Two Views of Blues
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Difficult, but playable sax soli makes use of double time feel.
Two new takes on blues legend Robert Johnson
Extended piano solo opens the piece, which has a beautiful melody. View 2 has tricky head with triplet rhythms that will drive you crazy. Solos for trumpet and trombone can be opened. Some Ellington plunger mute effects. Please contact customerservices lexology. The Appeal was rejected, the Board stating that it had no discretion to take into account the evidence of ownership because it had been filed late.
The General Court stated that the Board should have used its discretion to allow the evidence into the proceedings.
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The Board had erred by not examining 1 the circumstances warranting the late production of the evidence and 2 the probative value of the evidence. Whilst the Office may disregard facts or evidence filed out of time, it is not compelled to do so. The outcome of this case is a victory for common sense. One of the purposes of trade mark law is to prevent consumer confusion from arising. Nevertheless, there is a lesson to be learned: The others are often ciphers.
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Manuel is both a perfect black marketeer and a perfect blackbody. He is a void in the novel; he is not illuminated, he sucks light. Wendell is defined only by his lack, which is a bit of a problem for a love song.
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Perhaps this is the litmus test for the novel. If you emphathise with this you will probably find the novel moving and compelling. If, on the other hand, this strikes you as whimsy that doesn't really get at the violent nature of love you probably won't. In his review, Cheney remarked that, "the blues turns sadness into beauty.
Sometimes it is just about fighting and fucking and feeling sorry for yourself.
Two new takes on blues legend Robert Johnson
The beauty of the blues comes from its ability to pierce the heart, from the artist's ability to make you ache like they ache. It's a pure, masochistic beauty that Spaceman Blues never attains. Much as wild animals are best appreciated in their natural habitat, Slattery's version of New York and its inhabitants is at its best when encountered on the 1 train heading south from the Bronx, while it's still aboveground and rocketing past rag-curtained tenement windows and the occasional marble edifice left over from Inwood's glory days as a suburb for the wealthy Dutch, or on a Brooklyn rooftop in a bent-backed lawn chair your roommate found on the street, with the blazing sun slowly descending behind the shimmering Manhattan skyline and the back of your mind occupied by thoughts of what to wear to tonight's illegal warehouse party.
A park bench might be an acceptable venue, but only if the park is small and a bit run down and your bicycle is chained to the fence and you have the world's best chocolate egg cream in a dripping paper cup that you hold carefully to one side as you turn the pages. If you think wistfully of the days when Times Square was actually dangerous, or you've walked across the East River more times on more bridges than you can count, or you learned Spanish or Mandarin or Russian so you could talk with your neighbors in your six-storey walkup where the front door doesn't lock and nobody cares, you will read the first page and think, ah, home.
If your concept of New York comes from Friends or Sex in the City , it might make the most sense to think of this book as being set in a completely different place that just happens to have the same name. Slattery's prose is extraordinary. It's rare to encounter a book so chock-full of head-hopping, jumbled antecedents, and tense changes that nonetheless displays complete mastery of language:.
The smoke smells of apples and warmth, it drifts into [Wendell], loosens his legs, his shoulders, and he and Daoud talk of neighborhood politics, how the Greeks are ceding land to the Arabs, how the Central Americans are making things interesting, fleeing wars and governments full of thieves, coming here to open restaurants and sell real estate. The neighborhood gets better all the time, Daoud says. There is talk of Daoud's family, of his upbringing in Egypt, the sun-blasted shores of the wide Nile and the moneychangers in Cairo.
Sometimes they say nothing; they just sit there smiling and smoking and eating vegetables. Within two months, when he is huddled under a blanket in three inches of water, peering up through the bright grate of a rain gutter at the fury in the street above, the sparks from the great fires fluttering down through the dark air, scaring away the vermin, he will think back on this afternoon, the last quiet hours he had. He will want to travel back in time to tell himself to savor it, the taste of the food and tobacco in the hot shade, the sound of Daoud's jovial voice over the gritty, bouncy ragtime he is fond of; he will want to tell himself to draw it in and keep it, cup it in his shivering hands, curl around it, and allow it to bring him sleep, in the forty-five minutes between the flames and the sudden flight.
Everyone knows him; every character is introduced by a brief flashback to a brief but meaningful encounter with Manuel. Wendell Apogee, his lover of many years, knows full well that Manuel dallies elsewhere, and doesn't so much allow it as acquiesce. He has vanished, and even in the city where everyone knows him, no one seems to know where he is.
Many think him dead—not least because his apartment exploded the day after he disappeared—but Wendell, driven by equal parts aching love and fury at being left behind, refuses to believe it and undertakes a determined quest to find Manuel and bring him home. Quests are quests, and on that front there is little to distinguish Wendell's from any other.
He talks to people, though they all tell him that if he doesn't know, no one does. He travels to strange places, the strangest being the unfortunately named Darktown, a city of caverns and lakes that has been slowly hollowed out below the streets of New York. As Wendell explores Darktown Market, the parallels to London Below in Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere are unfortunately easy to draw, and here is where the quest begins to feel a little stale.
Even Wendell's transformation into the hilariously cartoonish Captain Spaceman after the obligatory scene where a few months of martial arts and weaponry training are enough to turn him from an average guy into a fighting machine carries a whiff of desperation—not just Wendell's, but also Slattery's. He knows that there is no happy ending in store for the estranged lovers, and perhaps that makes it hard for him to write convincingly of Wendell's continued optimism.
Manuel, you see, has run off with Lavinia in an alien spaceship, and is never coming back.
Two you views? The you view blues
Slattery takes pains to set this up as a plausible denouement. When four robed figures on what appear to be aerial skateboards begin blowing up members of the Church of Panic, who back up their the-day-is-at-hand beliefs with data from NASA, it's not hard to guess that flying saucers will make an appearance. The mechanics of Manuel's disappearance are unsurprising.
What makes it all fall apart is Wendell's faith in Manuel's fickle brand of fidelity, and everyone else's insistence that he loved Wendell best and told him everything. Perhaps because we see the story through Wendell's eyes, these are the believable things, and as he learns many secrets that Manuel kept from him, we share his denial, his insistence that Manuel would never truly leave him.