Amnesty International is asking people to participate in an e-mail campaign to urge investigation of the tortures and human rights violations we have witnessed as part of the war on terror. Never one to merely cut and paste, I added my own introductory paragraphs to this e-mail, which I just sent to George W. Bush.
Dear Mr. President:
The reports of torture, abuse, religious desecration, assaults on civilians and prisoners, and other such human-rights violations that have steadily issued from Iraq, Afghanistan, and Guantánamo are depressing, disturbing, and seem to me to be evidence that the world is slipping into a sort of barbarism where human rights and human life are valued at a very cheap price indeed, particularly by your government. It is not acceptable for the “leaders of the free world” to act in this manner; just as police officers need to be held to a higher standard than ordinary citizens, the United States needs to wield its power with restraint and concern for the lives of those it affects; Iraqi, Afghani, and Muslim rights and freedoms are not worth less than the rights and freedoms of the people of the US, and for your government to act with such unconcern for them as to employ such means as witnessed in Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib is for it to serve as a recruiter for America’s enemies; such actions are an argument against the righteousness of the American people and against your government. The War on Terror, as it is being practiced, is making the world a far more dangerous place than it was prior to your election; yet it is in your means to take action to do something about this.
Perhaps, like much of the rest of the world, you feel powerless – the pawn of forces larger than yourself, who have given you the trappings of power and the luxuries it affords you, which you seem to enjoy; yet you have it in your means, Mr. President, to exercise true power and bring to justice the war criminals in your own government, and to make amends for the grotesque wrongs wrought by your country during your last two terms. I am certain, unless you truly are a sociopath (as some on the left would have it), that the images of torture which we have all seen disturb you and prey on your conscience. Perhaps you do not feel personally responsible for them, but the world does not view matters in this way, and expects and hopes you will, as the President of your country, assume responsibility for righting the wrongs seen here:
http://www.thememoryhole.org/war/iraqis_tortured/
These things have happened on your watch, Mr. President. If you take insufficient action to put the situation right, you are as guilty of the crimes depicted in these photos as any soldier called on by his leaders to beat and abuse prisoners. If you have not dwelt on the matter much, please, Mr. President, ask yourself as you look on these images what sort of legacy this is, if these photos are how you wish to be remembered in the history books; if you want your grandchildren to deny any relationship with you, so ashamed are they of the blood on your hands. To atone for such crimes, it is not sufficient to simply punish the soldiers whose hand you guided. More must be done. The United States is not Syria, not Uzbekistan; it must lead by example and show the world that torture is unacceptable and abhorrent and NOT a matter of policy. As a citizen of a country that is also included on Al Qaida’s “hit list,” Canada, due to our support of your country’s actions, I pray that you will take actions fitting of a leader who is concerned with preserving world peace and safety, and make it your utmost priority to make amends for what your country has done, and the damage your presidency has done to the image of America.
Mr. President, it is still within your means to become a hero to all people in the world, rather than a hated enemy; you need only follow your conscience, and wield your power as a statesman and as a man with a moral conscience to bring justice for these crimes.
The remainder of this note is cut-and-pasted from the website of Amnesty International. I am hoping enough of these e-mails have reached you that you are familiar with its contents; I thought a fresh beginning might hold your attention awhile.
Mr. President, I urge you to support the establishment by the US Congress of an independent commission of inquiry with subpoena powers to investigate all aspects of the USA’s “war on terror” detention and interrogation policies and practices with a view to ensuring full accountability for any violations of international law including acts of torture or other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment that have occurred. I also urge you to request the Attorney General to appoint a special counsel to conduct a criminal investigation into any involvement of administration officials in such violations.
I urge you to ensure that all US-run places of detention, without exception, are opened to regular, independent, unannounced and unrestricted visits of inspection by expert UN human rights mechanisms. I urge you to adopt their recommendations for safeguards to prevent further torture and ill-treatment, and to ensure full implementation by the USA of the safeguards set out in Amnesty International’s 12-Point Programme for the Prevention of Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman and Degrading Treatment or Punishment by Agents of the State.
Those who perpetrate crimes of torture and other ill-treatment and those up the chain of military and civilian command responsible for ordering, facilitating or acquiescing to such crimes should be prosecuted.
Thank you for your attention to this important matter.
Yours sincerely,
Allan MacInnis
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
Torture at Gitmo as Precedent for Abu Ghraib
This shouldn't really surprise anyone, of course, but it's nice to see it in print. I wonder if any American newspapers are running it?
Three Headed Ant on eBay
Article here, but I can't find the eBay listing.
Now I'll be singing "Two-Headed Dog" to myself all morning... Or maybe "Three-headed Ant," to the same tune.
Now I'll be singing "Two-Headed Dog" to myself all morning... Or maybe "Three-headed Ant," to the same tune.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Upcoming Shows: New Model Army, Acid Mothers Temple
Y'all paying attention? The New Model Army play Richards on Richards on Sept. 21st and Japanese psychedelic freaks the Acid Mothers Temple (& the Melting Paraiso UFO) play there on Sept. 28. I heartily encourage you, whomever you might be, to go. Assuming you're in Vancouver...
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Pond Interlude
Before I collected weird CDs and bits of interesting cultural ephemera, I caught snakes, frogs, and whatever other strange creatures I could find in the ponds and fields of Maple Ridge, where I grew up. They’ve all been duplexed and condo’d out of existence, now, but I have many happy memories of chasing after the small green treefrogs of a place we called, simply, the Frog Pond, or turning over boards to catch garter snakes (even better if you spotted them squiggling quickly through a field, and managed to grab them – there was an actual adrenal rush that accompanied such a capture). I used to love the smell of a garter snake’s noxious aroma, which it excretes to defend itself from predators, and when I occasionally see a snake in my adulthood, I’ll almost always pick it up and sniff it (as it slimes its goo over my fingers) for the nostalgic rush it gives me. I remember giant water beetles, salamanders, all sorts of creatures I encountered in my explorations; I even reacted enthusiastically when I discovered that there were leeches at the Frog Pond, which I immediately placed on my arm, to let them suck my blood, just to see how it felt (I figured I had blood to spare). The other kids in my elementary school thought I was a freak, and I remember phoning people I knew to invite them to go catch snakes with me and receiving an amused, horrified, “what are you, a weirdo” kind of response (this from 12 year olds, albeit middleclass ones, with their sense of suburban normalcy already deeply entrenched; they’d rather stay home and watch hockey, or play a sport themselves, like they were supposed to do. I had other things on my mind). My closest friends, though – mostly from the lower-class, aging condominium where my parents had moved us – understood and joined me without question. I imagine my love of hunting out books, movies, and music now has much to do with my love of catching and bringing home such critters then.
Thanks to the promptings of a ladyfriend, who knows I need more exercise, I took a hike around Stanley Park this afternoon after work, and passed a pleasant hour sitting by Beaver Lake. The smell of the pond (because it’s far more a pond than a lake), stagnant, fetid, brackish – brought back this smell of my childhood and I drifted in reverie for a long time, sitting on a little wooden platform that extended a short ways out over the water. There I observed the blooming, white, pink and purple flowers of the lilypads; the low intermittent thrum of a single distant bullfrog; the wriggling tail and bulbous, egg-sized body of a bullfrog tadpole; abundant dragonflies and damselflies (one of which landed on my shirt); and the songs and cries of various birds. I tried to tune out the noise of cyclists on the trail or the constant seaplanes flying overhead. I remembered from my youth that if you’re silent and still for long enough at a pond, the creatures aren’t as timid, and will emerge and go about their business, where normally they would flee you. (I remember being 15 or so, standing on the edge of a large pond off Pitt Polder, watching bullfrogs float up from where they’d been hiding, to drift along the surface of the water, ducking under if I shifted too visibly). Storks do the same thing -- they just stand there, until something comes close enough, not realizing a predator is close by.
Of course, I'm less of a predator now. Content to observe, happier not to interfere: the fruits of adulthood, I guess.
Walking back out onto the trail, I encountered several squirrels and something that looked like a cross between a squirrel and a chipmunk – it had lighter fur, a much smaller body, and shorter tail than your garden-variety (so to speak) B.C. squirrel, so I’m not sure exactly what it was. I stopped on a bridge to watch it; it had an unusual way of moving. It would move its whole body, almost in a bouncing, jerking jump, of sorts, then stop, and examine what was in front of it, to see if any of it was edible. It would pause like that for a minute, and then bounce-shift again, like it was simply too high strung to just take a step; it had to move its whole body, then be still. It came quite close to me, and I was finding it very pleasing to watch, when suddenly a bird gave a loud twitter from the forest on the other side of me, and, as if warned by the bird, the animal darted off. A minute after that, a large raccoon stepped out of the bushes on one side of the trail; it was as if the bird cried out “a raccoon is coming” and the squirrel-thing new enough bird to get out of the area. The raccoon looked at me for a minute, sizing me up, then continued to the other side of the trail.
I lingered on the bridge for a minute, watching minnows in the shallow creek below, before continuing, figuring I’d give the ‘coon ample time to meander on its way – I’ve had them growl at me when threatened, and I didn’t want to cause that sort of reaction. To my surprise, as I passed the area where it’d gone, I noticed that the ‘coon was still there, watching me intently from cover. I bent down to meet its eyes. It began to sniff the air. Wanting it to see similarity in me, I began to sniff the air, too. It seemed to relax a bit; I backed off and watched. The animal, with its long, furless, black forepaws, came forward and began to dig in the muck at the base of a rotting skunk cabbage, pulling up something and eating it. Bugs? Roots? I couldn’t tell, but it plunged its arms into the muck (reminding me oddly of the experience of doing dishes) to bring up morsel after morsel, which it busily chewed. I recalled that I had some hard candies in my bag, and I unwrapped and threw one to the ‘coon; last I saw this beast, it was chewing my gift with great effort and determination.
Walking out of the park, I took a little detour from the trail; it was interesting to notice that there was someone camped out in the middle of things, clearly someone homeless, in a ramshackle tent, with clothing, cookware, and garbage strewn about it. It would be a very different life, to wake up every day in that park. It’s probably far easier to romanticize than it is to do; I don’t think I’ll be buying a tent anytime soon. I do think I’ll start spending more time there, though.
Thanks to the promptings of a ladyfriend, who knows I need more exercise, I took a hike around Stanley Park this afternoon after work, and passed a pleasant hour sitting by Beaver Lake. The smell of the pond (because it’s far more a pond than a lake), stagnant, fetid, brackish – brought back this smell of my childhood and I drifted in reverie for a long time, sitting on a little wooden platform that extended a short ways out over the water. There I observed the blooming, white, pink and purple flowers of the lilypads; the low intermittent thrum of a single distant bullfrog; the wriggling tail and bulbous, egg-sized body of a bullfrog tadpole; abundant dragonflies and damselflies (one of which landed on my shirt); and the songs and cries of various birds. I tried to tune out the noise of cyclists on the trail or the constant seaplanes flying overhead. I remembered from my youth that if you’re silent and still for long enough at a pond, the creatures aren’t as timid, and will emerge and go about their business, where normally they would flee you. (I remember being 15 or so, standing on the edge of a large pond off Pitt Polder, watching bullfrogs float up from where they’d been hiding, to drift along the surface of the water, ducking under if I shifted too visibly). Storks do the same thing -- they just stand there, until something comes close enough, not realizing a predator is close by.
Of course, I'm less of a predator now. Content to observe, happier not to interfere: the fruits of adulthood, I guess.
Walking back out onto the trail, I encountered several squirrels and something that looked like a cross between a squirrel and a chipmunk – it had lighter fur, a much smaller body, and shorter tail than your garden-variety (so to speak) B.C. squirrel, so I’m not sure exactly what it was. I stopped on a bridge to watch it; it had an unusual way of moving. It would move its whole body, almost in a bouncing, jerking jump, of sorts, then stop, and examine what was in front of it, to see if any of it was edible. It would pause like that for a minute, and then bounce-shift again, like it was simply too high strung to just take a step; it had to move its whole body, then be still. It came quite close to me, and I was finding it very pleasing to watch, when suddenly a bird gave a loud twitter from the forest on the other side of me, and, as if warned by the bird, the animal darted off. A minute after that, a large raccoon stepped out of the bushes on one side of the trail; it was as if the bird cried out “a raccoon is coming” and the squirrel-thing new enough bird to get out of the area. The raccoon looked at me for a minute, sizing me up, then continued to the other side of the trail.
I lingered on the bridge for a minute, watching minnows in the shallow creek below, before continuing, figuring I’d give the ‘coon ample time to meander on its way – I’ve had them growl at me when threatened, and I didn’t want to cause that sort of reaction. To my surprise, as I passed the area where it’d gone, I noticed that the ‘coon was still there, watching me intently from cover. I bent down to meet its eyes. It began to sniff the air. Wanting it to see similarity in me, I began to sniff the air, too. It seemed to relax a bit; I backed off and watched. The animal, with its long, furless, black forepaws, came forward and began to dig in the muck at the base of a rotting skunk cabbage, pulling up something and eating it. Bugs? Roots? I couldn’t tell, but it plunged its arms into the muck (reminding me oddly of the experience of doing dishes) to bring up morsel after morsel, which it busily chewed. I recalled that I had some hard candies in my bag, and I unwrapped and threw one to the ‘coon; last I saw this beast, it was chewing my gift with great effort and determination.
