I’ve been listening to this CD every day (and sometimes twice) since it showed up in my mailbox. I love it when music resonates so strongly. It makes the writing just sort of “happen.”
Yet another example of incredible talent coming out of Brooklyn. What the heck is going on down there?
Read the full review of Fake Love at Something Else!
This is a public service announcement. The Friday Morning Listen (and most of the rest of my writing) has a new home. Something Else Reviews. There are many reasons for this, both complicated and not. You don’t care about any of that. Trust me.
What you do care about is that I’ve joined the team of talented writers over there in the hopes of pushing out some swank writing on jazz and other fine noise.
Read the full Friday Morning Listen at Something Else.
Have a nice weekend.
I wish I had known Harvey Pekar. Heck, I wish I’d read some of his books before he died. I’ve seen the words “American Splendor” in passing many times, but for some reason have never investigated. Silly me. And then, just a couple of months ago, me and TheWife™ rented the movie from Netflix. It sort of knocked me back a few steps. There was just something about Pekar that resonated. I’d love to say that there’s commonality between me and him, at least as far as his story arc goes, but that’s mostly not the case.
Pekar lead a straight-ahead blue collar existence that in the end, allowed him time to dig in to what was important: the stories. What made me sit up and take notice was his passion and single-mindedness of purpose. He saw the glory in the everyday and had to share it with the world. Too bad so few people listened. I guess that’s my point of resonance. I have not lead a blue collar existence, but I do have a passion for music, one that I have only recently begun to share. Is there an intersection between a story about somebody who pissed Pekar off in the checkout line and my love for a newly-discovered singer-songwriter? I think there is, though it might not be obvious.
Before I get to that point (and because honestly, I’m not sure how I’m gonna describe it, though I can promise that the word “oeuvre” will not be used), I have to say that the fact that I lived in Cleveland for a time seems to have something to do with my belated attraction to Pekar. By “for a time,” I mean that I lived there for a couple of summers during my college years. Yes, I “summered” in Cleveland (a phrase as weird to type as it is to read). West 85th St, to be more precise. I didn’t do a hell of a lot. Slept late. Listened to records. Read books. Bought more records (at a shop out in Lakewood). Listened to the new records. Read some more. It was your typical slacker existence. I think the low point came during the viewing of the Major League All-Star game. We rolled the tee-vee out onto the front porch, filled a cooler full of Blatz beer, and revelled in the American pastime. The problem is that I revelled a little too much in the Blatz. When coming back outside from a bathroom break I miscalculated the line between my drunk backside and my chair, ending up on the white styrofoam cooler…which of course exploded, sending ice and bottles of beer tumbling down the front steps and onto the sidewalk. Somehow, this was all a lot funner back in 1982.
So is there a connection between me and Pekar? I’m not sure. Pekar took a stab at his dream and I’m only taking baby steps. Learning of his success (via the film) inspired me. We’re often bombarded with all manner of self-help advice. So much so that we become jaded to its message. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that good things do indeed happen.
I’m torturing the inside of the Subaru this morning with the not-so-soothing sounds of pianist Cecil Taylor. Somehow, I did not know that one of Pekar’s other passions was jazz music. He was incredibly knowledgeable and was not afraid of letting his opinions fly. Check out his review of the Ken Burns jazz documentary. Entitled Better Than Nothing, Pekar let Burns and his enablers have it. He was right to point out that the series pretty much ignored any modern jazz. Explanations for the oversight were offered but it was pretty obvious to me (and to Pekar) that people like Wynton Marsalis and Stanley Crouch had no use for the stuff, especially anybody coming out of Chicago’s AACM. Sorry guys, you don’t get to decide what is or isn’t jazz, no matter how many times you find “new” ways to recycle Ellington.
Well…so long Mr. Pekar. We all loved you, and deep down inside, you knew it. Thanks.
