In order of appearance from the last 24 hours: The mighty Andre Williams (subject of my OA Music Issue piece) at Chelsea's last night, a succinct hour of old school rock 'n' roll laid out by a 76-year-old bad muthafucka. I got a signed copy of his book Sweets and Other Stories. Notice the blue lizard skin shoes that match his suit, or as my friend Jerry put it, "Bask in them." Videos forthcoming; an unexpected treasure trove of 78's from my parents' house including: "Love is Strange" by Mickey and Sylvia, "Diddley Daddy" by Bo Diddley, "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" by the Teardrops featuring Frankie Lymon, and, my personal favorite, "Life Problem"/"Congo Mombo" by Guitar Gable and the Musical Kings, highlighted on the Ponderosa Stomp site;My mom's breaded pork tenderloin sandwiches, and; a delicious strawberry-filled first birthday cake for my sweet ol' niece Luna who I finally had the pleasure to meet today.
Not pictured: A 78 of Hank Williams' "Hey, Good Lookin'", a three color 45 sleeve for Jimmie "The Singing Governor" Davis' "You Are My Sunshine", a couple of Red Sovine sides, a 45 of the Beatles' "I Wanna Hold Your Hand", and a bound set of 78's by Fred Lowery entitled Whistling For You.
Here is Fred performing "Lola" with Betty Hutton and the Victor Lopez Orchestra.
The pre-69 Love Songs Magnetic Fields don't really do it for me, but this muddy cassette from Stephin Merritt's pre-Magnetic band the Zinnias does it plenty. It has a fire pure as that from shoplifted lighter. Thanks, Mystic Signifier!
My review of Gil Scott-Heron's latest record I'm New Here is up at outsideleft. Among the bon mots packing the review I call the elder poet "A snake charmer with a cobra fed on a diet of a desperation, insight and hope."
Also appearing on the Internet is a Country Roads (in the March 2010 issue) story I wrote about mountain dulcimers and the people that play them and the festivals they have so that the people that play them may gather in surprisingly large numbers and play them. Like at this one across the river in Port Allen this March. The above photo was taken at one of the Lagniappe Dulcimer Society practices. I'm not positive, but I believe that might be the woman that sighed, "Let's do 'Spanish Fandango.'"
Massimo Vitali, Sacred Pool Russians. Hierapolis, Turkey, 2008
Over lunch, Massimo Vitali's photo series "Bathers" in the Winter 2009 Paris Review totally knocked me out.
Right before that, I witnessed a spectacular skateboard wipeout in one of the arched walkways that form the perimeter of the Quad on campus. A pretty girl walked by, he craned his neck like we do, and down he went like a brick chimney under a wrecking ball. His skater-loop of keys became un-cabinered in the fall and scattered everywhere. She paused for a second to see if he was OK and he was too dumbstruck to speak. He lumbered up once she left. Not even that pretty but pretty enough, I suspect was his assessment.
So skateboarders and readers of highbrow lit journals alike, beware! for pretty girls are on the prowl today, ready to disrupt your mundane pursuits at any moment with their prettiness!
I feel the exact opposite about Michael Nyman's music - I love and enjoy it for its clunky cosmopolitan machinations, the grace of a bull actually navigating a china shop and even fitting in there, but I don't feel blushy and stammery in its presence. Anne Midgette feels the same way in this NYT writeup of his 2004 opera about Dada titan Kurt Schwitters.
Mr. Nyman refuses to let the music do anything as conventional as underline an exit line, leaving many of the 19 scenes to end in a state of suspended animation. He is, however, unable to resist setting the mood with bits of nostalgic dance tunes and other musical evocations of the period, which give the piece texture and enhance its accessibility.
I spend a lot of time with generally obtuse music rattling in headphones while walking on crowds, hearing snippets of conversations, the two tempering each other. The other day Charlemagne Palestine's severely tourniqueted melody (one-chord stretched over an hour's time) was in perfect counterpoint to a loud guy on the bus, debating the clarity of the system's bus stop signage with the driver. That's him up at the front on the right.
It reminded me of John Adams' "Christian Zeal and Activity" - a lush string bed holding up a diced-and-scattered televangelist sermon. I work in the notion of having "a withered hand" into my general routines because of this piece. I remember sitting in my dorm room with this playing just as the extended bell tower song kicked off and rustling of the trees and my girlfriend trying to talk to me over it all and it was just one of the best musical experiences ever. A good song, one that is not even a great one, can hold up the whole world.
Some clever person made a Lego movie out of "Christian Zeal and Activity."
I'm not sure the Lego dioramas really support the send-up of sentimentality the filmmaker seems to be referencing in the comments; rather, I think they underscore the sweetness that makes John Adams so rewarding a listen. Maybe I just feel sweet about Lego's because it is a current bonding agent with me and my daughter, but if there is any commonplace item that is all about arranging the abstract to manifest the concrete, it is Lego's.