Walking out of the park, I took a little detour from the trail; it was interesting to notice that there was someone camped out in the middle of things, clearly someone homeless, in a ramshackle tent, with clothing, cookware, and garbage strewn about it. It would be a very different life, to wake up every day in that park. It’s probably far easier to romanticize than it is to do; I don’t think I’ll be buying a tent anytime soon. I do think I’ll start spending more time there, though.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Paul Dutton, Phil Minton
I e-mailed (poet, novelist, vocal improviser, musician) Paul Dutton awhile back on his thoughts on the differences between what I saw as his more "controlled" style of vocal performance, versus the more improvisatory, spontaneous-seeming performances of Phil Minton. (Some of my thoughts are below, on the Subhumans/Phil Minton post). He writes back:
Thanks for your e-letter, for your very thoughtful reflections on Phil’s and my performances. I never really thought about the differences that much. I think that what you’re calling control is more a matter of performance demeanour. I think I tend to be less animated than Phil, but I don’t see his greater physical motility as a lack of control. And he certainly has impeccable voice control. Phil doesn’t really do pre-structured abstract vocal pieces, as I do, though he does sing interpretive melodic songs (his duets with pianist Veryan Weston , for instance, on the recordings *Ways* and *Ways Past*, which I think I’ll go and get and listen to right now, as a matter of fact; they’ve recently done a couple more “Ways” CDs, but I don’t know the titles of those, so maybe if you search the Net for “Minton and Weston”; also of spectacular merit is their “Songs from a Prison Diary,” an oratorio). As for pure improvisation, I strive in that mode to be taken over by the music, to surrender to something beyond me; and this is something that I perceive Phil to be doing (however he might perceive it himself). And no, I don’t think that musical or literary backgrounds are determinants of the differences between our performance styles. I in fact do have extensive musical background, though not in jazz. I’ve written at length about that (along with other matters) in Bananafish 17, which I think is still in print. If you’re interested, the mail-order url is. There’s an accompanying CD, as well. If you want the issue, but can’t secure it from Bananafish itself, I have spare copies — but I’m trying to minimize the amount of packaging and mailing in my life, so please request it of me only as a last resort.
Good to hear from you. Thanks again. Take care.
All the best,Paul
(I had asked him if he minded my posting his comments on my blog, and I assume the answer was no, since he didn't mention it; if I misunderstood -- Mr. Dutton, just let me know and I'll remove it!).
Thanks for your e-letter, for your very thoughtful reflections on Phil’s and my performances. I never really thought about the differences that much. I think that what you’re calling control is more a matter of performance demeanour. I think I tend to be less animated than Phil, but I don’t see his greater physical motility as a lack of control. And he certainly has impeccable voice control. Phil doesn’t really do pre-structured abstract vocal pieces, as I do, though he does sing interpretive melodic songs (his duets with pianist Veryan Weston , for instance, on the recordings *Ways* and *Ways Past*, which I think I’ll go and get and listen to right now, as a matter of fact; they’ve recently done a couple more “Ways” CDs, but I don’t know the titles of those, so maybe if you search the Net for “Minton and Weston”; also of spectacular merit is their “Songs from a Prison Diary,” an oratorio). As for pure improvisation, I strive in that mode to be taken over by the music, to surrender to something beyond me; and this is something that I perceive Phil to be doing (however he might perceive it himself). And no, I don’t think that musical or literary backgrounds are determinants of the differences between our performance styles. I in fact do have extensive musical background, though not in jazz. I’ve written at length about that (along with other matters) in Bananafish 17, which I think is still in print. If you’re interested, the mail-order url is
Good to hear from you. Thanks again. Take care.
All the best,Paul
(I had asked him if he minded my posting his comments on my blog, and I assume the answer was no, since he didn't mention it; if I misunderstood -- Mr. Dutton, just let me know and I'll remove it!).
London Suicide Bombers ID'd
Looks like the people responsible for the attacks were young Muslim Pakistani men raised in England, who were recruited by Al Qaida. In the Independent, they suggest that this is particularly disturbing, since it means that it's not a matter of keeping terrorists out -- it's people already in Britain, already established there (one was a university student and cricketer, one's father ran a chip shop, etc). Odd, though, to imagine -- that youth who grew up in England could be persuaded to do such a thing. I'm not sure what to chalk it up to -- ethnic divisions within the country? The alienation and powerlessness (and extremism) of youth, and their desire to "make a difference?" (surely terrorists deliberately seek recruits among the young). The force of a religious argument? The current political climate? Robert Fisk, also in the Independent (but quoted here), has written about the need for Britain to stop backing the US and to withdraw from Iraq and Afghanistan, but surely the terrorists know that their action will have the opposite effect -- that when attacked, people rally around their leader. It seems an insane, damaging action. It would be very interesting to understand what these youths believed they were accomplishing... There's an article here, but I've only just begun to read it...
Monday, July 11, 2005
Requests for Next Year's Jazz Festival
Attention Coastal Jazz people!
Here's a brief list of people I'd like to see here next year. Please bear in mind that my tastes in music matter:
Avant guitarists Eugene Chadbourne, Fred Frith, Derek Bailey, and/or Keiji Haino. Especially Keiji Haino.
Japanese artists Hiroaki Katayama (or De-Ga-Show), Natsuki Kido (or Bondage Fruit), Kazutoki Umezu (or Komatcha Klezmer or the KiKi Band), and/or Fumio Itabashi (an amazing pianist who has played with all these guys, I imagine).
Peter Brotzmann!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Rarely-seen underground icons Jandek and Nurse with Wound! That'll put us on the map -- between them, they've played five shows, as of this blog!
Ornette Coleman! Cecil Taylor! (If they're still around).
More John Zorn related stuff... this year was pretty thin, NewYorkwise. I'd still like to see Ikue Mori come through -- Vancouver New Music tried a couple of years ago, but it didn't work out. I'm also a big Jamie Saft fan, myself (f'd up pothead Semitic dub. Go figure).
How about Bill Laswell?
If we're going to focus on Europe, let's bring anarcho-punk improv band The Ex to town! They've played with lots of European improvisers (ICP Orchestra, Han Bennink, others). Since we like Europe, let's have Maja Ratkje and/or Fe-mail and/or Spunk come over, or Supersilent (yeah, Maja and Supersilent were both here a couple of years ago... bring 'em again!).
I also really like vocal improv stuff -- I really enjoyed Paul Dutton's performance at the festival a couple of years ago, and I loved Phil Minton and Maggie Nicols this year. Let's have more of that! (...what was the name of that guy who played with Locus Solus? Blegvad?). Jaap Blonk? Who else could we bring in, that we haven't seen here before? Meredith Monk?
...and I'm all for bringing Maggie 'n' Phil back, myself... Hell, bring back the whole Dedication Orchestra, they were great!
...ummm... who else? Is Marion Brown still around? What about Sunny/Sonny Murray? Or Sonny Simmons? Or...?
Damn, there was someone else who would be just perfect, but I forgot who...
Here's a brief list of people I'd like to see here next year. Please bear in mind that my tastes in music matter:
Avant guitarists Eugene Chadbourne, Fred Frith, Derek Bailey, and/or Keiji Haino. Especially Keiji Haino.
Japanese artists Hiroaki Katayama (or De-Ga-Show), Natsuki Kido (or Bondage Fruit), Kazutoki Umezu (or Komatcha Klezmer or the KiKi Band), and/or Fumio Itabashi (an amazing pianist who has played with all these guys, I imagine).
Peter Brotzmann!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Rarely-seen underground icons Jandek and Nurse with Wound! That'll put us on the map -- between them, they've played five shows, as of this blog!
Ornette Coleman! Cecil Taylor! (If they're still around).
More John Zorn related stuff... this year was pretty thin, NewYorkwise. I'd still like to see Ikue Mori come through -- Vancouver New Music tried a couple of years ago, but it didn't work out. I'm also a big Jamie Saft fan, myself (f'd up pothead Semitic dub. Go figure).
How about Bill Laswell?
If we're going to focus on Europe, let's bring anarcho-punk improv band The Ex to town! They've played with lots of European improvisers (ICP Orchestra, Han Bennink, others). Since we like Europe, let's have Maja Ratkje and/or Fe-mail and/or Spunk come over, or Supersilent (yeah, Maja and Supersilent were both here a couple of years ago... bring 'em again!).
I also really like vocal improv stuff -- I really enjoyed Paul Dutton's performance at the festival a couple of years ago, and I loved Phil Minton and Maggie Nicols this year. Let's have more of that! (...what was the name of that guy who played with Locus Solus? Blegvad?). Jaap Blonk? Who else could we bring in, that we haven't seen here before? Meredith Monk?
...and I'm all for bringing Maggie 'n' Phil back, myself... Hell, bring back the whole Dedication Orchestra, they were great!
...ummm... who else? Is Marion Brown still around? What about Sunny/Sonny Murray? Or Sonny Simmons? Or...?
Damn, there was someone else who would be just perfect, but I forgot who...
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Brief Spyware Panic Recedes
Thanks, Dan!
(I've had a hellish week struggling with a deeply malevolent, un-deletable spyware program that compromised my browser, subverted ZoneAlarm, and wasn't even substantially slowed down by AdAware, SpyBot, About:Buster, HSRemove, Avast Antivirus, or my use of HiJack This to fix, delete, track down, and/or quarantine every suspicious file on my computer, which I did about five nights in sequence, only to have the malware sneak back in on my next reboot. With more than a little help from a friend, I've had to reinstall Windows XP and go through about two years' worth of Windows Updates to get my computer back in shape. If y'all don't know much about spyware or internet security, I recommend reading up on it! I think by this time next week everything will be back to normal, but I may not be posting so much until then).
Thanks again, Dan!
(I've had a hellish week struggling with a deeply malevolent, un-deletable spyware program that compromised my browser, subverted ZoneAlarm, and wasn't even substantially slowed down by AdAware, SpyBot, About:Buster, HSRemove, Avast Antivirus, or my use of HiJack This to fix, delete, track down, and/or quarantine every suspicious file on my computer, which I did about five nights in sequence, only to have the malware sneak back in on my next reboot. With more than a little help from a friend, I've had to reinstall Windows XP and go through about two years' worth of Windows Updates to get my computer back in shape. If y'all don't know much about spyware or internet security, I recommend reading up on it! I think by this time next week everything will be back to normal, but I may not be posting so much until then).
Thanks again, Dan!
Monday, July 04, 2005
Five Minute Interview With Maggie Nicols
(For some odd reason, this piece, which I wrote prior to the Roscoe Mitchell one, didn't make it onto my blog. So here it is again, in case the blogware doesn't sort itself out).
Got a chance to chat with Maggie Nicols very briefly after her Roundhouse performance tonight. She's the discovery of the festival, for me; a Scottish vocal artist living in Wales, I feel lucky to have managed to see her perform thrice -- once with Phil Minton, Torsten Muller, and Peggy Lee, the second time last night with the Dedication Orchestra, and the third time earlier this afternoon. Each time what she was doing grew on me more and more; she's not quite in the far-out-there range that Paul Dutton, Koichi Makigami, Maja Ratkje, or Phil Minton inhabit, but nor is she a "singer" in the proper sense -- she sings, and sometimes even sings songs, but more often she's concerned with sound, doing nasally overtone stuff alongside drifting layers of colour and sound which have, at times, an almost operatic quality (tho' not exactly). Meredith Monk comes to mind as a possibly similar artist, but that doesn't work so well, either, since Monk is more of a composer, while Maggie more of an improviser (she also tap dances when it fits, being the only percussion instrument in two of the three performances I saw her in). The only recording that reminds me, for sound quality, of what Maggie was doing today was Stockhausen's Singcircle recording, but again, the differences are as strong as the similarities. I asked her what she called herself -- we were sitting on the floor backstage by the ladies' room at the Roundhouse, so as not to be in anyone's way: a sound poet, a vocal improviser, a singer? She made a puzzled sound, and said "Hmmm... good question... I don't know, really! Musician. Just put 'musician.'"
Maggie seemed to win several fans during her Roundhouse concert with Dedication Orchestra cohorts John Edwards, on bass, Paul Rutherford on trombone, and Steve Beresford on piano (he also had an effects box of some sort and some little instruments to play, and at one point, to accompany something delicate that Maggie was doing, took to rubbing the finish on his piano to make a small squeaky sound); he and Maggie seemed to be the mischief-makers of the bunch. At one point, as she was singing what sounded like a traditional jazz ballad with a chorus of "beware my foolish heart," she began to repeat "surely this time it's love" in a way that evoked desperation, weariness, and an awareness of the absurdity of hope which, alas, all of us could identify with; it got the audience laughing, which got me thinking of something I'd read about the role of the audience in Derek Bailey's book, Improvisation: Its Nature and Practice in Music:
Bailey goes on to interview several improvisers in different traditions, and notes a surprising disparity of reactions: some improvisers feel that the influence of the audience draws out the best in them and makes their performances significant, unlike what they might do in the privacy of their own home -- which, however interesting, doesn't seem to matter much; others feel that they'd rather not have the distraction of audience responses and expectations, taking them away from entering a space where they can perform their best. This relates quite a bit to how the band's performance was shaped this afternoon, because once people began laughing -- out of delight and identification with Maggie, mind you; an entirely appropriate laughter -- it immediately affected what the other band members did. Beresford, for example, trying to find a unique way to accompany her, having given up rubbing the piano, decided to try dragging his piano stool around on the floor, pushing down on it a little to produce a grinding drag-noise. It fit just perfectly, but it got more laughter, which led to Maggie moving into making a series of squawks and "ohhs" that also had a comic effect, and later going into a comical rant about her having to make "announcements," which she'd had to do all last night for the Dedication Orchestra and was being asked to do again ("just because I'm a bird I'm supposed to do the announcements!" -- as she pantomimed exasperation and indignation). This got yet more laughs and led Rutherford to comment something to the effect of "she's gone off her medication..." It was all delightful, but without the audience response to what she well may have not intended to be funny, initially, the performance might have gone in a different direction entirely.
