Introducing the Schwa, the Upside Down e

There are 44 basic sounds in the English language, represented by 26 letters of the alphabet. Of these, 23 are vowels, which is quite a lot more than in some other European languages, like Spanish, or Italian.

Because of the mismatch between the number of phonemes in English and the number of letters used to represent them, there are often difficulties in trying to spell English words phonetically. This is actually one of the biggest complaints of non-native speakers when they learn English.

To overcome this problem, phonetic symbols were developed to represent the natural sounds of English in a comprehensive scientific way. The International Phonetic Association has created a system that describes the phonemes which can be used not only in English, but any language in the world (even Klingon, or Sindarin!)... (For more on the schwa and other 43 English phonemes, click here.)

The Three Australian Dialects, Explained

Being a young nation, Australia is not endowed with the patchwork of regional dialects found in the United States or Britain. Geography does not influence speech in any meaningful way; one regional dialect covers the entire continent. That said, ethnic and social differences do exist. Apart from the ethnic dialects of immigrants, and fading Aboriginal tongues, there are said to be three sociocultural varieties of Australian English: broad (Ocker), general, and cultivated. As Wikipedia records, "the term 'Ocker' is used both as a noun and adjective for an Australian who speaks and acts in an uncouth manner, using a broad Australian accent." Ocker culture is anti-authoritarian, and anti-intellectual. The intonation is flat with a nasal twang, and rhythms are slower than the general dialect. Speech is peppered with unique idioms, frequent swearing, and colourful terminology... (For my complete observations on the dialects of Australia, click here.)

Cracking the Code

For many years, JavaScript evaded me. I wanted it for my website, I could see its potential for my life, but I just couldn't wrap my head around how it worked. It was a fruit I couldn't reach, a nut that wouldn't crack. I made a promising debut in the biz, you might say: I grew up with a Texas Instruments TI-99/4A, and learned BASIC at an early age. I even programmed a video game in Year 10 Computer Studies, a racing car simulation with sprite and treacherous track. That was in the age of the Commodore 64. When the Internet arrived, half a decade later, I fancied that it could provide the platform for a new kind of literature, an interactive, choose-your-own-adventure style of fiction. I started to write a novel which I hoped would be like the magic book from Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age: a device that was more storyteller than mere story, bespoke but bewilderingly cuttingedge, an intuitive, intelligent machine. HTML was cool and easy to pick up, but it wasn't interactive enough for my goal. I soon realized that only JavaScript could deliver the desired dynamism. Unfortunately, computer languages had evolved since my TA forays, and this new lingo looked a hell lot more complicated than BASIC. What is it with these functions, attributes and elements? I remember asking myself, frustrated; what does object-oriented mean? Looking back, I can see that I had succumbed to the same misconception that scuppered my efforts to learn German in Year 11: I did not appreciate that every language has its own grammar. As language leaners know, grammar is the hardest part. Master the grammar, and the rest will follow.  


This breakthrough was 20 years in the making, but something miraculous has happened in the past few months... I suddenly get JavaScript! Of course, these days I no longer write fiction... I suppose you could say that fiction writes me. Life is a code (Baudrillard), a narrative (Lacan), and JavaScript is the interface which enables me to read this code, one line at a time...

We all have algorithms running in our minds at any time, unfathomable routines, an endless chain of signification (to put it in Lacanese). Functions waiting to be triggered, like samskaras lurking in the murk. The first step is to codify what it already there, conscious and unconscious, constructive and destructive. Then you can set about reprogramming yourself. Currently JavaScript can predict how far I can drive from home, estimate my tax due  (var taxdue = taxableIncome * .19;), and even tell me when it is time to move out. Piece by piece, my personal assistant is taking shape. The Grand Algorithm is here!

We're All Floating

Have you ever read a haiku poem? Not only are they fascinating compositions in themselves, as fragile as a cherry blossom, but they also open a window into the culture and the consciousness of the Japanese people.

For those who don't know, haiku comprise three nonrhyming lines of five, seven and five syllables. To our Occidental mind, they appear too fleeting and incomplete. We feel that there should be something more substantial. If we think Orientally, however, we will realize that they reveal something less... that is, the vacuum which encapsulates the core of the Japanese experience. Just like the empty gestures of the tea ceremony (茶道), they condense the essential nothingness of the Universe. This is the original meaning of the "Floating World", in my opinion at least.

The following haiku, by Matsuo Basho (松尾 芭蕉) is said to be one of the most profound achievements in Japanese literature, but is only seven words long:

"Furuike ya!
Kawazu tobikomu
Mizu no oto."

