I was of course distraught the other week to hear of the death of everyone’s* favourite comedy dictator, and five times winner of the prestigious “hero of Turkmenistan” award, Sapurmurat Niyazov, who lost a long battle against cancer of the hair caused by excessive use of “Just for Barmy ex-Soviet Republic Tyrants” black hair dye.  Well, he didn’t have much choice but to try to maintain his ebony mane, what with having banned any depiction of himself with any visible strand of silver hair.   Obviously the gold hair atop the revolving gold statue of himself in the Turkmen capital was acceptable.

He had a fine list of important contributions to his nation’s rich cultural heritage, such as renaming towns, schools, months and a meteorite after himself; writing the national anthem, banning ballet and opera (“unnecessary”, he thought, which may not suggest a great affinity with the function of the arts), banning computer games, banning make-up on news readers, banning lip-synching in music videos…I need hardly go on.  If he couldn’t affix his name to it, he banned it.  Fortunately he hung around long enough to witness the completion of the results of one of his finest presidential decrees – the building of an ice palace in the Turkmen desert.

Well, I say completion.  The plans were gradually scaled back to the point they resembled a slightly glorified version of Streatham Ice Rink (albeit one you’d be less likely to be shot in).  It seems someone had pointed out that an ice palace would, ummm, melt.  I wouldn’t have wanted to have been the one breaking that piece of news to Sapurmurat.

 

Where is this all going?  Oh, yes, down some sort of ridiculously tenuous metaphorical route, which would necessitate my comparison of the new album by Rafael Anton Irisarri on the (quite brilliant already) Miasmah records to an ice palace, probably mentioning how its crystal cold notes resonate around its stately cavernous space, cut adrift, miles from civilisation.  Not that the self-styled “Father of Turkmen” would like it.  Not just because he didn’t write it himself, meaning it would probably be outlawed in his country.  But because he is dead.

Anyway, I decree you give it a listen.  Try Wither, Lumberton, and Fractal here courtesy of Miasmah.  You can buy it here, or at one of a number of fine online record emporiums.

*except those he oppressed, obviously