Backstage, I asked Maggie how she felt about the role of the audience at such junctures. "It crucial, really important," she said. "I mean, there's a fine line. You don't want to play to the audience. If you're self-conscious about what you're doing you can stop trusting yourself and think 'you'd better make it funny.' Sometimes the audience laughs just because they've not heard the music before, as well -- like when Phil performs, they sometimes think he's making 'funny sounds.' It depends how deeply into it you are. Today I sensed there was a potential for humour that I could explore without destroying the song... but sometimes it doesn't happen the way you want."That was about all we had time for. John Edwards, who has also been a stellar performer throughout the festival, told Maggie that they had to catch a bus, and she thanked me for my enthusiasm (she used the adjective "lovely") and we parted, perhaps to chat later. She'll perform later tonight with the Dedication Orchestra yet again, opening for Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the Centre. I suspect she's really enjoying her time here in Vancouver...
(Post-script: Ralph tells me that she had her audience doing random tones and bird cries at her workshop. Most folks find Ralph a bit eccentric, so I guess it's a form of high praise that he commented on Maggie, at last night's Roscoe Mitchell show, "that lady's on Venus." I've e-mailed Maggie the rest of my questions, so perhaps we'll follow this up at a later date).
Got a chance to chat with Maggie Nicols very briefly after her Roundhouse performance tonight. She's the discovery of the festival, for me; a Scottish vocal artist living in Wales, I feel lucky to have managed to see her perform thrice -- once with Phil Minton, Torsten Muller, and Peggy Lee, the second time last night with the Dedication Orchestra, and the third time earlier this afternoon. Each time what she was doing grew on me more and more; she's not quite in the far-out-there range that Paul Dutton, Koichi Makigami, Maja Ratkje, or Phil Minton inhabit, but nor is she a "singer" in the proper sense -- she sings, and sometimes even sings songs, but more often she's concerned with sound, doing nasally overtone stuff alongside drifting layers of colour and sound which have, at times, an almost operatic quality (tho' not exactly). Meredith Monk comes to mind as a possibly similar artist, but that doesn't work so well, either, since Monk is more of a composer, while Maggie more of an improviser (she also tap dances when it fits, being the only percussion instrument in two of the three performances I saw her in). The only recording that reminds me, for sound quality, of what Maggie was doing today was Stockhausen's Singcircle recording, but again, the differences are as strong as the similarities. I asked her what she called herself -- we were sitting on the floor backstage by the ladies' room at the Roundhouse, so as not to be in anyone's way: a sound poet, a vocal improviser, a singer? She made a puzzled sound, and said "Hmmm... good question... I don't know, really! Musician. Just put 'musician.'"
Maggie seemed to win several fans during her Roundhouse concert with Dedication Orchestra cohorts John Edwards, on bass, Paul Rutherford on trombone, and Steve Beresford on piano (he also had an effects box of some sort and some little instruments to play, and at one point, to accompany something delicate that Maggie was doing, took to rubbing the finish on his piano to make a small squeaky sound); he and Maggie seemed to be the mischief-makers of the bunch. At one point, as she was singing what sounded like a traditional jazz ballad with a chorus of "beware my foolish heart," she began to repeat "surely this time it's love" in a way that evoked desperation, weariness, and an awareness of the absurdity of hope which, alas, all of us could identify with; it got the audience laughing, which got me thinking of something I'd read about the role of the audience in Derek Bailey's book, Improvisation: Its Nature and Practice in Music:
Improvisation's responsiveness to its environment puts the performance in
aposition to be completely influenced by the audience. Invoking
professionalism-- the ability to provide at least a standard performance
whatever thecircumstances -- usually has a deleterious effect on improvisation,
causing itto be confised to the more predictable aspects of the idiom or the
vocabulary.Therefore, the effect of the audience's approval or disapproval is
imeediate,and, because its effect is on the creator at the crucial time in the
process ofhis making the music, its influence is not only on the performance but
on theforming and choice of the stuff used (p. 60, Moorland edition).
Bailey goes on to interview several improvisers in different traditions, and notes a surprising disparity of reactions: some improvisers feel that the influence of the audience draws out the best in them and makes their performances significant, unlike what they might do in the privacy of their own home -- which, however interesting, doesn't seem to matter much; others feel that they'd rather not have the distraction of audience responses and expectations, taking them away from entering a space where they can perform their best. This relates quite a bit to how the band's performance was shaped this afternoon, because once people began laughing -- out of delight and identification with Maggie, mind you; an entirely appropriate laughter -- it immediately affected what the other band members did. Beresford, for example, trying to find a unique way to accompany her, having given up rubbing the piano, decided to try dragging his piano stool around on the floor, pushing down on it a little to produce a grinding drag-noise. It fit just perfectly, but it got more laughter, which led to Maggie moving into making a series of squawks and "ohhs" that also had a comic effect, and later going into a comical rant about her having to make "announcements," which she'd had to do all last night for the Dedication Orchestra and was being asked to do again ("just because I'm a bird I'm supposed to do the announcements!" -- as she pantomimed exasperation and indignation). This got yet more laughs and led Rutherford to comment something to the effect of "she's gone off her medication..." It was all delightful, but without the audience response to what she well may have not intended to be funny, initially, the performance might have gone in a different direction entirely.
Backstage, I asked Maggie how she felt about the role of the audience at such junctures. "It crucial, really important," she said. "I mean, there's a fine line. You don't want to play to the audience. If you're self-conscious about what you're doing you can stop trusting yourself and think 'you'd better make it funny.' Sometimes the audience laughs just because they've not heard the music before, as well -- like when Phil performs, they sometimes think he's making 'funny sounds.' It depends how deeply into it you are. Today I sensed there was a potential for humour that I could explore without destroying the song... but sometimes it doesn't happen the way you want."That was about all we had time for. John Edwards, who has also been a stellar performer throughout the festival, told Maggie that they had to catch a bus, and she thanked me for my enthusiasm (she used the adjective "lovely") and we parted, perhaps to chat later. She'll perform later tonight with the Dedication Orchestra yet again, opening for Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the Centre. I suspect she's really enjoying her time here in Vancouver...
(Post-script: Ralph tells me that she had her audience doing random tones and bird cries at her workshop. Most folks find Ralph a bit eccentric, so I guess it's a form of high praise that he commented on Maggie, at last night's Roscoe Mitchell show, "that lady's on Venus." I've e-mailed Maggie the rest of my questions, so perhaps we'll follow this up at a later date).
Final Evening of the Jazz Fest: Roscoe Mitchell at the Culch
The evening, at the Vancouver East Cultural Centre, began with a short presentation -- the computer equivalent of a slide show -- in memory of Lester Bowie, Malachi Favors, and another AACM member, Ameen Muhammad, whose work I confess to not knowing; all were members of the Chicago Association for the Advancement of Creative Music, and two were members of that organization's most famous progeny, the Art Ensemble of Chicago (they gained the "of Chicago" during their tenure in Paris in the late 1960's). The AACM celebrated their fortieth birthday in May of this year; Roscoe Mitchell, the main act at the Culch last night, has been with them for the duration, being, along with pianist Muhal Richard Abrams (not in attendance) one of their founding members; Mwata Bowden has been with them for 30 years. In a way, I've been 'with' them for almost ten years, myself. It was a big deal, seeing last night's show.
Back in my acidhead days, which corresponded to my initial explorations of jazz (starting with free jazz, thanks to a friend of a friend -- hi, Ian -- who gave me his record collection, including Ornette Coleman's groundbreaker and some Albert Ayler) the musicians associated with the AACM were one of my first passions. I bought, off Ty at the Flea Market -- remember Ty? He's with Lester and Ameen and Malachi now -- a collection of their music, for a mere $15 an LP, that he'd acquired from a former jazz promoter (the famous "Mary Lou" collection) who'd been on the scene throughout the 1960's. He'd underpriced them, not realizing just how in demand, among some people, this sort of music was: I had original BYGs of AECO's Reese and the Smooth Ones, Message to Our Folks, and A Jackson In Your House; I had original Paris pressings of Certain Blacks, People in Sorrow, and Phase One, plus one of those related discs -- was it on Pathe? Nessa? I forget -- featuring Fontella Bass. None of these were available on CD at the time, but all are now; owning them felt like a big deal, then. On subsequent visits, and for much higher prices, I bought off him almost anything to do with the AACM. Was it on Delmark? I bought it. Did Joseph Jarman appear on one track? I bought it. Was it on BYG or recorded by American musicians in Paris in the late 1960's? I bought it. I got solo albums by all the founding AECO members, Maurice McIntyre's Humility in the Light of Creator, the first albums by Anthony Braxton and Muhal Richard Abrams (I still need to replace Levels and Degrees of Light on CD -- heads out there take note, that one's a must have). I also bought rare Ornette Coleman's and Albert Aylers off him, but AACM music, with it's tripped-out detailed textures and "little instruments" (bells, bike horns, rubber ducks, and percussion instruments of every manner) uniquely suited the psychedelicized state I was living in back then (I was dropping acid every couple of days). A broke, confused university drop-out, as well as a druggie, I had very little money (most of which I either cadged off my parents or got off welfare, which I was on for periods during those years); I actually got a job (at a Shell gas station/convenience store -- my low point in work history and the job I started smoking cigarettes at, beginning an 8 year habit that I'm very glad to have put behind me) for the express purpose of being able to afford more of Ty's records. I read whatever I could (not much was around, back then -- mostly I read the liner notes to the records), wrote frenzied AACM-related histories for friends and tried to capture the essential differences between the New York and Chicago free jazz scenes; I recorded tape after tape for anyone who'd listen, most of which were just too damn out-there for the people I thrust them on. As with any enthusiasm, I needed someone I could share it with, and a painter friend of mine and fellow would-be athlete of perception really got the brunt of it; he still has boxes of this stuff he hasn't listened to -- I made him around 100 tapes in a short few months...
Ah, tapes. Ah, LPs. Remember these artifacts of the past, how they felt in your hands? Remember the equipment? Ahh, nostalgia.
Anyhow, it was pretty damn cool to see one of the founding AACM guys play last night. Mwata Bowden was fun, too. He's been associated with the High School Jazz Intensive that Coastal Jazz has put together, coming to town early to spend a brief, intense week working for three hours a day with young BC musicians, whom he then conducts at the Roundhouse. The kids have gotten very enthusiastic responses, both times they've done this; Mwata, slim, stylish, well-dressed (in an African manner I cannot describe, with a brimless cloth cap and a loose shirt that seems more like a robe) has explained their project, introduced them (and us, at a workshop last year) to different forms of graphic notation, and guided them in going "out there" musically, which they've done with great conviction and talent. The song he'd chosen as the theme of the project, he explained this Sunday, was a Jimmy Heath tune called "Without You, No Me;" without him, the project wouldn't have happened; without them, the project wouldn't have happened; without us, the project wouldn't have happened; without Coastal Jazz and its sponsors, the project wouldn't have happened (let's all raise a glass of Henkel Trocken to the TD Canada Trust, shall we? And smoke a du Maurier for old time's sake -- no, wait, get that stuff away from me). "Without You, No Me;" it was the final number on Sunday afternoon, and received an enthusiastic standing ovation from the audience.
It was odd to pair Mwata Bowden with Paul Plimley, for the opening act. While Bowden projects grace, dignity, and control, and presents himself as being very self-consciously of African ancestry, Paul Plimley is one of the whitest lookin' damn jazz musicians you could ever hope to see. I hesitate to attach adjectives to his manner -- I don't wanna be mean -- but if Christopher Guest were to make a film about jazz musicans, Michael McKean would have to play Plimley. I sat making notes of ways I could try to convey the odd quality of Paul Plimley's performances without being hurtful -- he's a great musician, a great improviser, a true enthusiast, and a nice guy -- all of which I've said to his face, so I don't want to belabour the abuse over hear behind his back; but he looks... I dunno. Like a golfer. Like a math teacher. Like someone who'd be instantly hired for a kids TV show. Like someone who could very possibly have the words "gosh" and "swell" in his vocabulary. To see him lost in rapture as he plays like a maniac, doing things alternately lyric and tuneful and noisy and chaotic, all with an expression on his face you'd imagine on your Dad's face, if he were a free jazz musician, is bizarre; men this white are simply not supposed to be jazz musicians. But Plimley is, and he's an extremely talented one. And so, we had a study in contrasts, between the extroverted, unself-conscious, and whiter-than-white Plimley, and Bowden, who seemed more than a bit overwhelmed by playing alongside him; during a couple of long stretches, he actually seemed quite unable to find a way "in," stood listening to Plimley play for long periods, picking up one instrument, then another, trying out a few notes, and finally finding his way; I felt a little tense, a little worried, wondered if Bowden was experiencing that tense moment of flop sweat and unself-confidence that all of us who've spoken or performed in public know. He finally made it, commenting afterwards that it was difficult to play with a "crazy guy;" Plimley then took the microphone and said various nice things about Bowden, whom he'd met when playing in Chicago 15 years ago, and hadn't seen again til that day. After that, the two men found a place they could inhabit together; the pressuring aura of expected "professionalism" disappated a little and we got the sense of something far more intimate, of two very different men who didn't know each other well but shared a common passion, making music together. And it was great music to hear, with instrumental experimentation one associates with the AACM -- lots of small percussion instruments, Mwata switching from clarinet to a wooden flute to a didjeridu. Plimley seems to get better every time I hear him play, too; a few years ago, when I last saw him, he seemed to "bang" a lot, to mash several keys at once, but revealed dizzying fingerwork last night.
