Waiting for daughter to finish hiiii-yaa’ing her way through karate class; at the adjoining coffee shop. There’s an old fellow here who I swear used to hang around Dinkytown. And sitting a few tables away there’s an old lady who fell alseep a few weeks ago with her finger up her nose.

Hey, wait. That was last week. So history is repeating itself. Does that make today tragedy, or farce?

Better the latter than the former.

I swear it’s him - did I say something about how people thought he was an Artist, or maybe a Poet? He has three books by Gary Snyder on the table. Our paper recently did a story about him, how he’s still an activist, mostly on nuclear issues. We never seem to ask nuclear scientists if they’re also poets. Or what sort of poetry they like. If any. Ah, but poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, or were, before the rise of the Belgian eurocrat.

Now the old lady is talking to herself.

The full quote, from Shelley:

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

Right away he loses the modern ear, weaned on tin and noise. Hierophants? I first encountered the word in the context of a Steve Hackett song title, but at least I know it. Greek for “guy who shows people holy things.” A holy-shower. One of the tarot cards is named the Hierophant. The album, by the way, had the curse of Girlfriend Art on the cover. You know what I mean: the artist tells the label she's doing the cover, and that's all there is to it.

 

 

Somehow it won “Album Cover of the Year” in 1976, according to the artist's own page, something I find difficult to accept. So the Ohio Players put out nothing that year? Haruhmph. Seriously, though, nothing from Hipgnosis, the greatest album-art design firm of all time? Perhaps it’s just me, but this . . .

 

 

. . . and this . . .

 

 

. . . and this, the stoner's delight . . .

 

 

. . . are evidence of one amazingly talented design house.

Anyway. Now the old man is talking to himself. The old lady stopped. He started a minute later. Spies meeting in a Berlin cafe to pass along information about troop movements couldn’t do a better job.

Anyway, hierophants of unapprehended inspiration. So they weren’t caught? But “apprehend” also means “to get, to understand.” You apprehend my meaning? Yes, I apprehend that you’re pretentious.

So . . . poets are the holy-showers of ungrasped inspiration, eh? I think Percy just liked the way that one sounded. On we go:

the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire;

Mere dumb instruments, then? Vessels in which the muse pours the glory of wisdom, aeolian harps upon which the breath of poesy strays? That whatchu talkin’ about, bub? It would seem to remove the poet from the act of creation, and make him a mere transcription machine.

You've been wondering all week - well, wonder no more! The Answer! In Russian!

 

 

The ad campaign's final reveal, is HERE - but you have to chew through a few pages first. See you around! Yes, this is the end of the Bleat! Nothing more to see! Comments below; zoom right past the embarassing musical tastes displayed for all to scoff and scorn, and chat away..

 

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Okay, it's just us 1970s prog-rock folk here, right? There have to be some Genesis fans around here who've never heard this. If you're a Prog Rock Hero, this is how you start an album: a complex little riff with an inscrutible time signature, then flute and bells and MELLOTRON! It's modular, stitched together from interesting parts he must have written over the years, but there's the essence of everything these guys did, starting at 3:58: that effortless little melody, the fairly sophisticated modulations (for rock, that is) and the general feeling of hey, it's cool to be smart enough to get this, isn't it?

 

 

Part One of this piece could be a Satie work. Part two comes after a noisy crunchy segment, and gets really Olde Worlde and Tudory, but it's still a sweet piece.

 

 

The Hieorophant. All the worst parts of prog: it goes on waaay too long, the airy-fary vocals are a bit too Ren Festy, but the first half sounds like a lost track from "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway."

 

 

Still think he was a fool to leave the band.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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