Most of the time, my relentless perusal of Facebook is wholly unsatisfying: no matter how many times I reload, nobody’s played any Scrabulous moves, nobody’s had any gossipy relationship-status changes, nobody’s made their profile picture anything I haven’t seen before. And I still have no new messages. Sigh.
But just occasionally, you find some piece of friend news that’s truly startling. In between the ridiculous wallposts and Notes that refer to events I wasn’t around to witness and today’s round of paid Facebook spam I spot: So-and-so attended Dudley Benson National Tour. What?
Dudley I remember mainly as the guy who turned me on to Björk — he was a funny, shy, dorky, theatre-buddy high school friend I last saw in 2002 — and my jaw dropped when I learned he has put out an album of songs that might be labeled chamber pop. It involves recorder ensembles and harmoniums and church acoustics. And Dudley is really, really good. Like so good that by the time he got around to making his second EP, he was already attracting the remixing talents of Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, off the back of opening for them in New Zealand. I’m embarrassed that I had no idea he was even making music, let alone had been earning favourable reviews in the hip New Zealand magazines I used to pore over since 2006.
This story has so much to love. Dudley Benson has a beautiful, pure voice; he was first encouraged to sing by a headmistress named Mrs. Winnicott; he grew up on a goat farm on the Port Hills; idiots at Christ’s College bullied him; his favourite book is Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. I found an interview where he says things like “dedication to the point of obsession really makes me horny.” As explicated by his blog, Dudley’s songs reference New Zealand historical arcana like Christchurch’s willows — grown from cuttings of those at Napoleon’s grave site — and the hanged baby farmer Minnie Dean. And on the eve of his tour, he made the national newsmagazine, Campbell Live (for the appearance, Dudley wore a blazer with elaborate epaulettes, walk shorts, and Roman sandals). All of which reinforces my nostalgic preference for believing that in New Zealand, all is right with the world.
He’s even gotten my friend Ed Lust to direct one of his music videos:
I love his Postal-Service-goes-to-church-with-Nick-Drake kind of sound.
3 responses so far ↓
richard // March 31, 2008 at 5:08 am
wow, funny to come across yr coming across of dudley! i saw him and the orchestra in the small french colonial settlement of akaroa on saturday after which there were drinks and a candle lit walk of 30 ppl to the lighthouse. then, graveyards. spooky!
photojenna // March 31, 2008 at 1:33 pm
Well colour me jealous! I’d give Dudley a big hug if I met him again. That Akaroa show would’ve been particularly special, since it’s a place that holds a lot of significance for him.
I loved those dioramas of polystyrene fruit characters at Big Fresh when I was a kid. I used to beg my mum to shop there so that I’d have something to look at. In high school I’d go there to buy lollies before movie showings across the street at the Hoyts megaplex or the Rialto next door, and I was always a little fascinated by the way those same happy giant sheep were still lording over the meat section, but covered in another decade’s grime and dust.
Steven M. // April 1, 2008 at 6:55 pm
Now that I have discovered you blog, I find it has not been updated for four days. Not even an April Fool’s Day post. I trust May Day (or, for your Yankee readers, Law Day*) will received better treatment.
*Seriously, look it up. Cold War America’s answer to May Day.
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