The following arrived in the in-box this morning: a dispatch from Amanda Palmer, whose new book The Art of Asking was published yesterday on Hachette, who are still in a dispute with Amazon. It reads as follows:
i spent the last year of my life holed up writing this thing.
it’s called “the art of asking”, and it’s based on my TED talk from a couple years ago:
it’s a book about….a lot of things. my marriage, my days as a weird street performer, my amazing band and label disaster,
my difficulties dealing with a best friend who’s had cancer for the past three years; but that’s all sort of a veil.
mostly it’s an attempt to try to discover why all human beings (especially artists) has such a hard time asking for things.
i poured my heart into it. it’s a really personal book.
it’s also really FUNNY.
it’s a weird book.
but i’m really, really proud of it.
it’s out TODAY, on 11/11, published by hachette, who are still in their massive tiff with amazon.com (google the news, but basically my book is more or less blocked from being available on amazon in the USA), and i need to draw on every last resource in my life to promote it.
so i’m following my own shameless advice……i’m asking you, my life community. please order the book, of if you see it in a bookshop, give it a try.
there’s also an audiobook (i read it) and it’s available as an e-book. all the info you could ever want about ordering (and where to buy) the book is HERE:
if you like it or love it, please tell someone else. help me spread the word.
and wherever you may be in this big world….all of my love to you.
The Revelator Orchestra will be launching their second album The Brotherhood of the Flood at the Odessa Club, 14 Dame Court, Dublin 2, this Thursday Nov 6th at 6.30pm. Admission free. We’ll play a short stripped-down set and crack a bottle of bubbly off the hull. For all of you who came to see us over the year and helped us bring this baby to fruition, come along and mark the big event!
The Brotherhood of the Flood is reviewed by Edwin McFee in the new Hot Press,out today.
“The Brotherhood of the Flood is an ambitious, at times brilliant offering from the fertile hive mind that is The Revelator Orchestra. Sonically the album owes a debt to art rock, movie scores and the ambient and folk scenes, calling to mind acts like the Velvet Underground and Akira Yamoaka over the course of 14 tracks. Murphy’s performances are part preacher, part slam poet… while vocalist Paula Cox’s tones add some warmth to the material (particularly on the industrial sounding ‘Billy Litt’). In some senses, the record is a Frankenstein’s monster. It’s unique and primal, ugly and beautiful, with composer Acko ensuring that all limbs are kept together throughout, stitching metal (‘Iggy Ellis’), Irish trad (‘The Lost Alice’) and more… They sound like a band at the peak of their powers.”
Ladies and gentlemen, The Revelator Orchestra will be on RTE Radio 1′s Arena this evening, Monday Oct 20th, kick off at 7pm. Tune in and get an earful of a couple of tracks from The Brotherhood of the Flood, plus a bit of a natter. Looking forward to it.
For your listening pleasure:
You could see Charles Stafford walk the country roads throughout that month, and when his eyes began to burn with light you knew he must have glimpsed her in the thickets and the groves, his vanished child returned at last to ease his suffering. She flitted like a chimera across his field of vision, skirting between the moon’s glittering beams, a faerie queen or changeling or a creature made of mist, and he hurried after her image murmuring her name.
And so you’d see him in the townlands, a fisherman’s slicker around his bony shoulders, white hair sticking out from beneath a woollen cap. Folk would remark how anguished-looking he’d become, for faith you should have known him in his prime: a proper gent with cufflinks and a paisley tie in a perfect Windsor knot. Now look at him wandering the town, his name well-known among the drinkers and the betting men: the fallen Prof., the poor misfortunate.
And any soul who came close enough might have heard him utter Alice, as though to speak her name repeatedly might invoke her form, until the word itself detached from all memory and meaning and became another thing entirely, a mantra, an incantation, and he’d continue muttering it until the light dimmed on the fields and the jackdaws’ chatter hushed and a merciful darkness descended on the land.
Then one night by the river’s edge he glimpsed a host of shimmering lights at play, like fireflies or river wisps or gossamer. Under the moon that was once a mother looking down upon the Liberties, and who still looked down on Murn, he saw her there, his stolen child suspended, frozen in a twilight realm, beckoning, beckoning…