I had Curriculum sitting atop a small pile on my desk at work the other day, and was asked what kind music it was. Sometimes the answer to that question is a simple one, and often causes the conversation to be cut short — any mention of things like country or free jazz and you’re likely to get a quick eye roll and a change of subject. This time around, I had no easy answer…”Uh, I don’t really know….”
A generic term that might be used is “singer/songwriter” but that’s less than useless here. Abby Ahmad sings, plays guitar, writes songs, and wraps them up in a tasty assortment of styles. Folk? Sure. And blues, and soul, and sorta-funk, and rock and…ah, it hardly matters. I got lost in it and had a great time finding my way out.
The subject matter ranges from disgust with the state of things (which might seems like a cliché in the folk world, but I still like a good rant), to the challenge of dealing with relationships. How we come together and pull apart, it’s a complex life we can lead, and Ahmad has some pointed takes on these matters. Dang, I wish I had been so insightful in my 20’s.
Sonically, Curriculum has a lot to offer. As much as I like Ahmad’s acoustic guitar style, which cuts a percussive Ani-esque slash with some delicate finger picking, it’s the clever use of horns that pushes the arrangements over the top. I’ll be the first to admit that the opening “Star Pupil” immediately drew me in with its Tom Waits clatter. As the tune progresses, horns pop in here and there to extend the harmonic landscape and give a tremendous boost to the energy level. Use of this “accented” approach lifts the feel of the record into that unknown territory. It might be horns, it might be strings, it might even even be piano…but the results always seem fresh.
While “Star Pupil” is my overall favorite track, the closing duo of “Going Gone” into “In Favor Of Braver Parts” forms a powerful image of what Ahmad has to offer. Two songs dealing with the thread that runs through the “what might have been and what might be” of relationships, the music is by turns uplifting (the swelling horns and soaring vocals of the former, where the the alchemy of Ahmad’s and Morgan Paige McOwen’s voices bring to mind Lori McKenna in duet form) and darkly hopeful (circular arpeggios on acoustic guitar, gilded with violin and cello). Very inspiring.
In the interest of closure, I’ll have to go back to the office and tell my that I have an answer. Curriculum is just great music.
Depending on your interests, the “big news” this week is: a) Lindsay Lohan is still an idiot, b) LeBron James is a ___ (reader’s choice here), or c) Ringo Starr is has turned 70 years old. I’ll take the latter. The world is full of idiots and it seems like bad karma to give them any more of the spotlight. I can’t comment on Mr. James at all. Maybe if somebody gave me 30 million dollars to do my job. Would that challenge my concept of loyalty? It’s not worth thinking about, to be honest.
Yeah, so as it turns out, rock stars aren’t immune to the passage of time. Who knew?! I tend to think of artists as being fixed at whatever their age was when I first became a fan. Springsteen is in his late 20’s. Ringo is in his late 30’s. An exception might be Tom Waits, who to my mind can’t (or maybe shouldn’t) be described by age.
In my head, I do know that this rock star age calculus is wrong. Still, I am sometimes surprised when I’m reminded of the reality of the situation. I guess I keep up the mental facade as a defense mechanism, allowing me to cope with the sad fact that their youth (and my own!) has passed by.
I’ve never really been comfortable with that “Hope I Die Before I Get Old” thing. Some people think that rock stars should hang it up when they get to a certain age. Not me. As long as there are fans to be entertained…even a single one…then it’s worth it. For the remaining members of the Beatles, the irrational part of me hopes time will slow down. I’m not their biggest fan, but the influence of their music is undeniable. They gave the world a big chunk of wonderment, and for that alone I am grateful.
I’m not alone in these thoughts. There were many special guests at Ringo’s 70th birthday celebration/show at Radio City Music Hall, from Steve Van Zandt to Yoko Ono. The big surprise came at the end of the show, when Paul McCartney stepped onstage to help blast out a fine rendition of “Birthday.” Even in these crummy YouTube videos, the electricity that erupted in the crown is impossible to miss. What an incredible moment, another in a long line of events stretching way back into the 1960’s.