Roscoe Mitchell took the stage next. I've got only a short time to write before I have to be at work, so let me say that Mitchell's performance was extremely intense; that much of the night was spent in full-on onslaught mode, with each player trying to purge every demon, express every emotion, achieve catharsis and unity through sheer propulsive force of their breathless improvisations, leaving the audience as well as the players pretty much spent; nothing was held back, and everything delivered, with a force that overwhelmed you and left many marks, as it blew through your brain and out the back of your skull... Fellow jazz enthusiast and eccentric Ralph, who was in the audience, liked it best (and I confess that I did too, tho' I didn't admit this at the time) when, for the encore, the bassist traded his stand-up bass for an electric and the band got funky; but I also really liked hearing pure free jazz. It's actually a bit rare to hear these days, I realized. Most "jazz" doesn't get this free, and a lot of purely improvised music tends to be quieter, now, with people intensely listening to each other and producing minimal soundscapes, rather than, in the manner of Coltrane and Ayler and old Ornette, trying to vomit up demons and cleanse their spirits through their horns; I don't think I've heard a performance quite this intense or noisy from a jazz musician since Charles Gayle was last here. It wasn't entirley what I was expecting, but I enjoyed it considerably -- a cathartic night, though the back of my head still feels a bit raw. I'd go into detail about what each player did -- the trumpet player playing two horns at once, the Cecil-Taylor-esque mania of the pianist, the skill of the bassist, the amazingly handsome drummer, and the pleasing way Roscoe Mitchell stepped back, sat down and just listened, head nodding, to his quintet play --
but alas, the jazz festival is over. It's Monday morning. It's DAYJOB TIME. Time to bathe, put on a tie, and figure out if I have enough money left after buying CDs at the festival to afford a chai on the way to work.
Thanks again, Coastal Jazz.
Back in my acidhead days, which corresponded to my initial explorations of jazz (starting with free jazz, thanks to a friend of a friend -- hi, Ian -- who gave me his record collection, including Ornette Coleman's groundbreaker and some Albert Ayler) the musicians associated with the AACM were one of my first passions. I bought, off Ty at the Flea Market -- remember Ty? He's with Lester and Ameen and Malachi now -- a collection of their music, for a mere $15 an LP, that he'd acquired from a former jazz promoter (the famous "Mary Lou" collection) who'd been on the scene throughout the 1960's. He'd underpriced them, not realizing just how in demand, among some people, this sort of music was: I had original BYGs of AECO's Reese and the Smooth Ones, Message to Our Folks, and A Jackson In Your House; I had original Paris pressings of Certain Blacks, People in Sorrow, and Phase One, plus one of those related discs -- was it on Pathe? Nessa? I forget -- featuring Fontella Bass. None of these were available on CD at the time, but all are now; owning them felt like a big deal, then. On subsequent visits, and for much higher prices, I bought off him almost anything to do with the AACM. Was it on Delmark? I bought it. Did Joseph Jarman appear on one track? I bought it. Was it on BYG or recorded by American musicians in Paris in the late 1960's? I bought it. I got solo albums by all the founding AECO members, Maurice McIntyre's Humility in the Light of Creator, the first albums by Anthony Braxton and Muhal Richard Abrams (I still need to replace Levels and Degrees of Light on CD -- heads out there take note, that one's a must have). I also bought rare Ornette Coleman's and Albert Aylers off him, but AACM music, with it's tripped-out detailed textures and "little instruments" (bells, bike horns, rubber ducks, and percussion instruments of every manner) uniquely suited the psychedelicized state I was living in back then (I was dropping acid every couple of days). A broke, confused university drop-out, as well as a druggie, I had very little money (most of which I either cadged off my parents or got off welfare, which I was on for periods during those years); I actually got a job (at a Shell gas station/convenience store -- my low point in work history and the job I started smoking cigarettes at, beginning an 8 year habit that I'm very glad to have put behind me) for the express purpose of being able to afford more of Ty's records. I read whatever I could (not much was around, back then -- mostly I read the liner notes to the records), wrote frenzied AACM-related histories for friends and tried to capture the essential differences between the New York and Chicago free jazz scenes; I recorded tape after tape for anyone who'd listen, most of which were just too damn out-there for the people I thrust them on. As with any enthusiasm, I needed someone I could share it with, and a painter friend of mine and fellow would-be athlete of perception really got the brunt of it; he still has boxes of this stuff he hasn't listened to -- I made him around 100 tapes in a short few months...
Ah, tapes. Ah, LPs. Remember these artifacts of the past, how they felt in your hands? Remember the equipment? Ahh, nostalgia.
Anyhow, it was pretty damn cool to see one of the founding AACM guys play last night. Mwata Bowden was fun, too. He's been associated with the High School Jazz Intensive that Coastal Jazz has put together, coming to town early to spend a brief, intense week working for three hours a day with young BC musicians, whom he then conducts at the Roundhouse. The kids have gotten very enthusiastic responses, both times they've done this; Mwata, slim, stylish, well-dressed (in an African manner I cannot describe, with a brimless cloth cap and a loose shirt that seems more like a robe) has explained their project, introduced them (and us, at a workshop last year) to different forms of graphic notation, and guided them in going "out there" musically, which they've done with great conviction and talent. The song he'd chosen as the theme of the project, he explained this Sunday, was a Jimmy Heath tune called "Without You, No Me;" without him, the project wouldn't have happened; without them, the project wouldn't have happened; without us, the project wouldn't have happened; without Coastal Jazz and its sponsors, the project wouldn't have happened (let's all raise a glass of Henkel Trocken to the TD Canada Trust, shall we? And smoke a du Maurier for old time's sake -- no, wait, get that stuff away from me). "Without You, No Me;" it was the final number on Sunday afternoon, and received an enthusiastic standing ovation from the audience.
It was odd to pair Mwata Bowden with Paul Plimley, for the opening act. While Bowden projects grace, dignity, and control, and presents himself as being very self-consciously of African ancestry, Paul Plimley is one of the whitest lookin' damn jazz musicians you could ever hope to see. I hesitate to attach adjectives to his manner -- I don't wanna be mean -- but if Christopher Guest were to make a film about jazz musicans, Michael McKean would have to play Plimley. I sat making notes of ways I could try to convey the odd quality of Paul Plimley's performances without being hurtful -- he's a great musician, a great improviser, a true enthusiast, and a nice guy -- all of which I've said to his face, so I don't want to belabour the abuse over hear behind his back; but he looks... I dunno. Like a golfer. Like a math teacher. Like someone who'd be instantly hired for a kids TV show. Like someone who could very possibly have the words "gosh" and "swell" in his vocabulary. To see him lost in rapture as he plays like a maniac, doing things alternately lyric and tuneful and noisy and chaotic, all with an expression on his face you'd imagine on your Dad's face, if he were a free jazz musician, is bizarre; men this white are simply not supposed to be jazz musicians. But Plimley is, and he's an extremely talented one. And so, we had a study in contrasts, between the extroverted, unself-conscious, and whiter-than-white Plimley, and Bowden, who seemed more than a bit overwhelmed by playing alongside him; during a couple of long stretches, he actually seemed quite unable to find a way "in," stood listening to Plimley play for long periods, picking up one instrument, then another, trying out a few notes, and finally finding his way; I felt a little tense, a little worried, wondered if Bowden was experiencing that tense moment of flop sweat and unself-confidence that all of us who've spoken or performed in public know. He finally made it, commenting afterwards that it was difficult to play with a "crazy guy;" Plimley then took the microphone and said various nice things about Bowden, whom he'd met when playing in Chicago 15 years ago, and hadn't seen again til that day. After that, the two men found a place they could inhabit together; the pressuring aura of expected "professionalism" disappated a little and we got the sense of something far more intimate, of two very different men who didn't know each other well but shared a common passion, making music together. And it was great music to hear, with instrumental experimentation one associates with the AACM -- lots of small percussion instruments, Mwata switching from clarinet to a wooden flute to a didjeridu. Plimley seems to get better every time I hear him play, too; a few years ago, when I last saw him, he seemed to "bang" a lot, to mash several keys at once, but revealed dizzying fingerwork last night.
Roscoe Mitchell took the stage next. I've got only a short time to write before I have to be at work, so let me say that Mitchell's performance was extremely intense; that much of the night was spent in full-on onslaught mode, with each player trying to purge every demon, express every emotion, achieve catharsis and unity through sheer propulsive force of their breathless improvisations, leaving the audience as well as the players pretty much spent; nothing was held back, and everything delivered, with a force that overwhelmed you and left many marks, as it blew through your brain and out the back of your skull... Fellow jazz enthusiast and eccentric Ralph, who was in the audience, liked it best (and I confess that I did too, tho' I didn't admit this at the time) when, for the encore, the bassist traded his stand-up bass for an electric and the band got funky; but I also really liked hearing pure free jazz. It's actually a bit rare to hear these days, I realized. Most "jazz" doesn't get this free, and a lot of purely improvised music tends to be quieter, now, with people intensely listening to each other and producing minimal soundscapes, rather than, in the manner of Coltrane and Ayler and old Ornette, trying to vomit up demons and cleanse their spirits through their horns; I don't think I've heard a performance quite this intense or noisy from a jazz musician since Charles Gayle was last here. It wasn't entirley what I was expecting, but I enjoyed it considerably -- a cathartic night, though the back of my head still feels a bit raw. I'd go into detail about what each player did -- the trumpet player playing two horns at once, the Cecil-Taylor-esque mania of the pianist, the skill of the bassist, the amazingly handsome drummer, and the pleasing way Roscoe Mitchell stepped back, sat down and just listened, head nodding, to his quintet play --
but alas, the jazz festival is over. It's Monday morning. It's DAYJOB TIME. Time to bathe, put on a tie, and figure out if I have enough money left after buying CDs at the festival to afford a chai on the way to work.
Thanks again, Coastal Jazz.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Reviewing the 20th Vancouver International Jazz Festival
Wow, what a day. The UK Septet, drawn from the Dedication Orchestra (note: link features MP3s) and featuring their leader, Louis Moholo, was the first thing I saw at the Roundhouse -- a wonderful warmup for a day ending with a Dedication Orchestra performance... Delightful that Maggie Nicols and other cohorts from the Dedication Orchestra will be performing tomorrow at the Roundhouse for free, too! If anyone out there didn't see the Dedication Orchestra tonight (and isn't going to see Roscoe Mitchell, as I am) I urge you to see them open for Ladysmith Black Mambazo tomorrow -- it should be an astonishing show. Phil Minton performs with them, as well -- he even sings, in a regular, singing-kinda way, with a surprisingly deep voice -- almost Paul Robeson-y in that regard. Anyhow, Dedication Orchestra make truly joyful music that evokes South African townships (tho' most of the band seem to be English). There's so much good to say about them -- how joyful and life-affirming their music is, tho' it contains just a pinch of grief and melancholy too, such that the joy is like the rapture one feels after a night of crying, say -- that I won't even try to sell their music to you. If you need a reason to go, go to see the third vocalist, David Serame's, face, which is as open and friendly a face as I think I've seen. It's a truly beautiful face -- he could get a job as a guru, if he wanted to.
Actually, my second event of the day was Dedication-related, too --Julian Arguelles, playing with Bernie Arai and Andre Lachance (two of a small, but growing, number of local jazz musicians whose playing I actually enjoy). Arguelles did very tuneful, blues-related extended pieces, that opened up in a way that reminded me of some of what I've heard on ECM, without ever losing the sense that there was a tune somewhere continuing, over, between, or at least proximately near what Arguelles was playing. I think, of the musicians I've seen (unless Phil Minton and Maggie Nicols count) I enjoyed his playing most of the people I've seen this festival.
What else did I see today? In keeping with my general desire not to piss off anyone local, I won't mention the stuff I didn't enjoy... But actually, well, that leaves me with nothing else to write about.