("Oh -- ancient pond!
A frog jumps in,
The sound of water.")

It should be noted that the "ya" is not even a real word, and it is merely deployed as a "state breaker", a crack of Zen revelation. I studied quite a few other haiku today and most of them were deceptively simple, but yet deeply mysterious at the same time. They make me wonder about how the same patterns coil round and round and in upon themselves, conchstyle. In Europe landscaping generally entails elaborate grounds with avenues of grand elms; in Japan the traditional garden is just a raked expanse of gravel rimmed by midget brutally pruned bonsai trees. Haiku are the bonsai of the poetry world, you might say -- severely pruned and bare.

A more contemporary state breaker can be heard in the song We're All Water, written and sang by Yoko Ono, and released on John Lennon's protest album, Some Time in New York City. Ono might be a terrible singer and the whole production is shambolic, but the curious structure of the piece redeems it. Each verse is like a haiku, with three lines of five or seven syllables each, for example this one:

"There may not be much difference
Between Manson and the Pope,
If we press their smile..."

Three is not a particularly rhythmic number at the best of times, at least on a Rock record, but here it lends an exotic, enigmatic quality. Listening to Ono's song, you might find yourself hanging on, waiting for the missing fourth line. Have the courage to let go, however, and you could fall into an abyss, one that you never even noticed there right before your feet... (For more of my discoveries regarding manifestation and the void, click here.)

Regaining My Hope in Sigur Rós

I must confess that I had lost hope in Sigur Rós after () came out. In comparison to Ágætis Byrjun, Sigur Rós' first major release, the () album was harder to get into: austere, funereal, blank as a pair of empty parentheses. While Ágætis Byrjun grabbed you from the get-go, and took you on a glorious adventure, () was downbeat, and deliberately intimidating. Not only did none of the tracks have names, but they all kind of sounded the same. It was disappointing, because I fancied that I had finally met my kindred spirits in this Reykjavík quartet. I feared that the Victorious Rose had withered, and died, just as I was starting to dig them. That was two years ago, and a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, to abuse an old cliche... I have been to Iceland, and discovered plenty of fresh talent in that creative powerhouse. Sigur Rós had played their part in my life, or so I thought, but now I required them no more. How wrong was I: all of a sudden, Sigur Rós are back, happier and more accessible than ever! Frontman Jónsi Birgisson is actually singing, in Icelandic at least! And in gratitude, I have to bow deeply, and say: Thank you. Or, more succinctly: Takk..., which is the title of their new album.

Takk, the third album released by Sigur Rós.

Last Sunday I bought the latest Sigur Rós installment Takk... and consumed it, captivated, at the old school desk in my sharehouse. It was such an exhilarating experience, I literally couldn't get out of my chair until it finished. From the opening moments of mesmerizing feedback, which suggest a sun rising over a field of lush lupines, you sense that this is going to be an upbeat record. The sun slowly morphs into the sweep of a North Atlantic lighthouse, slicing through the fog. A beam from that lighthouse swivels your way, sending out fluctuating waves that just melt you, instantaneously. All at once, I felt the melancholy of () blown away, and the curtain rise on a whole new act in the Sigur Rós saga. It was an introduction that, for me at least, called for an instant rewind. So let's rewind it, and do it properly, in this review... one track at a time! With the occasional YouTube video or other media file thrown in, once they become available.

Track 1: Takk... ("Thanks...")
Like a ray of scintillating sunshine, Takk... penetrates deep into your soul, to grant you a Higher Grace. I believe there are saints in India who can enlighten you just by uttering a couple of words in your earshot, or staring you in the eye. Sigur Rós also seem to possess this ability, this Shamanic power, and all you have to do is hear their music, and be transformed! As the introduction begins, it feels like a baby is being born, descending into Being (in the fringes, meanwhile, the sonic equivalent of angelic heraldry hangs.) Why do the introductions to Sigur Rós albums always sound like childbirth? I marveled, hearing this tune play out, the second time I rewound it. Not the birth of an ordinary baby, of course, that would be too mundane. Here we are talking of angel birth!

Track 2: Glósóli ("Glowing Sole")
Glosoli carries forward the euphoria of the intro, but the Fafner-frustrated bass, and restless percussion, suggests some discord... it appears our angel child has taken form, but finds her/himself forsaken in this cold world. Inexplicably, the sun has disappeared (then again, it might just be midwinter in the Land of Fire and Ice!) The bass frets round and around, locked in a holding pattern. The strings do manage to lift off though and before too long we have Jónsi ululating too, yodeling almost, his voice higher than I have ever heard before, almost operatic you might say. He sings, sweepingly:

"Nú vaknar þú

Allt virðist vera breytt

Ég gægist út

En er svo ekki neitt..."