So happy belated birthday Ringo. I hope I look that good when I’m 70, or even at 64. Hell, I’m not sure I look that good this morning…after only four hours of sleep.
Have you ever picked up a record, looked at the instrument lineup, and thought, “Huh?” This happened to me once at a little record shop in upstate New York. The album was in the jazz section, but the lead instrument was a pedal steel guitar. I almost felt the need to look up into the corners of the room to find the cameras that were surely recording my confused looks. But there were no cameras, and the album was no joke. Sometimes, your boundaries can be expanded in unexpected ways.
I had a miniaturized version of that feeling of surprise while listening to the title track from Kristy’s My Romance. Covered by countless jazz vocalists, it was a definite left turn to hear the opening chords of the Rogers & Hart classic being presented with intertwined piano voicings and bits of both slide guitar and dobro. When Kristy’s breathy and detailed voice joined in, I knew that I was not dealing with an ordinary jazz vocals album. Sure enough, along with that unusual instrumental selection, this album presents several tunes with very non-tradition choices.
There’s a lot to like here. The traditionalist will love Kristy’s beautiful voice set against the piano and trumpet on songs like “In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning,” “Teach Me Tonight,” and “It Never Entered My Mind,” though even on the latter Matt Brubeck’s cello (yes, that Brubeck) provides a somewhat unusual texture.
Where My Romance sets itself apart from the tradition is on songs like the loving take on The Beatles’ “Blackbird,” with extended sonics provided by a music box, cello, and dobro. Though it’s not possible to surpass the original (and I’m certain that wasn’t the intent here), this approach highlights the malleability of so many Lennon/McCartney compositions. “Take A Chance On Love” seems to begin in a traditional fashion, with voice set against piano. But Matt Brubeck’s cello adds an earthy element, reminding my ears of all of those great Django/Grappelli excursions. The introduction to the bluesy “You Don’t Know Me,” accents the piano with yet another subtle element: artificial guitar harmonics. Or is it dobro? No matter, as a naughty little guitar/piano solo section does manage to turn things blue. Really great stuff.
The most surprising song on My Romance arrives with “A Sleepin’ Bee.” If you had not read the biographical information on Kristy, you probably wouldn’t be aware of her work with the acapella group Wibijazzin. Along with founder Kevin Fox, this track (Written by Truman Capote and Harold Arlen? Who knew?!) pays tribute to her love of the genre. Plus, it’s a snazzy load of fun.
My Romance proves to my ears that, no matter how played out you might think a region of music is, there’s somebody out there with bigger ears than your own.
Today marks the start of a four-day weekend for us. Yes, today is a vacation day and I write this from the comfy chair in the living room. The French doors have been swung open and the room is full of light breezes, birdsong, and freshly-brewed coffee.
So what to write about? The 4th of July? Nah, that’s been done before. I can find some protest music and go on about how the day means different things to me. I can also pull out some “patriotic” music and get my American exceptionalism freak on (which I think would require a rubber mask) but no, I’ve got better things to do. (Besides, the resultant comments stream will be so predictable.)
How about longevity? The passing of time, maybe?
We went out to dinner last night to kick off our little break. There are a surprising amount of choices around here, especially for such a rural area, but when we’re nearly out of physical (check!) and mental (double check!!) gas, we always end up at this local Italian joint. There’s something very comforting about it. Nothin’ fancy, with decor (if you can use that word) implemented with rough-hewn wall planks, local artwork, paper placemats full of advertising, and a list of “specials” presented on small cards that were laminated years ago. Friendly, is the word. The waitresses have worked there since the beginning of time, the bar is made to look like the 19th hole, and the owner gives you a nice “Hey there!” as you walk to your table. Dang, he’s been wearing that same pair of suspenders for as long as I can remember.