Tomorrow at the Roundhouse, I'll be seeing AACM-man Mwata Bowden, who has been working with a local high school band, as he did, most productively, last year -- the kids were excellent, so set aside any misgivings, if you're interested; it'll be a nice peak at Bowden in the context of leader, for those of us who'll be seeing him open for Mitchell at the Culch in the evening. Then I'll take a chance on L'Orkestra des Pas Perdus, mostly because I assume they're a big band, and this year's festival seems particularly ripe with them (anyone do the Italian Instabile Orchestra the other day?) . Then it's Maggie Nicols with Paul Rutherford, Steve Beresford, and John Edwards. After that, I think I'll go home for a rest, maybe cook some curry, before heading out to see Roscoe Mitchell... I missed his workshop this afternoon, but a friend of a friend named Ralph tells me that Mitchell seemed intensely serious... somehow that's what I'd expected.
My thanks and salutations to the whole damn jazz festival and to Coastal Jazz and Blues for putting it on.
Actually, my second event of the day was Dedication-related, too --Julian Arguelles, playing with Bernie Arai and Andre Lachance (two of a small, but growing, number of local jazz musicians whose playing I actually enjoy). Arguelles did very tuneful, blues-related extended pieces, that opened up in a way that reminded me of some of what I've heard on ECM, without ever losing the sense that there was a tune somewhere continuing, over, between, or at least proximately near what Arguelles was playing. I think, of the musicians I've seen (unless Phil Minton and Maggie Nicols count) I enjoyed his playing most of the people I've seen this festival.
What else did I see today? In keeping with my general desire not to piss off anyone local, I won't mention the stuff I didn't enjoy... But actually, well, that leaves me with nothing else to write about.
Tomorrow at the Roundhouse, I'll be seeing AACM-man Mwata Bowden, who has been working with a local high school band, as he did, most productively, last year -- the kids were excellent, so set aside any misgivings, if you're interested; it'll be a nice peak at Bowden in the context of leader, for those of us who'll be seeing him open for Mitchell at the Culch in the evening. Then I'll take a chance on L'Orkestra des Pas Perdus, mostly because I assume they're a big band, and this year's festival seems particularly ripe with them (anyone do the Italian Instabile Orchestra the other day?) . Then it's Maggie Nicols with Paul Rutherford, Steve Beresford, and John Edwards. After that, I think I'll go home for a rest, maybe cook some curry, before heading out to see Roscoe Mitchell... I missed his workshop this afternoon, but a friend of a friend named Ralph tells me that Mitchell seemed intensely serious... somehow that's what I'd expected.
My thanks and salutations to the whole damn jazz festival and to Coastal Jazz and Blues for putting it on.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Subhumans at the Brickyard, Phil Minton at Ironworks
Damn, the Brickyard was hot tonight. In the sweating, claustrophobic sense of the term. The regrouped Subhumans -- Brian Goble, Gerry Hannah, Mike Graham, and new drummer, DOA alumnus Jon Card -- played a shortish but enthusiastic (and enthusiastically received) set, opening with "Oh Canaduh," ending with "Fuck You," and covering most of the high points of their career in between, with a few new songs for good measure (the best of which was called "I Got Religion"). "Firing Squad," "Urban Guerillas," "Slave to my Dick" -- almost every song I wanted to hear, with the exception of "Behind the Smile," the lyrics of which I've always singularly appreciated... I was almost tempted to venture into the pit for "Inquisition Day," but I restrained myself. I'm never a very devoted mosher -- too old, too outa shape, and not really able to completely lose myself in such brute physicality for more than a few minutes at a time -- and it was too damn hot to even consider it this evening. Mostly I had fun trying to spot familiar faces -- Dale from Noize and formerly Track, Grant from RPM, Track, the Reverberators, and now I think a band called either the Ins or the Outs (I forget), Nardwuar (am I spelling that right) the Human Serviette, and, most surprisingly, painter Attila Richard Lukacs. (His presence gave me a new way to look at the shirtless sweaty muscular male torsos in the mosh pit -- I don't think I'd've seen them in quite the same way otherwise).
Earlier in the evening, since the Subhumans didn't go on stage until after 12, I attended the first set of the 11 PM Ironworks show: locals Peggy Lee (still playing better'n I've ever heard her play before), and Torsten Muller (who I've never had a complaint with, tho' I was kinda disappointed by the afternoon Western Front show he did with Lol Coxhill today) were joined by vocal improvisers Maggie Nicols and Phil Minton. It was Phil I went for. It was fascinating to watch. Having seen Canadian avant-vox poet-musician Paul Dutton perform on a couple of occasions, it was really interesting to compare the difference in their approaches. While Dutton is focused, in control, a sound poet in command of his rather unusual medium, Minton approaches things more as a jazz improviser, shaking, sputtering, and spazzing, entering the music, seeking a sort of trance in it, and following the flow of things in exactly the way a skilled improviser might play a saxophone. Both are interesting to watch, and damned interesting to hear, but something in Minton's rapturous entry into the music was oddly participatory -- you felt like if you could just take whatever drug he was on, so to speak, you might start doing the same thing with your mouth, too. (With Dutton, there's no question of this that enters your mind: you watch, fascinated, but you're more aware that he has you in his power, is guiding you, directing you, that you're following a performance and that there's a human being up there named Paul Dutton who is making the sounds you're hearing; and that you could not do what he was doing without years of practice. It's controlled in the best sense of the word... With Minton, "control" is the last word that comes to mind, and his very identity seems to melt a bit into his performance). A person unsure what to make of such a strange form of music could take their cues just by watching Minton's body, I suspect.... Maggie Nicols, meanwhile -- from Scotland -- seemed an immediately and deeply likeable woman, tho' not as extroverted in her performance as her male vocal counterpart; she tapped her feet sometimes, danced a bit, and offered a sometimes droning, sometimes singing, sometimes trilling and burbling and chirping female voice to the far left of the sound spectrum, perfectly balancing out the sound of Peggy Lee's cello on the far right. She could have been performing on a Meredith Monk record, at times -- her style involved more singing, and less sound, than Minton's. I liked her "Make Capitalism History" t-shirt, too. I probably could have stayed for their whole set, so slow were they at getting the Subhumans onstage at the Brickyard; their performance was an exquisite bit of improvised exploration. As usual with soundscape-type music, I tried at various points to close my eyes and focus on the sound, but for once, the performers were just too interesting to not watch them.
I sure am glad that I find myself enjoying Peggy Lee again. I was impressed with her when I first saw her perform in the early '90's, but on my return from Japan in 2002, was most disappointed when I saw her open for Erik Friedlander at the Culch; she seemed tentative, reluctant to really play her instrument, perhaps out of fear of seeming weaker than Friedlander, which she managed to do anyhow. Maybe it was just in my head but I wasn't impressed, and have been reluctant since to see her again; I'm delighted to find myself enjoying her again, and two nights in a row, no less... I don't think it's just in my ears, either; she seems to have grown considerably as a performer, in confidence and perhaps in technique. Cheers, Peggy!
...and now I must lay my sweaty flesh to rest for the evenin', to prepare for yet more jazz tomorrow. Again, I highly recommend the Dedication Orchestra at the Culch at 8 PM...
Earlier in the evening, since the Subhumans didn't go on stage until after 12, I attended the first set of the 11 PM Ironworks show: locals Peggy Lee (still playing better'n I've ever heard her play before), and Torsten Muller (who I've never had a complaint with, tho' I was kinda disappointed by the afternoon Western Front show he did with Lol Coxhill today) were joined by vocal improvisers Maggie Nicols and Phil Minton. It was Phil I went for. It was fascinating to watch. Having seen Canadian avant-vox poet-musician Paul Dutton perform on a couple of occasions, it was really interesting to compare the difference in their approaches. While Dutton is focused, in control, a sound poet in command of his rather unusual medium, Minton approaches things more as a jazz improviser, shaking, sputtering, and spazzing, entering the music, seeking a sort of trance in it, and following the flow of things in exactly the way a skilled improviser might play a saxophone. Both are interesting to watch, and damned interesting to hear, but something in Minton's rapturous entry into the music was oddly participatory -- you felt like if you could just take whatever drug he was on, so to speak, you might start doing the same thing with your mouth, too. (With Dutton, there's no question of this that enters your mind: you watch, fascinated, but you're more aware that he has you in his power, is guiding you, directing you, that you're following a performance and that there's a human being up there named Paul Dutton who is making the sounds you're hearing; and that you could not do what he was doing without years of practice. It's controlled in the best sense of the word... With Minton, "control" is the last word that comes to mind, and his very identity seems to melt a bit into his performance). A person unsure what to make of such a strange form of music could take their cues just by watching Minton's body, I suspect.... Maggie Nicols, meanwhile -- from Scotland -- seemed an immediately and deeply likeable woman, tho' not as extroverted in her performance as her male vocal counterpart; she tapped her feet sometimes, danced a bit, and offered a sometimes droning, sometimes singing, sometimes trilling and burbling and chirping female voice to the far left of the sound spectrum, perfectly balancing out the sound of Peggy Lee's cello on the far right. She could have been performing on a Meredith Monk record, at times -- her style involved more singing, and less sound, than Minton's. I liked her "Make Capitalism History" t-shirt, too. I probably could have stayed for their whole set, so slow were they at getting the Subhumans onstage at the Brickyard; their performance was an exquisite bit of improvised exploration. As usual with soundscape-type music, I tried at various points to close my eyes and focus on the sound, but for once, the performers were just too interesting to not watch them.
I sure am glad that I find myself enjoying Peggy Lee again. I was impressed with her when I first saw her perform in the early '90's, but on my return from Japan in 2002, was most disappointed when I saw her open for Erik Friedlander at the Culch; she seemed tentative, reluctant to really play her instrument, perhaps out of fear of seeming weaker than Friedlander, which she managed to do anyhow. Maybe it was just in my head but I wasn't impressed, and have been reluctant since to see her again; I'm delighted to find myself enjoying her again, and two nights in a row, no less... I don't think it's just in my ears, either; she seems to have grown considerably as a performer, in confidence and perhaps in technique. Cheers, Peggy!
...and now I must lay my sweaty flesh to rest for the evenin', to prepare for yet more jazz tomorrow. Again, I highly recommend the Dedication Orchestra at the Culch at 8 PM...
Friday, July 01, 2005
Richard Linklater's adaptation of A Scanner Darkly
Just discovered a preview for Richard Linklater's A Scanner Darkly, his adaptation of Philip K. Dick's novel about drugs and disintegration. In it, an undercover narcotics agent with neural damage, due to the drugs he takes as part of his cover, is assigned to spy and report on his drug-dealing alter ego, which he does -- not realizing, because of said damage that he and his alter-ego are the same person. Dick spoke of this device as a way of expressing his ambivalence about drug culture -- a way of exploring two sides of himself. There's a good deal more to the story than that, but I'll leave the rest unmentioned. It's my favourite of Dick's novels -- the richest, most moving, most perfect of those that I've read, and it captures the drug melieu perfectly. The movie, alas, is not due out until next March...
Anyone looking for a good read is also directed to the recent Dick bio, I Am Alive and You Are Dead: A Journey into the Mind of Philip K. Dick, by Emmanuel Carrere. I'm no expert on Dick, and can't really speak for the accuracy or insightfulness of the book, but I greatly enjoyed reading it, and felt like I understood Dick better for it.
Anyone looking for a good read is also directed to the recent Dick bio, I Am Alive and You Are Dead: A Journey into the Mind of Philip K. Dick, by Emmanuel Carrere. I'm no expert on Dick, and can't really speak for the accuracy or insightfulness of the book, but I greatly enjoyed reading it, and felt like I understood Dick better for it.
Fantasies of Jandek's Future
Dig this, folks, this is hilarious... (I'm stoned alone, listening to "Message to the Clerk" on Canada Day eve): I have the most fun darn fantasy prediction for the future of music: Jandek becomes a superstar. I mean, he's actually touring, now; perhaps he'll catch on? In the same way that punk, allegedly elitist and inaccessible, became just another commodity -- not what those of us who were affiliated with it expected -- perhaps now Jandek too can be transformed into fodder for the masses? He wins a Grammy, mebbe gets an acting role, sorta an obscure side-character like Dylan's Alias in Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Jandek t-shirts will replace Kurt Cobain t-shirts (his corpse has been pretty much picked clean by now, anyways). Given how empty the cult of celebrity is lately, given how hungry people are to express themselves via it, and how eager the market is to exploit everything that can be commodified, it might just happen: a savvy music industry type will approach Jandek with a big label deal and sink a bunch of money into promoting him as the next "thing," and the alienated youth of today will be the Jandek-lovin' spenders of the future. Hell, if I were David Geffen...
It's food for thought, Mobsters!
I've got to see Jandek on Corwood sometime soon. I should mail this to Seth Tisue, too... Hm.
Wow, I must be stoned, I'm really getting off on the musicianship on this disc... It actually kinda cooks! Damn, here's "Give it the Name" -- it must have been years since I've heard this. Christ, I'd listen to this over Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy, B.B. King, or damn near any superstar bluesman of the past century.
I'd listen to Blind Gary Davis, Charley Patton, or Mississippi John Hurt first on most nights lately, too. I was going to take this off and put on the Harry Smith anthology... but then I got writing... it's pretty good. I could play Loren Mazzacaine Conners next and smoke some more... Hm.
Harry Smith still seems a bit daunting at the moment. It's the occultist stuff... My own handle on esoterica is pretty flimsy, but I'm not... that... interested. A little, maybe. I've been around a bit too much weirdness in my day.
What was I going to do before I got writing, anyhow?
It's food for thought, Mobsters!