Now you wake up, to find all is different. I look out, but see nothing. Tie my shoes so, and head for the door. Outside on the lava plain, a boy stands waiting. He is decked out in period costume, and carrying a drum. Part Pied Piper, part pirate dwarf, he seems like he's on a mission. He is on a Crusade, no less, and he is calling for volunteers. The drummer boy assembles a posse of kids as the song advances, constructing cairns, sleeping on moss beds, traversing the dark and steaming landscape, before the sun is finally located hiding over what must be the black beach of Vík in southern Iceland. The sound wells, bowed guitar building, and surging through it all is an epic feel, an incredibly epic feel, the kind you might encounter in a Homeric poem, or an Old Norse saga.

At 3:47 the bass guitar grinds into a countdown, lead guitar joining in, cascading into a crescendo which can only be called Heavy Metal, Iron Maiden in slow-mo. Jónsi rides atop the sonic blast, rejoicing:

"Og hér ert þú, fannst mér!

Og hér ert þú, Glósóli!"

On cue, the kids charge up a steep grassy slope, overtaking gulls which bob on the breeze, to the high cliff which towers over the sunlit beach.  As Jónsi hollers they leap off the edge, one by one -- not to fall to their grisly deaths but rather to soar, angelic, into the citrine sky. There is an angel inside everyone of us, that is one of Sigur Rós' recurring motifs... and these kids have lights in their soles. We are Homeric heroes all, living in our own personal saga. Therefore, everything we do is worthy of epic treatment.

Track 3: Hoppípolla ("Jumping in Puddles")
In an interview recently aired on MTV Japan, band members declared Takk... to be their "happy album". Critics have been predictably quick to label the record as too optimistic and orgasmic, and to question the band's sincerity. I think they are missing the point: the thing about Sigur Rós is that they do emotional music -- their range encompasses everything from ecstasy to sorrow and existential dread. That said, Hoppipolla manages to push it to 11 on the ecstasy scale, which is no mean feat. It is, allegedly, the story of some kids splashing around in a puddle and having fun (once again, a simple theme turned into an opera of epic proportions.) The result is the most beautiful song on the album, or at least one of the most accessible. 

In the video posted above, homage is paid to such juvenile pursuits as tagging buildings, throwing water-bombs, and playing knock-and-run. Typical of Sigur Rós, normal roles get reversed, and the perpetrators of said acts are senior citizens, while the victims are young dudes played by the members of the band (at 1:19, for example, you can see Jónsi working behind the counter in a shop.)

Track 4: Með Blóðnasir ("With a Nosebleed")
The continuation of the previous song by other means, this is also a very inspirational piece in its own right. According to an interpretation I have read online, one of the kids splashing around in Hoppipolla has injured himself/herself and gotten a nosebleed, but nobody cares because everyone is having so much fun. Loops of guitar, keyboards and glockenspiel are tossed around, with Jónsi surfing over the top. Casper on the Sigur Rós message board said: "Með Blóðnasir is just wild! if it were an actual song it'd be the best thing they've ever done!" I just wonder whether by separating this and Hoppípolla into two units, Sigur Rós have deliberately tried to make it harder for both to get commercial radio playtime. Instead of selling out, the band seem to be trying to goad commercial radio into breaking a few of its own rules, and become a bit more experimental.

Track 5: Sé Lest ("Train")
Building straight off of Með Blóðnasir, the glockenspiel is isolated, playing a repeated melody that moves up in fifths all while bouncing in 16th notes. A whimsical vocal line comes over and is followed by bass, percussion and feathery strings (apparently provided by fellow Icelanders amiina). At this stage it is all starting to sound very mid-1990s Björk, as soothing as a lullaby. Near the five-minute mark, multiple tonal instruments balance against each other, with on odd bowed instrument over the back. At 6:30, curiously, we are full-fledged into a night-time polka. That's right, a freaking polka! This is cool -- only Sigur Rós could pull off a transition like that. It leaves me wondering: Is there anything this band can't do?

Track 6: Sæglópur ("Sea Nitwit")
After the whimsical folly of Sé Lest, Sæglópur erupts with a surprising force...  you could describe it a power ballad with its piano intro, geyser blasts of bowed guitar, multiple climaxes, and the endless cries of "þú" ("you"). The trademark Sigur Rós strategy of old was to build up songs over a long time to a devastating climax, like an Mid Atlantic cataclysm. Usually they would start off sluggish and serene and at the 6th minute mark or so, the breakout would take place. That was well and good, but with this new album they have taken things to the next level. Instead of sprawling songs which turn hyper at the end, Sigur Rós have amped up the intensity... they can now pull off multiple climaxes. 11 out of 10, in the Spinal Tap tradition. And as any pornographer will tell, nothing beats milking that money shot multiple times...