The food is consistent, if not particularly spectacular. Spectacular is not what we were after though, it was comfort. At home I would never make garlic bread with garlic powder, but for some reason I like it this way here. You wouldn’t find this salad on the cover of a foodie magazine, but it was just was I was looking for. A small dish of baked ziti and a glass of Chianti got vacation going in the right direction. It’s sort of like having dinner at your favorite aunt & uncle’s house.
Over dinner, Me and TheWife™ were talking about how long we’d been together (about 16 years) and how that time seems to both stretch and compress depending upon how you look at it. We can’t believe it’s been that long (the “time flies” thing), since the details of getting together are as fresh as yesterday. But hey, 1994 ain’t yesterday, you know? On the other hand, so much stuff has happened over this time that it’s hard to imagine it all fits into those years. I’m always amazed at the emotional range of our experiences, which go from tear-inducing joy to spirit-crushing sadness. There are some things that have come to pass that I surely could have done without, but I wouldn’t have wanted to go through them with anybody else.
And now…the coffee and the music. For some reason, Beyond The Missouri Sky has taken over Pat’s New Chautauqua as my go-to recording for moments of reflection. These old friends pour every bit of their years into these songs. When I listen, I hear the big sky, openness, sadness, optimism, love, and the passing of time. What more can you ask for?
I’m thinking that this will be short, because I still feel like part of my brain has been removed. At around 11AM yesterday, I developed a migraine. This is a very rare occurence for me, but brings back memories of my teens and on into my thirties, when I had one or two per week. When I reached my mid-thirties, the headaches vanished (so did my first marriage, though the two things are probably not related, no matter how amusing the idea is).
My symptoms, aside from the actual pain (which I perceive as being both dull and sharp), usually involve light sensitivity, nausea, slowed reaction time, warped perception (which I’ve discovered has a name: derealization), and partial memory loss. I’d never heard of derealization before but one part of the definition fits me perfectly: perceiving that objects are unreal or cartoon-like. Some of this came on very strongly on the (brutal) drive home, when the trucks I would pass seemed like they did not did not belong on the highway. They were no longer trucks, but floating metal boxes. It was all sort of dreamlike.
So I made the (very bad) decision to try to make it through a lunch meeting, hoping that food might calm things down. Unfortunately, the nausea had taken over by then, turning the act of eating a couple of slices of pizza into pure torture. The food did not help, and I spent an hour or so after the meeting worrying about things like why I was sweating and unscheduled trips to the men’s room. I decided to bail at 2, when the letters in the document I was attempting to read started moving around on the page.
Migraines put me into a kind of fugue state, in which it seems like I can and do function, but remember only bits and pieces of my actions. The drive home, about an hour, seemed like half a day. When I got home, Stepson #2 happened to be visiting so he helped me pop the air conditioner into the bedroom window. I cranked that sucker up and collapsed onto the bed. For two hours I was gone.
When I woke up, the migraine was gone, replaced by a sense of calm. Shaky calm. As usual, I only had a vague memory of driving home. As the pseudo-fugue subsided, a bunch of seemingly random thoughts emerged: Wow, they were right, the boss’s daughter is incredibly good-looking…can I hold this pizza down? the sun is burning a hole into my brain, floating boxes, old woman sweat/young women glisten, the shiny beast of thought…
The last two items are actually lyrics from the Captain Beefheart song “Dirty Blue Gene.” Apparently, I was listening to Neon Meate Dream Of A Octafish on the way home. I’ll have to listen again this morning because I don’t really remember it.
It’s amazing to look back at the Golden Age of Spain (9th to 15th century) with modern eyes. In this era, the idea of multiculturalism has become loaded with political import (both good and bad), making it tough to accept the idea of so many diverse cultures working together as anything more than an aberration.
On Provenance, cellist Maya Beiser’s goal was to work with the spirit of that age, bringing it into the 21st century. It seems like such an enormous task, the most obvious reason is the history of the area in the intervening years, with hate and war driving the cultural subelements apart. But with compositions emanating from Israel, Armenia, Iran, Turkey, Andalusia, and Morocco by way of England, Beieser shows us that music can have power over ignorance.
