Neither fish nor fowl would be the equivalent English idiom. This version is German so instead of fowl they say flesh or meat. (Once on a business trip to Chicago I ate at the famous Berghoff restaurant and ordered the charmingly named “Schlachtplatte”, or slaughter plate. Those Germans.)
I want to say Heinrich Boll or Friedrich Durrenmatt wrote a story or novel of this title, Nicht Fisch nicht Fleisch, but apparently it was someone named Franz Xaver Kroetz. Aside: Read Die Besuch der Alten Dame (The Visit of the Old Lady), a creepy Durrenmatt play where a spurned lover returns to the small, close-knit town decades later, where spreads the tacit idea that she’ll pay a big bounty to anybody who offs her ex.
But never mind all that. Nicht Fisch Nicht Fleisch is my review of Coldplay’s Viva la Vida. (Didn’t see *that* coming, didja!)
I think I like it, but I want to love it, and I don’t, but I can’t explain why exactly. Violet Hill reminds me (at the end) of the earlier albums – it’s melancholy Chris at his piano. Notwithstanding the extremely pedestrian guitar solo. And other songs on the album go back to the piano but just don’t do anything for me. The highs aren’t high enough and the lows not low enough.
In which respect it’s similar, unfortunately, to U2’s tepid recent efforts.
Too much polish, not enough passion, I guess. Clearly most of the world disagrees. Oh well.