Track 7: Milano ("Milan")
Listening to Sigur Rós, you might find yourself wondering: What planet does this music come from? I met an American in Mumbai this year who joked that Jónsi's voice was "out of this world." I agree with him -- Jónsi is indeed an alien, an emissary from another galaxy... but that ain't surprising considering his pedigree. The truth is that Iceland itself is an alien and otherworldly place. Going to Iceland is in fact the next best thing to visiting another planet. It is built atop a dimensional fault line, a gateway between the 'branes. What happens then when Sigur Rós leave their homeland, and vacation in, say, Milan? Well, this song could be the result! It starts off slowly, as you might expect after the dramatic heights of the previous track. There is tender strings action, and a bit of piano too, revolving like a music box. As in Með Blóðnasir  there is a circular structure to this song, each bar measured by a Fafner bass, which ever so slowly accelerates. Tension accumulates, as tension is wont to do. At 3:45 we finally reach bursting point, guitars thrashing, but this is a minor eruption. I guess there wasn't that much energy to release after Sæglópur. All that climaxing will exhaust you, sometimes.

Sigur Rós, somewhere in Iceland.

Track 8: Gong ("Gong")
Mournful strings commence this journey, which are presently joined by guitars, drums, bass and finally a frantic piano. Jónsi is like a wolf howling at the sky, supported by a ghostly choir (quite probably, a choir of one.) Grapevine considers that this is "close to a melodic rock song, until it breaks into the big drama after the four-minute mark." In my own opinion, Gong is one kick-ass track -- a new direction for the band, a climax upon a climax, and another highlight of an album so crammed full of highlights.

Track 9: Andvari ("Zephyr")
Reviewers haven't cottoned on to it, but I swear this is another version of the same dirge which dragged on eight times on the () album. This is the 9th rendition of the song if I am correct, and I in my opinion it is the best. It is also the most moving moment of an already powerful album. As Gong retreats, guitars, music box and glocks pick up a sentimental melody, joined by the bass. At length Jónsi enters the fray, droning in what, suspiciously, sounds like Hopelandic, Uh-oh! you might think, remembering the bleak days of ()... Are we back on that kick? To be honest though, you don't need to understand Sigur Rós' lyrics to feel the meaning, and there sure seems to be a lot of emotion crammed into his wailing. At 1:50, Jónsi surprises me by singing (in English!)  the short phrase, "I love you." Hackneyed perhaps, but it brought tears to my eyes on the first and second hearings, for there is a gratitude in his admission -- I could imagine that he was addressing me personally, or at the very least the loyal fans of the band. Giving thanks, in the true spirit of this record. I might be wrong... others claim this is a love song dedicated to his new boyfriend. I didn't even know he was gay!

Track 10: Svo Hljótt ("So Quietly")

As its name might imply, Takk...'s penultimate track starts off restrained, with somber aspirations. but soon builds into one final banger -- a tornado, geyser, or the tractor beam from a UFO in a cornfield somewhere (draw your own allusions here.) The rock bible NME claimed: "Choice cut Svo Hljótt sounds like the bit in Lord Of The Rings when Gandalf dies reinterpreted by operatic mythical winged beasts." Translated into English, the lyrics are more prosaic, but also quite revealing: 

"I thank you for the hope you gave me

I thank you for the hope..."

When we are lost at sea and the sun refuses to shine, we embodied beings need a guiding star. Suddenly I realize that () was our communal long night of the soul, the wilderness we had to traverse in order to arrive at Takk..., this oasis of plenty. With Jónsi as our mad Pied Piper (or the drummer who can shatter glass with his voice.) As the magnitude of this revelation sinks in, my only rational response is to bow low and proclaim, "Thank you Sigur Rós, for the hope you gave me. Thank you for the joy." I leaned on you, and you leaned on me. What goes around comes around, and every tribute is returned.

Track 11: Heysátan ("Hay Stack")
Heysátan unfolds like a hymn, each note constructing a church stone by stone, wall by wall, pew by pew. Inside this sacred place, the atmosphere is that of a wake (albeit a rather jubilant one). Jónsi is either playing the role of a priest, or a demonic choirboy. Grapevine has the last word on this fitting finale: "A refrain of key notes of one chord, we hear horns, plucked guitar and keyboards all combining for airy but understated effect. Jónsi is most clear in the vocals here, sounding, dare we say it, like an Icelandic Billy Corgan..." 

