Sunday, May 20, 2007

Celtic Women: Mystic Maidens of Avalon?

And not the harried slatterns who fled that Catalina Island's resort last week as fires crackled all around them, the domain of buffalo, the wealthy, and those who serve them and the tourists in their glass-bottomed boats and big-bottomed jeans? Avalon as the "isle of apples," the Arthurian version of Hy-Brasil, the western isle, the Tir na nOg, the land of the neverending story?

A slow month. Even Layne's down in blogging. Not much noteworthy.

Claire Dederer in the NY Times has a worthwhile article on the "Celtic Women" phenomenon. I guess I am heartened that for once a "younger demographic" for PBS includes me as among "forty- and fiftysomethings." I mused only yesterday how little I care now for whoever LA Weekly includes among its top 50 Angelenos, never having seen any of them but Henry Rollins from afar on stage once in 1979 at LMU and Jason Lee on Michillinda way up in the Silverlake hills as he sat in his Range Rover by the curb of his house down the street from Leo's friend's family (Hollywood editor or the like) a year ago when I picked him (not Jason, father of Rocket Pilot or some such monikered goateed spawn and tatooed you baby boy) up. Is this to be encouraged?

The LA Times gave a similar wake-up call last week to those old enough to recall the days of Beyond Baroque circa 1980 when it reviewed a wizened hipstress Johanna Went and her penchant at her latest appearance as a version of Sha-Na-Na plays the State Fair, over a quarter-century later, for spilling fake blood over herself out of a skull while standing in a wading pool on stage as some homage to performance art. Even Iggy Pop stopped smearing peanut butter on himself at one point, although "hope I die before I get old" Pete Townshend still must smash his guitar each gig I suppose to please the punters.

Here's the Celtic Women piece. They even spelled the lass with the Irish-language name correctly. Cool pic, no?