I feel every which way about the Japanese magnolias outside my office building, hence why you dear readers have been so frequently subjected to their brazen displays. All these pink leaves are about to fall off and I will have to find something else to photograph, but until then...
Charlemagne Palestine & Pansonic - Mort Aux Vauches (ROOT BLOG) England in 1819 - Three Cheers for Bertie (MySpace) Jonathan Lethem, Chronic City (Amazon) Jaga Jazzist - One Armed Bandit (lala)
I listen to long droney things like the Charlemagne Palestine piece linked above with relish; they order my head like dutiful library pages re-shelving books left askew by careless, fickle patrons, but just the idea of tackling a really long book exasperates me. I chuckled as the protagonist of Chronic City chucked a stand-in for Infinite Jest into an infinite ravine. So, that is why I've never stepped foot into a Neal Stephenson book and probably never will. Chronic City is a mere 480 pages*, a pithy greeting card compared to Mr. Stephenson's tomes, and look how long it is taking me to read that. I'd probably go to my grave with Cryptonomicon tucked under my coffin pillow.
I tore through2666 (912 pages) with the idea that it was a ransom that would free me from being kidnapped by Roberto Bolaño's writing. And it did.
Thing is, I applaud Stephenson and other long-winders for their muse and how they horsewhip the words out of them. I've found that folks that write long books also write lots of long books in succession; sometimes long series of long books where the story (presumably) arcs over the spines and creates a full and inhabitable world. And even if they don't, look at those gorgeous spines, screaming out among the dull reds and blues of library binding. My Kindle home screen will never look that sexy.
England in 1819, Baton Rouge's own answer to Sigur Rós et. al., is quite a lovely thing. Jaga Jazzist, makers of one of my favorite albums of 2005 has only gotten more interesting.
* I am iPhone Kindling Chronic City, so page numbers become quickly and startlingly meaningless. I'm currently on "Location 1880," whatever that means. Somewhere in chapter six.
Dillard Hartford Dillard - Glitter-Grass from the Nashwood Hollyville Strings (lala) Various Artists - Anthology of American Folk Music, Volume Two: Social Music Big Love, Season 4 DVD (Amazon) Jonathan Lethem, Chronic City (Amazon)
I'm going to go out on a limb and say Pretty Goes With Pretty's favorite record is Dillard & Clark's The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark. Every time he posts it I want to listen to it but I don't have it, so this lysergic hayride involving the Dillard half will have to do for now.
Living with a couple hours of the spiritual and social tectonics of Weird Christianity on Big Love every night has made me feel a little sweet about religion as a concept lately, which is I guess how one should feel about it if one is not going to participate in it. I grew up near Nauvoo, Mormon Ground Zero, and use to play Frisbee in the yard of the Carthage Jail where Joseph and Byram Smith were lynched by angry Midwesterners dressed as Red Injuns. When the Hendrickson clan made their pilgrimage in the show, I knew it was the actual Carthage Jail not from the exterior shot, but because the guide didn't point out the blood! There is a blood spot on the floor near the window that is whispered to be that shed by the Prophet.It looked like a blob of varnish to me as a kid, but still! Actual Blood of the Prophet, y'all! If you are going to complicate your life with polygamy over the hocus pocus of religion, then you should be able to groove on Actual Blood of the Prophet.
I love, love Harry Dean Stanton in the role of Roman Grant, the wretched/holy compound leader. It such an obvious bad guy role for this show, but ol' Wiseblood totally ratchets it up. When he's bellowing "Battle Hymn of the Republic" against the howling of the other inmates in prison, when he kisses Bill Paxton full on the mouth, you feel like HDS is probably really crazy like that, and the directors are charged with keeping him from actually crucifying someone.
It made me want to revisit the old weird gospel on the Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music. Particularly these three songs:
I appreciate jwbos1388 posting these songs from the Anthology, but why the Grand Canyon?
Rev. Moses goes right off the rails with his mumbly testimony; one can almost picture the recording engineer looking up in bewilderment. If I had a blues band, we would do a classic soul version of "Judgment" so maybe its a good thing I don't have a blues band. And even if I don;t believe, I love the sentiment of the Memphis Sanctified Singers. It's all the Hendrickson's want, all Roman Grant wants, all anybody wants is for there to be better things for us.
The above pic of the Japanese magnolias look like the pink hand of an angry God, the One True Biggest Whatever, fixin' to snatch that little white van up and dangle it over the flames. Or the Grand Canyon.
A few assorted photos: the Nabei Udon at Koi, featuring a poached egg atop; 20! or "twenty factorial" as I explained it for some reason to my daughter; the Play-Doh duck of hell; the Japanese Magnolias!; a perfect cappuccino executed by Parisa at the aforementioned coffee shop of which I am now Bard.
The new Brian Jonestown Massacre record is the perfect soundtrack by which to digest this schizoid ego-post. I sorta think of BJM as "rock band factorial"; feeding back on itself, getting a little bigger and more out of control with each step. Like factorials, the BJM is also an interesting function whose best use is to justify an exclamation point.
