations. The first is that it is possible for me to listen to Celine Dion without coming out in a rash provoked by insincerity, sentimentality, and saccharine in equal profusion: with this song she almost appears genuine, and there can be no doubt about the beauty of her voice. The other revelation—the corollary of this, if you will—is that Celine is less to be condemned for her talent than for her poor judgment in generally singing really atrocious, emetic songs. Viz. Or maybe it shows that even Celine cannot screw up a work of genius...

For all that, Johnny Cash still comes out on top... (I've still to make up my mind about Peter, Paul and Mary, and Roberta Flack)

Comments

Fred said…
[Warning: heavily over-parenthesized comment ahead]

Evidently I'm combing through your blog(s) this evening, avoiding the umpteen bits of "real work" that need tending to before sun-up...

This post (specifically: "[...] possible for me to listen to Celine Dion without coming out in a rash [...]) evoked an amusing memory:

At some point during Fall term 1997 (how on Earth is it possible that this was 15 years ago) during the opening minutes of LIN555 (Course Name: Linguistic Theory and Language Acquisition, Grade: KF [ouch...but still you saw fit to write me a letter, for which I'll be eternally grateful]) you walked in and said (something very near to):

"I was just in the café on the corner when I was overcome by a sort of creeping malaise, which then gave way to actual anger. At first I couldn't figure out what was wrong, but then I realized that Kenny G was playing on the sound system."

[cue polite laughter]

I'm happy to see that you're doing interesting things and have a lovely fmaily, by the way.

Cheers.

p.s. Your Captchas are horrendously difficult. How would our AI fare on Turing Tests if we gave them a "give me a different sentence please" option?

Popular posts from this blog

Turbulence (Thanks for all the fish, and more)

[Note: this piece is not about about my family, nor does it involve literary or musical criticism. I’m not anticipating any attractive illustrations or other lures, and no musical accompaniment either. So if that’s what you came for, look away now. There will be more such articles in the future, I hope, but this is not one of them. You have been been warned.] Tokushima Naruto Whirlpool (Shikoku Excursion) Events of the last few days have left me, both literally and figuratively, in a painfully disordered state of mind. In plain English, I’m stressed, and my head aches. Actually, it twinges, rather than aches, but the precise description matters little; at all events, the pain ‘comes and goes’, as they say. (Where pain goes to, when it goes, is a puzzle in itself. I have this anthropomorphised image of Pain, like some peripatetic poison dwarf, doing the rounds of the neighbourhood: “Hi, Nigel didn’t want me this hour, so I’ve decided to drop in on you for a while. Don’t worry thoug...

What's love got to do with it?

Click here to play the first track [Youtube] When I was young/My father said Son, I have something to say And what he told me I'll never forget Until my dying day... ( Cliff Richard, Bachelor Boy, 1963) Since just after Justin's birth, I have tried to be positive and optimistic about our future, and particularly about the challenges presented by his condition. Sometimes, as will have been clear from other posts, this positivity is aided by an ostrich-like refusal to contemplate future eventualities, but mostly, it's because I feel we've been really lucky: he had no postnatal medical complications; he's loved and accepted by his brothers, he's growing well; there's even a hint of a smile on his face... There are some days, though, when optimism seems like an overwhelming challenge,  days when I almost lose the will to move forward, and when I look around for a large tub of sand (something, like litter bins, that is in desperately short supply in u...

Cambridge Blues ('Foundationed deep')

"I" Staircase, Trinity Hall, Cambridge  This weekend past, I returned to Cambridge with Ayumi, Julian and Justin for the first time in seven years. The occasion was a college reunion dinner, marking approximately 40 years of life since matriculation (1980, 1981, 1982, 1983 entrance years): about half of us (~50) from each annual cohort turned up to compare notes, reminisce, squeeze our sagging frames into formal evening wear, and report biographical highlights. It is worth noting that this was a self-selecting group: those with sufficient time, opportunity, income (it wasn't a cheap weekend break), self-regard and retained affection for their alma mater to trundle up; as bushy tailed and 'Hail fellow, well met', as age and misanthropy might allow.  Sic transit gloria iuvenum. I didn't have a great time, nor yet was it a disastrous waste. This is hardly surprising, since the curse of middle age is profound ambivalence about almost every extra-familial event or ...