“I Was There” opens the program in fine fashion. Kayhan Kalhor, a Kurd from Northern Iran, composed the song using a melody from the legendary Persian Kurdish musician/poet/singer Ziryab. The song sets the tone for the album as Beiser spends ten minutes weaving in and around a pedal tone before Bassam Saba joins in on the oud. The pair remains in this slowly evolving and mystical environment for a few more minutes until two percussionists materialize, pushing the tempo and energy level up several notches. The multiple textures and shifting rhythms seem to reveal more and more detail on repeated listens.
Beiser then settles back into “Memories,” a piece for solo cello written by Armenian composer Djivan Gasparian. It is truly and entrancing selection of music, with Beiser’s cello playing out the melody over a constant drone.
What’s so inspiring about Provenance (the simple beauty of the music aside) is seeing and hearing the results of threads (intentional and accidental) that can run through cultures. The gorgeous and intense suite “Mar De Leche,” written by Israeli composer Tamar Muskal, draws on themes originating with the Sephardic Jews of Spain and the related language of Ladino. The haunting “Only Breath,” another piece for interwoven cello, has roots in both Andalusia and Turkey. Composer Douglas J. Cuomo states that he was inspired by “the stillness and sounds of the countryside of Andalusia.” Also at play was his experience in a village in Turkey, where he heard the Sufi call to prayer coming simultaneously from several different minarets. The title comes from the Rumi poem of the same name. Cuomo ties that in beautifully by saying that the composition evokes those two experiences while seeming to be “not composed of elements at all,” as is related by Rumi’s text.
Provenance ends with an explosion of multiculturalism: a multi-tracked cello and drums (thank you Jerry Marotta) version of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir.” Here we have East-meets-West, rock music-meets-the ancient. It draws a squiggly line through Morocco, England, the Mississippi delta, and back. Not only does Beiser have big ears, but a big heart as well.
This record provides more than ample evidence that there is power in our collective pasts. It’s too bad that we forget this, because the music never does.
So the World Cup has been going on and I have been ignoring it. In fact, I’ve been having some fun ignoring it by tweeting occasionally that I’m #NotWatching #WorldCup.
This has not been my attempt to be snotty, assert my supposed superiority, or anything like that. In truth, I don’t follow any sports at all, so it’s kind of fun to crack wise when something “big” is going on. There were plenty of opportunities last night during the NBA finals but I decided to ignore it. Seriously, I’m not trying to spoil anybody’s fun. Hey, I used to be a fan, so I know what it’s all about.
In fact, one of the cools things about sports is how they can draw people together. For all of the crap going on in the world (And hey, hasn’t there always been crap going on?!), I still find it inspiring so see people set aside their differences for a few hours. It makes me think that maybe politicians here in the U.S. should be required to set up and participate in some sort of team sport. If the teams were not split up by party, but were instead composed of a mix from both sides, maybe a semblance of humanity would return to their interactions (Yeah, I know. I’m such a dreamer).
For the past month or so, I’ve been listening to a recording by cellist Maya Beiser. Her inspiration for the music was Medieval Spain. The Golden Age. As hard as it is for me to imagine the two sides of Congress working together on anything, it’s really hard to grok the idea of the harmonious and incredibly productive existence of Jews, Christians, and Muslims.
But then I walk through the cafeteria at work and somebody has attached their laptop to the projector and they’re watching a World Cup game on the pull-down screen on the wall. There are only three guys in the room, one from Russia, one from England, the third from Pakistan. As much as I don’t care about the actual sporting event, the temporary drawing together of strangers has a certain “rightness” to it. To me, the sport is secondary. Too bad we can’t harness this kind positive energy and apply it to some of this world’s big problems. Yeah, I know. I’m such a dreamer.