I've got to see Jandek on Corwood sometime soon. I should mail this to Seth Tisue, too... Hm.
Wow, I must be stoned, I'm really getting off on the musicianship on this disc... It actually kinda cooks! Damn, here's "Give it the Name" -- it must have been years since I've heard this. Christ, I'd listen to this over Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy, B.B. King, or damn near any superstar bluesman of the past century.
I'd listen to Blind Gary Davis, Charley Patton, or Mississippi John Hurt first on most nights lately, too. I was going to take this off and put on the Harry Smith anthology... but then I got writing... it's pretty good. I could play Loren Mazzacaine Conners next and smoke some more... Hm.
Harry Smith still seems a bit daunting at the moment. It's the occultist stuff... My own handle on esoterica is pretty flimsy, but I'm not... that... interested. A little, maybe. I've been around a bit too much weirdness in my day.
What was I going to do before I got writing, anyhow?
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Evan Parker's Free Zone at the Culch
Last year, for reasons I am unclear on, I didn't much enjoy either of soprano sax experimenter Evan Parker's gigs at the 19th Vancouver International Jazz Festival; though he was well received, getting standing ovations for his efforts, it just seemed like formless squawking then, without any of the quality of attentive listening and the organic structures to which it gives rise among the musicians that usually make free jazz so appealing. I'm glad my lack of enjoyment back then didn't stop me from attending tonight's show at the Culch, though, because tonight's performance was everything one could hope for from free jazz. Various players out of a pool of eleven, featuring Parker, Lol Coxhill, Alan Tomlinson, an uncredited Louis Moholo, and local regulars Ron Samworth, Peggy Lee, and Torsten Muller, appeared in small groupings to improvise and explore with each other; not only were the visitors appealing -- Coxhill eccentric and minimal, Tomlinson swishing his trombone about such that the very sounds of its whoosh through the air became part of the performance, Moholo playing incredibly precise and at times very subtle rhythms, and trumpeter Harry Beckett and flautist Neil Metcalfe adding very enjoyable accents and colours to the performances in which they appeared -- but even the locals shone. Peggy Lee, in particular, didn't just plink about, but actually played her cello, and was amazingly strong at it -- much, much more impressive than I've seen her be in the past; her interactions with Torsten Muller and a visiting bassist whose name I didn't get (and which is not listed in the guide) were essential structuring elements to some of the later improvisations. This was a great group; all eleven players ended up on stage, with Evan Parker. He mostly seemed happy to flow along with the other musicians, to contribute to the beautiful, swirling murk they made together, so I haven't much to single him out for, but assuming the whole night was his brainchild, I tip my hat to him...
Okay, here are my recommendations for the rest of the festival, for anyone who cares:
July 1:
1. Go see Lol Coxhill and Torsten Muller tomorrow at 5:30 at the Western Front, if you have any interest in noisy/improvised music. Organic noise ecstacy for perceptual elitists.
2. If you're missing the Subhumans gig, the Italian Instabile Orchestra sound like they're going to be a lot of fun -- smart, playful, swinging, and raucous. 8PM at the Culch.
3. At 11 PM there's a rare opportunity (one which, alas, I will miss, since I'll be at the Subhumans show) to see vocal improviser Phil Minton perform at the Ironworks, at 235 Alexander St, just off Main. He'll be playing with Peggy Lee, Torsten Muller, and Maggie Nichols (who I don't know but I gather is also a significant free music vocal improviser). This should be quite a show -- Minton seems a maniac. I really regret that I won't be there for this -- perhaps I'll sneak in for the last number or such.
July 2nd:
Whatever you do at the Roundhouse, do not miss South African drummer/bandleader Louis Moholo's Dedication Orchestra at the Culch at 8. Minton, Evan Parker, and a bunch of the other "highlight" players of this years festival will be playing with them; they do a combination of folkish, lyrical South African township jazz and eccentric avant garde-ism, in a big band context. If you do happen to miss it, you can see them open for Ladysmith Black Mambazo the next night, which also ought to be pretty cool, too, despite being at the Cavern for the Performing Arts.
July 3rd:
But of course anyone really interested in improvised jazz will be seeing Roscoe Mitchell at the Culch. He was an instrumental figure in the AACM, an Afrocentric, educational, non-profit organization in 1960's Chicago that also spawned players like Leroy Jenkins and Anthony Braxton, and the founder of the Art Ensemble of Chicago, an assumedly at least occasionally acidheaded five piece group that brought "little intstruments," from rubber ducks to party favours, onto the stage, along with colourful costumes and a pan-African sensibility which drew on funk, gospel, jazz, and rock, all within a generally improvised context. Co-founders Lester Bowie and Malachi Favors are dead, now, alas, so seeing Mitchell is probably about as close as you can hope to come to seeing AECO now. Opening for him will be another AACM alumni, Mwata Bowden, who has been working with local high school kids two years in a row, guiding them in reading graphic notation and teaching them new ways of conceiving of music. Bowden will also perform at 12:30 in the afternoon, earlier that day, with said kids, who were really great last year; for the evening show, he'll be joined by Paul Plimley. Mitchell will also be doing Roundhouse stuff, but on the 2nd, giving a talk at 4:30.
If you see me at any of the above, say hi...
Okay, here are my recommendations for the rest of the festival, for anyone who cares:
July 1:
1. Go see Lol Coxhill and Torsten Muller tomorrow at 5:30 at the Western Front, if you have any interest in noisy/improvised music. Organic noise ecstacy for perceptual elitists.
2. If you're missing the Subhumans gig, the Italian Instabile Orchestra sound like they're going to be a lot of fun -- smart, playful, swinging, and raucous. 8PM at the Culch.
3. At 11 PM there's a rare opportunity (one which, alas, I will miss, since I'll be at the Subhumans show) to see vocal improviser Phil Minton perform at the Ironworks, at 235 Alexander St, just off Main. He'll be playing with Peggy Lee, Torsten Muller, and Maggie Nichols (who I don't know but I gather is also a significant free music vocal improviser). This should be quite a show -- Minton seems a maniac. I really regret that I won't be there for this -- perhaps I'll sneak in for the last number or such.
July 2nd:
Whatever you do at the Roundhouse, do not miss South African drummer/bandleader Louis Moholo's Dedication Orchestra at the Culch at 8. Minton, Evan Parker, and a bunch of the other "highlight" players of this years festival will be playing with them; they do a combination of folkish, lyrical South African township jazz and eccentric avant garde-ism, in a big band context. If you do happen to miss it, you can see them open for Ladysmith Black Mambazo the next night, which also ought to be pretty cool, too, despite being at the Cavern for the Performing Arts.
July 3rd:
But of course anyone really interested in improvised jazz will be seeing Roscoe Mitchell at the Culch. He was an instrumental figure in the AACM, an Afrocentric, educational, non-profit organization in 1960's Chicago that also spawned players like Leroy Jenkins and Anthony Braxton, and the founder of the Art Ensemble of Chicago, an assumedly at least occasionally acidheaded five piece group that brought "little intstruments," from rubber ducks to party favours, onto the stage, along with colourful costumes and a pan-African sensibility which drew on funk, gospel, jazz, and rock, all within a generally improvised context. Co-founders Lester Bowie and Malachi Favors are dead, now, alas, so seeing Mitchell is probably about as close as you can hope to come to seeing AECO now. Opening for him will be another AACM alumni, Mwata Bowden, who has been working with local high school kids two years in a row, guiding them in reading graphic notation and teaching them new ways of conceiving of music. Bowden will also perform at 12:30 in the afternoon, earlier that day, with said kids, who were really great last year; for the evening show, he'll be joined by Paul Plimley. Mitchell will also be doing Roundhouse stuff, but on the 2nd, giving a talk at 4:30.
If you see me at any of the above, say hi...
Oh No! Blim is Dead
Folks, you won't believe it, but it looks like Blim, the little gallery space that could, has been shut down! I just received this somewhat cryptic e-mail from them, telling of it -- the title refers to how "scandalmongers" have "terminated us":
gloom and devious events have slapped. tribulatory
WRONGS have befallen. unto us all shall pass the
injustice, the harsh, the real: blim has been
terminated.
aqcuiesce, dolor heaves within the citizens who
dreamt. for each there was hope, IS hope, as bubbles
deep the shimmering cloak patterned with creativity.
and from within this cloak each may find their
splendor, their creation, beckon towards newness.
no longer will your services be required as no longer
can our services be offered. yuriko, wakako, and
myself would all like to extend our appreciation,
without you all, there wouldnt be an us. please accept
the possibility of a final farewell gathering, perhaps somewhere near sandy beach and warm ocean water. as for now, recollection is required.
esteem your selves, we certainly appreciate
everything.
until next
--
and there it ends, save for a signature. But G42 were going to play there in August! Oh noooooo!
gloom and devious events have slapped. tribulatory
WRONGS have befallen. unto us all shall pass the
injustice, the harsh, the real: blim has been
terminated.
aqcuiesce, dolor heaves within the citizens who
dreamt. for each there was hope, IS hope, as bubbles
deep the shimmering cloak patterned with creativity.
and from within this cloak each may find their
splendor, their creation, beckon towards newness.
no longer will your services be required as no longer
can our services be offered. yuriko, wakako, and
myself would all like to extend our appreciation,
without you all, there wouldnt be an us. please accept
the possibility of a final farewell gathering, perhaps somewhere near sandy beach and warm ocean water. as for now, recollection is required.
esteem your selves, we certainly appreciate
everything.
until next
--
and there it ends, save for a signature. But G42 were going to play there in August! Oh noooooo!
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Jazz Festival Continues
Something about jazz organ almost always makes me feel like I'm in a hockey rink: is this a uniquely Canadian perceptual distortion? John Medeski is about the only organist I've encountered who somehow gets me past this. Even Dr. Lonnie Smith, whose performance, opening for Mavis Staples at the Centre for the Performing Arts tonight, I greatly enjoyed, had that hockey feel; the echoey acoustics of the upstairs of the Centre probably added to that, such that he could have trilled "doodle-a-doo-da-DOO" (in the manner of the hockey charge) and it would have fit perfectly. Still: I was surprised how much I liked what he did. There are very few players associated with the Jazz Cellar whose music interests me; since generally I like stuff to be new, fresh, cutting edge, the whole MO of the place (to celebrate/regurgitate the jazz of about 50 years ago) just doesn't really appeal to me, and while I've seen players I like there -- Mike Allen and Bernie Arai come to mind -- I generally just don't go. I might be tempted to see Crash sometime, tho', based on Dr. Lonnie Smith tonight; there was something very no-bullshit about what he did -- his love of the music he was playing was evident, and he had a subdued, quietly intense, amusing sense of showmanship that quite appealed. I even enjoyed sideman Corey Weeds playing (tho' I enjoyed more musing at how his suit, pink shirt, and tie made him look kinda like Eminem).
I wish I could say I enjoyed Mavis Staples. Not knowing her music at all, I went hoping for Mahalia Jackson, but what I got was something far closer to Aretha Franklin; and while Mavis does have a powerful, throaty voice that I quite liked, there was a Vegas-y PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER VANCOUVER aspect to the routine that just sort of left me sitting there, as she told anecdotes about the Staples Singers which might have meant something to the converted but didn't really matter much to me at all. I liked the bass and guitar solos, during an extended version of "Respect Yourself" (but not enough to bother looking up the names of the bassist and guitarist) and I kind of enjoyed her gospel-ized take on the Band's "The Weight," but mostly I sat and waited for an opportune moment to leave. She was calling on Colin James, apparently in the audience, as I snuck out the door before the first encore -- perhaps he jammed with her. No disrespect intended to anyone involved, I just don't need that kind of action in my life (particularly when it came to the religious songs... I could almost imagine her performing them on TV)...
I didn't get as much of a charge out of Bik Bent Braam last night at the Culch as I'd hoped, either, despite the presence of Eric Boeren (I finally was able to score a copy of his deliciously Ornette-y Soft Nose recording from the merch table! I've been looking for that disc since I saw Boeren here two years ago). Part of it may have been that I'd expected to take a friend, who cancelled. Since Liz and Blake are out of town, this means that I'm doing a year of jazz shows entirely alone. Aww.
At least I'll have company for the Subhumans gig on Friday...
I wish I could say I enjoyed Mavis Staples. Not knowing her music at all, I went hoping for Mahalia Jackson, but what I got was something far closer to Aretha Franklin; and while Mavis does have a powerful, throaty voice that I quite liked, there was a Vegas-y PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER VANCOUVER aspect to the routine that just sort of left me sitting there, as she told anecdotes about the Staples Singers which might have meant something to the converted but didn't really matter much to me at all. I liked the bass and guitar solos, during an extended version of "Respect Yourself" (but not enough to bother looking up the names of the bassist and guitarist) and I kind of enjoyed her gospel-ized take on the Band's "The Weight," but mostly I sat and waited for an opportune moment to leave. She was calling on Colin James, apparently in the audience, as I snuck out the door before the first encore -- perhaps he jammed with her. No disrespect intended to anyone involved, I just don't need that kind of action in my life (particularly when it came to the religious songs... I could almost imagine her performing them on TV)...