---

Takk... is one serious mindtrip, more of a drug than an album, and it is reminiscent of the Múm works that I have reviewed on this site. The cover of the CD (pictured above), designed to resemble a yellowed Victorian novel, also recalls Múm's album covers. Difficult to say though whether Sigur Rós directly imitated Múm in this respect, or whether both bands are merely reflecting the current trends in Nordic graphic design. Whatever, this is a very Icelandic album, and for lovers of Iceland such as myself, it is great to notice all the indigenous touches on this production.  

The Gift of Death

I was thinking recently about that Biblical verse: "For God so loved the world that he gave his own and only Son..." I suddenly realized a new interpretation of that expression: that we, as spirits, were so in love with "reality" (The Earth) that we were willing to give up our immortality, and accept a short life here. Just like Arwen did in The Lord of the Rings... she gave up her life for love. Just an idea! but if it is true, it means there is no Afterlife for us, no Blessed Realm over the ocean... because we forsook that for the privilege of incarnation.

On a bright note, my Japanese word of the day was taught to me by Masumi, after I told her about my psychic dreams -- it is masayume  (正夢) or "true dream". I'm sure it will come in handy someday!

Safekeeping

When you go to a department store, shop or even your neighborhood 7/11 in Japan and present them a ¥1000 bill to pay for your purchase, the cashier will respectfully say: 「千円お預かりします。」 Which, literally, means: "¥1000 will be honorably kept/taken charge of." In other words, they will honorably take care of your ¥1000 while they calculate and then give you your honorable change.

My trusty kanji dictionary (compiled by Wolfgang Hadamitzky and Mark Spahn) interprets the Chinese character 預 (azu or yo) as "entrust or receive for safekeeping". Thus it makes sense that cashiers would employ it in their rituals.

Here are some other everyday examples of the character in use, which I have found around town:

預金 -- Yokin -- Bank account, deposit.
預かり所 -- Azukarisho -- Depository, warehouse.
手荷物一時預かり所 -- Tenimotsu ichiji azukarijo -- Place for temporary (lit. "one hour") handbaggage storage...

(Anyway, for more of my Japanese lessons and observations on the language, click here!)

Witch Bitch

I have been overwhelmed by the creativity inherent in the blog format of late, after naively writing it off as a geek fad. I have also taken my first steps towards understanding and using JavaScript programming, which is sure to produce a creative explosion in my life over the next few years. I am buoyed by the fact that when I was a child, I could read and understand BASIC, and even write simple programs. If I could do it then, I can do it now -- and I will do it, one step at a time.

When it comes to learning languages, I am afraid I have been disheartened lately in my attempts at learning Japanese. Despite living in Tokyo for nearly 3 years (as of November 11), I still find myself inept in the language. For a while I had virtually given up -- which was sad, given my initially high hopes at becoming a master of Japanese (and other languages beyond that!) I guess I was just being too hard on myself. This week, out of nowhere, I discovered my comprehension and speaking skills had suddenly advanced, as if I had taken a great leap forward. I have heard that this pattern of long periods of plateauing, followed by rapid bursts of progress, is a familiar one to students of foreign languages.

But whatever -- while English is enough to get you by in most parts of the world, I would love to speak a language like Japanese if only to watch Japanese movies and TV shows, and understand them. It would be cool! I took a step forward in this direction this week.

For the first time ever, and only because I was bored, I was able to watch an entire Japanese movie from beginning to end -- 90 minutes worth, with no English translation. And although I missed a lot of it, I still understood enough to keep me interested. It was like peering through a porthole into a hidden and mysterious world -- for a brief time at least, the walls of culture were rent asunder!

It happened on Channel Neco, one of the cable stations in Japan. This is what I understood, and it will give you an insight of the typical made-for-TV Japanese movie of the early 21st century:

A salaryman (office worker) has had a shitty day at work, and this is all compounded when he finds it is raining as he exits his local train station on his way home. (Such a portrait of modern Japan: the railway station is the heart of modern Japanese life, and everybody here could emphasize with the predicament of being caught in the rain without an umbrella.)

Anyway, this is how it happened:

The salaryman burst out of the train station on a dark and rainy night, and he didn't bear an umbrella.

Luckily there was a guardian angel hovering in the wings -- make that read an evil kimono-clad witch! She hurried across to help him, an Asian Good Samaritan in geta shoes. She offered him a berth under her umbrella. Poor, desperate him, he took the bait. One step at a time, his world collapsed.

(For more takes on the Great Deception, click here...)