Amanda Palmer reflects on three years of psychic human attack whilst cloistered on a little island bigger than my mind, with new EP New Zealand Survival Songs.
Palmer is a musician, writer, TED talk speaker and performance artist. Born in New York City and brought up in Lexington Massachusetts. She also likes to be known as Amanda Fucking Palmer.
Dresden Dolls is her first musical project. Art Punk and Weimar era Berlin cabaret performance theatre, with drummer Brian Viglione.
She debuted as a solo artist with an album Who Killed Amanda Palmer? in 2008. This was followed by a book of photos where she was made up to look like a cadaver. Stories were provided by former husband Neil Gaiman, of Sandman notoriety.
I first saw Palmer live, in an extraordinary show called There Will Be No Intermission. This was in March 2020, just as covid mania was about to hit this country.
The show was a confessional cathartic experience, taking off from the album of the same name. A review of it is included here.
Lockdown and home detention for all soon followed. Palmer found herself in retreat with her young son. A large part of that time was spent on a smaller island, Waiheke just out of Auckland harbour.
Smaller and smaller circles.
The Man Who Ate Too Much came from that first period when dread descended like a blanket over everyone’s head.
Some said they loved it. Domestic violence spiked in this country to such an extent that only a tiny amount of the truth was revealed. Regret and sadness haunt the song as there was a collapsed marriage to contend with.
Eight thousand miles away/ A man in a white house refuses to face his own pain/ Why bother to open your heart? / When there’s pussy and fame.
The Ballad of the New York Times gets closer to the heart of the matter whilst trying to detach oneself from the painful blowback.
In part a novelist’s approach, one that Lou Reed perfected repeatedly about his own love of New York City and his ambivalent feelings toward it. You only appreciate beauty when you can genuinely experience pain and suffering.
The media reporting of body counts from covid is threaded through. Covid also pulled the triggers and drove the cars into each other. In a time of war, truth is the first casualty. But you must realise you are in a war first.
I suspect that Palmer is as fiercely proud of her heritage as Patti Smith.
In heart I am a Moslem/ In heart I am an American artist/ And I have no guilt/ I seek pleasure/ I seek the nerves under your skin. (Babelogue from Radio Ethiopia).
Little Island is Palmer’s most open love song to New Zealand, beautifully sung with harmony vocals from Julia Deans.
It contains dichotomies. Far too many American artists who visit or stay here are unnecessarily apologetic about their country.
Palmer makes this observation. That’s when I saw the headstone with a swastika/ This Mongrel Mob guy next to a guy from World War II/ Some of us are proud of what we fought for/ Some of us are proud of how fast we can run.
New Zealand apes the USA far more than it cares to admit. As a principle, people will kill for more Control, and they are prepared to die for less.
As a young country it is still a toddler running after older brother.
Whakanewha Palmer describes as a howl from the spirit. Inspired by the nature reserve on Waiheke Island.
It is no easy ride and feelings of dread are lurking. I wanted to live with you/ But fucking A fuck you/ No one on earth could live like this. Who’s the target?
A delightful song to get under your skin again, like the Smith’s Jeane. There’s ice in the sink where we bathe/ So, how can you call this a home? / When you know it’s a grave.
The EP closes with Two Prophetic and Haunting New Zealand Songs Played Live on Ukulele.
It is from a recent concert. She discusses synchronicity and her connection to this country, the Christchurch earthquake, pubic hair and what the map of Tasmania is a metaphor for (courtesy of the late Barry Humphries and Sir Les Patterson).
Amanda Palmer can get naked and emotional. Don’t expect an easy ride, but you can expect a rewarding one.
Rev. Orange Peel