I didn't get as much of a charge out of Bik Bent Braam last night at the Culch as I'd hoped, either, despite the presence of Eric Boeren (I finally was able to score a copy of his deliciously Ornette-y Soft Nose recording from the merch table! I've been looking for that disc since I saw Boeren here two years ago). Part of it may have been that I'd expected to take a friend, who cancelled. Since Liz and Blake are out of town, this means that I'm doing a year of jazz shows entirely alone. Aww.
At least I'll have company for the Subhumans gig on Friday...
Monday, June 27, 2005
Excellent Article on Situation in Iraq
Remember Iraq, the war in the back of your mind? You couldn't and can't stop it, you can't change it, and you can't quite forget it; but if you want to stay informed, this is another good summary of the current situation. Also take a look here for an article about the use of napalm in Iraq.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Land of the Dead, Jazz Festival thus far
Ah, well. It might be fun if you haven't seen many of the previous Romero Dead films, or if they didn't mean much to you. Me, I'm the type of guy who, when Bub, the behaviourally conditioned "good" zombie in Day of the Dead, holds up his chain to show "Dr. Frankenstein" that he's managed to escape, wanting his "father" to be proud of him, only to discover that his father is dead -- and not living dead, either -- I literally weep at the pathos, as Bub flails and moans in inarticulate zombie grief; I weep for joy, later, when Bub gets his revenge. I weep every time I watch the film, too, which I do every couple of years; it occupies a special place in my heart. I wept not during Land of the Dead. I jumped a few times, and chuckled a few more, and had a pleasant minute or two contemplating the allegorical significance of bits of the film (like the idea of America as a walled city, protecting its wealth, conducting "raids" on the rest of the world for resources); but I also winced a fair number of times, at the woodenness of much of the dialogue, the simple stock characters, the obviousness of most of the film's set ups, and the progress of the rather simple, plot-by-numbers story, and the general cheapness of its thrills. I can't even say that it's my high expectations that caused me to be let down, despite my high regard for the rest of the series and the anticipation with which I've followed Romero's struggles to get this film financed and made: because I've read the screenplay, and was thus amply prepared for the disappointment I felt. I hoped against hope that what I read would prove to be a first draft; a hope that has been transmuted as the film flicked past into anger with myself at having spent time, thought and money on a bad film which I knew would be bad -- at allowing my hopes to dwarf my own best judgments.
I can't be bothered to enumerate the film's flaws at any length. The most obvious absurdities of the screenplay (like the question of the value of money in the world it describes) remain intact and absurd on screen. The presence of a white male hero who remains white and heroic (and doesn't end up a zombie) doesn't sit very well with the rest of Romero's films, nor the way his female characters -- previously so human, strong, and interesting -- have been reduced to the current popular fetish item, sexy-chicks-with-guns. The film cheats, too; it rewrites the rules of zombification, after one has been bitten, which once was a slow process... Plus there's... ah, fuckit, there's no reason to even write about the film seriously. Sorry, George. You made some great films in your day.
As for the jazz festival, I had another fair disappointment earlier today, as well -- I walked out of the Dave Holland concert before the opening act, a talented but not particularly interesting Norwegian/Swedish unit named Atomic, left the stage, because the acoustics in the Centre for the Performing Arts (to those package-deal ticket holders who were relegated to the balcony) were horrible. I couldn't even hear the bassist for Atomic; most of what he played registered as a low rumbling from somewhere far away, not unlike the sound of a passing train. Given that Holland, the bandleader for the main event, was a bassist, I ended up losing my curiosity for what was to come quite quickly. Worse, too, was the audience: perhaps its some weird lemming-land artefact of having that many people packed in to see a jazz show -- jazz is simply not meant to be played in venues the size of the centre -- but the dumb fuckers in the herd applauded after EVERY SOLO, which meant, given that every lead player in Atomic would solo at least once during a piece, and often twice, that each song was interrupted by the roar of applause about five times, which often drowned out what the next musician was already doing and provided unnecessary and distracting punctuation to the numbers. (I mean, it's fine and even appropriate in a jazz context to applaud solos, but its meant to be a result of an intimate bond between the performer and the audience, where the audience can't but react with joy to a particularly intense bit of playing that they've been led along by; it's not meant to be something one does by the book, out of politeness or form, every time someone noodles for a few minutes). Not Atomic's fault, I know, though unfortunately the whole point of their music seems to be to enable the players to solo, rather than to interact with each other or produce any particular mood, sound, or structure; their dedication to showing off their chops, and the audience's determination to applaud EVERY TIME, made the whole thing get tedious pretty fast. It might have been better if I could actually hear the band with any clarity. Maybe in another venue, it would have worked...
Far better (of the few shows I've seen, having been obliged by other engagements to skip Gastown) was the Marks Brothers today at the Western Front. THAT's the right size of a venue to see a jazz show at; it affords an intimacy between the performers and the audience that's necessary for live jazz to really work. Bassists Mark Dresser, who looks and dresses like someone your father played golf with (or maybe a high school chemistry teacher) and Mark Helias (he-LIE-us), who, with shaven pate, sly smile, and small ears that stick out, has a charmingly impish quality, played an interesting mix of noisy avant-jazz (like the opening piece, "Tonation" that had both bowing their basses in such a way as to produce a swirling, shifting drone, which pleasantly circled the inside of my head when I figured out that I needed to close my eyes to really appreciate it) and veritably swingin', "jazzier" stuff (which reached its most playful expression in a piece Helias announced, to laughter, as being entitled "Combover" -- going on to relay the information that apparently the Japanese call combovers "barcodes"). They played off each other wonderfully, and launched into some dizzying feats of bass-playing bravura. And although more than one of their solos also received enthusiastic whoops and claps, the audience's enthusiasm didn't seem forced or automatic in the slightest, and I was happy to join them in a standing ovation at the end: it was a wonderful set.
My only other show thus far was Ken Vandermark's Free Fall. I don't know why, but it didn't move me. Vandermark occasionally pushed his clarinet into the realm of pure sound, and the noises were satisfying; and it was interesting to see, too, that he's apparently mastered some sort of circular breathing technique. The interactions between musicians weren't that exciting, though, in the way that the best improvised music can be, where you're drawn into the experience of listening to the players listen to each other -- where one feels like one is following subtle interactions that will determine where the piece will go, and there's tangible excitement in the process, as something that didn't exist before is created. Instead, one felt that the players weren't really engaged with each other at all, were more concerned with what they as individuals were doing than with the overall journey or the shapes they suggested to each other. The patterns in the composed pieces, too, while they held your attention and were occasionally quite pleasant, neither swung particularly nor forced new modes of listening. I can't fault any of them as musicians -- I greatly liked what the pianist, Havard Wiik, was doing, in particular -- and it was nice to hear them dedicating songs to people like Terrie Ex of the Dutch agit-punk collective, the Ex (who are one of about three rock bands currently performing that I really care about and need to follow, along with the New Model Army and Nomeansno). All the same, it didn't do a whole lot for me.
Still, even if it's been a less than stellar start, I'm really looking forward to Bik Bent Braam and the Dedication Orchestra, and am very curious to hear what Roscoe Mitchell will do; plus there's the Subhumans reunion on Friday, and I'm still kind of keen on seeing Mavis Staples, tho' I wish it weren't at the Centre again...
Damn. Now that Land of the Dead has been released, I haven't much left to look forward to in the world of cinema. Tom Noonan's Wang Dang? The new Jorodowsky, if it ever gets made? Hm. Even next month at the Cinematheque isn't that exciting...
Post script: a couple of reviews that sum up how I feel, re: Land of the Dead (taken from Rotten Tomatoes, where mostly the film is getting praised)
I can't be bothered to enumerate the film's flaws at any length. The most obvious absurdities of the screenplay (like the question of the value of money in the world it describes) remain intact and absurd on screen. The presence of a white male hero who remains white and heroic (and doesn't end up a zombie) doesn't sit very well with the rest of Romero's films, nor the way his female characters -- previously so human, strong, and interesting -- have been reduced to the current popular fetish item, sexy-chicks-with-guns. The film cheats, too; it rewrites the rules of zombification, after one has been bitten, which once was a slow process... Plus there's... ah, fuckit, there's no reason to even write about the film seriously. Sorry, George. You made some great films in your day.
As for the jazz festival, I had another fair disappointment earlier today, as well -- I walked out of the Dave Holland concert before the opening act, a talented but not particularly interesting Norwegian/Swedish unit named Atomic, left the stage, because the acoustics in the Centre for the Performing Arts (to those package-deal ticket holders who were relegated to the balcony) were horrible. I couldn't even hear the bassist for Atomic; most of what he played registered as a low rumbling from somewhere far away, not unlike the sound of a passing train. Given that Holland, the bandleader for the main event, was a bassist, I ended up losing my curiosity for what was to come quite quickly. Worse, too, was the audience: perhaps its some weird lemming-land artefact of having that many people packed in to see a jazz show -- jazz is simply not meant to be played in venues the size of the centre -- but the dumb fuckers in the herd applauded after EVERY SOLO, which meant, given that every lead player in Atomic would solo at least once during a piece, and often twice, that each song was interrupted by the roar of applause about five times, which often drowned out what the next musician was already doing and provided unnecessary and distracting punctuation to the numbers. (I mean, it's fine and even appropriate in a jazz context to applaud solos, but its meant to be a result of an intimate bond between the performer and the audience, where the audience can't but react with joy to a particularly intense bit of playing that they've been led along by; it's not meant to be something one does by the book, out of politeness or form, every time someone noodles for a few minutes). Not Atomic's fault, I know, though unfortunately the whole point of their music seems to be to enable the players to solo, rather than to interact with each other or produce any particular mood, sound, or structure; their dedication to showing off their chops, and the audience's determination to applaud EVERY TIME, made the whole thing get tedious pretty fast. It might have been better if I could actually hear the band with any clarity. Maybe in another venue, it would have worked...
Far better (of the few shows I've seen, having been obliged by other engagements to skip Gastown) was the Marks Brothers today at the Western Front. THAT's the right size of a venue to see a jazz show at; it affords an intimacy between the performers and the audience that's necessary for live jazz to really work. Bassists Mark Dresser, who looks and dresses like someone your father played golf with (or maybe a high school chemistry teacher) and Mark Helias (he-LIE-us), who, with shaven pate, sly smile, and small ears that stick out, has a charmingly impish quality, played an interesting mix of noisy avant-jazz (like the opening piece, "Tonation" that had both bowing their basses in such a way as to produce a swirling, shifting drone, which pleasantly circled the inside of my head when I figured out that I needed to close my eyes to really appreciate it) and veritably swingin', "jazzier" stuff (which reached its most playful expression in a piece Helias announced, to laughter, as being entitled "Combover" -- going on to relay the information that apparently the Japanese call combovers "barcodes"). They played off each other wonderfully, and launched into some dizzying feats of bass-playing bravura. And although more than one of their solos also received enthusiastic whoops and claps, the audience's enthusiasm didn't seem forced or automatic in the slightest, and I was happy to join them in a standing ovation at the end: it was a wonderful set.
My only other show thus far was Ken Vandermark's Free Fall. I don't know why, but it didn't move me. Vandermark occasionally pushed his clarinet into the realm of pure sound, and the noises were satisfying; and it was interesting to see, too, that he's apparently mastered some sort of circular breathing technique. The interactions between musicians weren't that exciting, though, in the way that the best improvised music can be, where you're drawn into the experience of listening to the players listen to each other -- where one feels like one is following subtle interactions that will determine where the piece will go, and there's tangible excitement in the process, as something that didn't exist before is created. Instead, one felt that the players weren't really engaged with each other at all, were more concerned with what they as individuals were doing than with the overall journey or the shapes they suggested to each other. The patterns in the composed pieces, too, while they held your attention and were occasionally quite pleasant, neither swung particularly nor forced new modes of listening. I can't fault any of them as musicians -- I greatly liked what the pianist, Havard Wiik, was doing, in particular -- and it was nice to hear them dedicating songs to people like Terrie Ex of the Dutch agit-punk collective, the Ex (who are one of about three rock bands currently performing that I really care about and need to follow, along with the New Model Army and Nomeansno). All the same, it didn't do a whole lot for me.
Still, even if it's been a less than stellar start, I'm really looking forward to Bik Bent Braam and the Dedication Orchestra, and am very curious to hear what Roscoe Mitchell will do; plus there's the Subhumans reunion on Friday, and I'm still kind of keen on seeing Mavis Staples, tho' I wish it weren't at the Centre again...
Damn. Now that Land of the Dead has been released, I haven't much left to look forward to in the world of cinema. Tom Noonan's Wang Dang? The new Jorodowsky, if it ever gets made? Hm. Even next month at the Cinematheque isn't that exciting...
Post script: a couple of reviews that sum up how I feel, re: Land of the Dead (taken from Rotten Tomatoes, where mostly the film is getting praised)
Stating the Desire to Write about tonight's Sublime Frequencies Event at a Later Date
...because I'm too tired/wasted/sweaty now, and my apartment is too messy, and requires my attentions before I go to bed.
Alan Bishop of the Sun City Girls was in town at the Butchershop tonight, along with filmmaker Hisham Mayet (who I don't as yet know that much about! I shoulda asked!) showing various DVDs soon to be released on the Sublime Frequencies label, which they're involved in. The films they brought were Niger: Magic and Ecstacy in the Sahel and some as yet unreleased material from Cambodia, Burma, and somewhere, uh, else. Sublime Frequencies are a sort of archival project, documenting with as little narration/intrusion as possible the state of various cultures, with an ear towards musical traditions and/or sound. They've released media capturing the images, music and sounds of Burma, Thailand, Sumatra, Morroco, Lhasa, Nepal, Cambodia, Indonesia and elsewhere, with upcoming CDs focusing on North Korea and Iraq. CDs tend to be either field recordings, including much "daily life"/ambient sound stuff, ritual music, and street musicians; or else intertwining samples of language, commerce, and traditional and popular musical culture as filtered through radio programming, cassette archives, TV, etc.
The DVDs are another thing altogether -- tonight was my first exposure, but the filmic element made the material much more engaging and interesting for a scopophilic, musically primitive sort such as myself (it requires a sort of disciplined ear to really enter a soundscape of street noises and find it fascinating, as I know some do; for me, the seen element made things much more accessible). I'll be seeking out their DVDs in the future; it was a fascinating night, the kind of night that leaves your eyes a little tired because they've had to learn a new way of looking (which, really, is about as high a praise as I think I could give for a filmmaker). From watching cowrie-shell divination by an animist priest in Niger (followed by excerpts of a related religious ritual, of a sort similar to those seen in voodou) to watching Burmese (I think) high schoolers laughing, hugging, and flirting with the camera as they graduate from school (I think), while a Burmese (I think) version of the Rolling Stones' "As Tears Go By" plays on the soundtrack, the audience (of fewer than 100, I think, including Yuriko from Blim, Dan of G42, and a whole bunch of other equally interesting people, I'm sure, whose names and affiliations I just don't know) was kept amply stimulated, with much food for thought. They sat in rapt attention, reacting occasionally, but mostly just watching and listening in a way that people seldom DO in our current cultural melieu. I felt grateful, afterwards, for having been permitted to participate in such attentive seeing and hearing; grateful to have seen these snippets of life elsewhere, grateful for the opportunity to sit and reflect on these images and sounds in a way more mainstream venues of media would not have permitted.
I also felt grateful that the filmmakers had managed to keep themselves so much out of the way of the presentation of their material, and had done so so intelligently and straightforwardly. For once, the film was not about the filmmaker; ego and interpretation were toned way down (how many miles from Hollywood are we, anyhow?). It's a sort of camcorder-verite that I haven't encountered that much of -- mostly people with camcorders, including myself when I'm allowed to play with them, end up producing images of talky talking heads; the only time anyone addressed the camera during the Niger film, though, was when one of the animists explained at some length about how the "bori," I think it was -- similar to the loa -- manifest themselves to human beings. For a brief moment, one of the filmmakers speaks on camera, as a voice off; otherwise, there's not a word to be heard from them, not an image of themselves to be seen. It's about as non-narcissistic a mode of filmmaking as you can get... In the Q&A after the show, Bishop and Mayet explained that the lack of narration helps you to see what they saw, which you can then follow up on on your own; they aren't interested in being experts, just in showing you what they've encountered, which they find interesting to hear and look at themselves. They clearly have done their homework -- Mayet, who seemed to be a bit more of an anthropologist, referred people interested in Niger to the book Prayer has Spoiled Everything: Possession, Power and Identity in an Islamic Town of Niger -- but they had no particular need to show it off. They had other things they wanted to show us. The audience was receptive and grateful.
Will have to keep my eye on the Butchershop -- it's an interesting scene, part of that stuff going on up Main -- it's not far from the Reef, the Main, and Red Cat. Glad to be slowly getting to know about places like this.
Anyhow, that was more writing than I wanted to do there, I tell ya. Maybe if I just pick up anything really dirty off the floor and brush my teeth, I can go to bed and deal with the rest in the morning.
Cheers to Alan Bishop and Hisham Mayet.
Alan Bishop of the Sun City Girls was in town at the Butchershop tonight, along with filmmaker Hisham Mayet (who I don't as yet know that much about! I shoulda asked!) showing various DVDs soon to be released on the Sublime Frequencies label, which they're involved in. The films they brought were Niger: Magic and Ecstacy in the Sahel and some as yet unreleased material from Cambodia, Burma, and somewhere, uh, else. Sublime Frequencies are a sort of archival project, documenting with as little narration/intrusion as possible the state of various cultures, with an ear towards musical traditions and/or sound. They've released media capturing the images, music and sounds of Burma, Thailand, Sumatra, Morroco, Lhasa, Nepal, Cambodia, Indonesia and elsewhere, with upcoming CDs focusing on North Korea and Iraq. CDs tend to be either field recordings, including much "daily life"/ambient sound stuff, ritual music, and street musicians; or else intertwining samples of language, commerce, and traditional and popular musical culture as filtered through radio programming, cassette archives, TV, etc.
The DVDs are another thing altogether -- tonight was my first exposure, but the filmic element made the material much more engaging and interesting for a scopophilic, musically primitive sort such as myself (it requires a sort of disciplined ear to really enter a soundscape of street noises and find it fascinating, as I know some do; for me, the seen element made things much more accessible). I'll be seeking out their DVDs in the future; it was a fascinating night, the kind of night that leaves your eyes a little tired because they've had to learn a new way of looking (which, really, is about as high a praise as I think I could give for a filmmaker). From watching cowrie-shell divination by an animist priest in Niger (followed by excerpts of a related religious ritual, of a sort similar to those seen in voodou) to watching Burmese (I think) high schoolers laughing, hugging, and flirting with the camera as they graduate from school (I think), while a Burmese (I think) version of the Rolling Stones' "As Tears Go By" plays on the soundtrack, the audience (of fewer than 100, I think, including Yuriko from Blim, Dan of G42, and a whole bunch of other equally interesting people, I'm sure, whose names and affiliations I just don't know) was kept amply stimulated, with much food for thought. They sat in rapt attention, reacting occasionally, but mostly just watching and listening in a way that people seldom DO in our current cultural melieu. I felt grateful, afterwards, for having been permitted to participate in such attentive seeing and hearing; grateful to have seen these snippets of life elsewhere, grateful for the opportunity to sit and reflect on these images and sounds in a way more mainstream venues of media would not have permitted.
I also felt grateful that the filmmakers had managed to keep themselves so much out of the way of the presentation of their material, and had done so so intelligently and straightforwardly. For once, the film was not about the filmmaker; ego and interpretation were toned way down (how many miles from Hollywood are we, anyhow?). It's a sort of camcorder-verite that I haven't encountered that much of -- mostly people with camcorders, including myself when I'm allowed to play with them, end up producing images of talky talking heads; the only time anyone addressed the camera during the Niger film, though, was when one of the animists explained at some length about how the "bori," I think it was -- similar to the loa -- manifest themselves to human beings. For a brief moment, one of the filmmakers speaks on camera, as a voice off; otherwise, there's not a word to be heard from them, not an image of themselves to be seen. It's about as non-narcissistic a mode of filmmaking as you can get... In the Q&A after the show, Bishop and Mayet explained that the lack of narration helps you to see what they saw, which you can then follow up on on your own; they aren't interested in being experts, just in showing you what they've encountered, which they find interesting to hear and look at themselves. They clearly have done their homework -- Mayet, who seemed to be a bit more of an anthropologist, referred people interested in Niger to the book Prayer has Spoiled Everything: Possession, Power and Identity in an Islamic Town of Niger -- but they had no particular need to show it off. They had other things they wanted to show us. The audience was receptive and grateful.
Will have to keep my eye on the Butchershop -- it's an interesting scene, part of that stuff going on up Main -- it's not far from the Reef, the Main, and Red Cat. Glad to be slowly getting to know about places like this.
Anyhow, that was more writing than I wanted to do there, I tell ya. Maybe if I just pick up anything really dirty off the floor and brush my teeth, I can go to bed and deal with the rest in the morning.
Cheers to Alan Bishop and Hisham Mayet.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Allergy-Free Transgenic Cats
As people around the world starve, live in poverty, and die in wars, scientists are working on genetically altered cats which don't produce allergic reactions in owners. While they're at it, they should find some way to make cats whose flesh turns an unmistakable colour when cooked, so that Chinese restaurants will be kept honest.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Unexpected Classroom Guest
I didn't believe my eyes at first: literally, I thought I was hallucinating. There was a streak of motion along the corner of the wall, as I tidied and put up posters in my basement-level classroom at the downtown ESL school where I work; it seemed to move in the direction of the filing cabinet, and I thought it might have been a mouse, but since I had only seen a blur of motion, I couldn't be sure. I kicked the filing cabinet and again, saw a flash of motion, mostly out of the corner of my eyes: and then, finally, I saw it. A mouse indeed, running along the sideboards in a panic.
I scared it back behind the filing cabinet and went out to notify the school custodian, and one teacher, who came in and saw the critter with me. Our custodian, a tidy little Filipino-Canadian, wanted to kill it, when he arrived, but it was easy enough to catch in the class garbage bin, whereupon, after showing it around a bit, I carried it outside -- a small brown terrified live thing with big ears and a fast-beating heart, which set its whole frame vibrating; it jumped every now and then, as if it could possibly get out by such a means, and stared up at me in confusion and panic. I released him behind a dumpster in an alley a couple of blocks away.
It's my second close-up encounter with a mouse. The first was ten years ago or more, in the suburbs where I grew up. I was walking down the backroads of Maple Ridge, coming up the hill on Laity Street; I was on LSD, and it had yet to quite kick in. I've always held that when you're on acid, the rules the universe play by change; it somehow knows that you're twisted, and does things that it would never do otherwise, just to baffle you (I recall vividly, on one trip, riding on a bus that ran at least five red lights in a row, without so much as a honk or hestitation). On the occasion of my walk, things were fairly normal still -- there was a slight metallic taste in my mouth, a slight feeling of tingling, announcing the early onset of the trip -- when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I started, as one sometimes does outdoors, when one sees what one thinks is an unexpected, live, wild creature nearby; but this feeling was fast-on followed by relief, as I realized that what I was looking at was probably just a leaf or such, blowing down the hill towards me. I looked closer and realized I'd seen it right the first time: a mouse, tiny, fast approaching.
I stood stock-still in the middle of the quiet evening street, under the shadows of tree leaves dancing on the street, as the mouse ran directly up to me, stopped, looked up at me, climbed onto my left shoe, looked up at me again, and paused a minute, raising up on his hind legs and sniffing. There was a moment of contact; I felt joy, amazement, bewilderment, and I probably said "hello" in a happy, small voice. I looked at the mouse, and it looked at me; and then it ran off.
Quite possibly, that mouse then saved the life of the life of the mouse today. I've always been kind to animals, and the idea of actually killing a mammal for merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time is abhorrent to me (though I did once, when on LSD, embrace the murderous forces of the universe to kill a cranefly; but it had molested me anally . It's a long story). My past connection with its species made it completely impossible for me to allow any harm to come to the mouse today. I'll have to take some sort of action if the school ends up setting up traps -- like putting non-fatal ones in my classroom, to try to rescue as many mice as possible. I'll find a way to smuggle them out and give them a stern talking to about never coming back.
One of my higher-ups actually got annoyed at me for not killing the mouse -- and for further being so careless as to show it around: "they have germs." She clearly didn't grow up playing in fields like I did...
I scared it back behind the filing cabinet and went out to notify the school custodian, and one teacher, who came in and saw the critter with me. Our custodian, a tidy little Filipino-Canadian, wanted to kill it, when he arrived, but it was easy enough to catch in the class garbage bin, whereupon, after showing it around a bit, I carried it outside -- a small brown terrified live thing with big ears and a fast-beating heart, which set its whole frame vibrating; it jumped every now and then, as if it could possibly get out by such a means, and stared up at me in confusion and panic. I released him behind a dumpster in an alley a couple of blocks away.
It's my second close-up encounter with a mouse. The first was ten years ago or more, in the suburbs where I grew up. I was walking down the backroads of Maple Ridge, coming up the hill on Laity Street; I was on LSD, and it had yet to quite kick in. I've always held that when you're on acid, the rules the universe play by change; it somehow knows that you're twisted, and does things that it would never do otherwise, just to baffle you (I recall vividly, on one trip, riding on a bus that ran at least five red lights in a row, without so much as a honk or hestitation). On the occasion of my walk, things were fairly normal still -- there was a slight metallic taste in my mouth, a slight feeling of tingling, announcing the early onset of the trip -- when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I started, as one sometimes does outdoors, when one sees what one thinks is an unexpected, live, wild creature nearby; but this feeling was fast-on followed by relief, as I realized that what I was looking at was probably just a leaf or such, blowing down the hill towards me. I looked closer and realized I'd seen it right the first time: a mouse, tiny, fast approaching.
I stood stock-still in the middle of the quiet evening street, under the shadows of tree leaves dancing on the street, as the mouse ran directly up to me, stopped, looked up at me, climbed onto my left shoe, looked up at me again, and paused a minute, raising up on his hind legs and sniffing. There was a moment of contact; I felt joy, amazement, bewilderment, and I probably said "hello" in a happy, small voice. I looked at the mouse, and it looked at me; and then it ran off.
Quite possibly, that mouse then saved the life of the life of the mouse today. I've always been kind to animals, and the idea of actually killing a mammal for merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time is abhorrent to me (though I did once, when on LSD, embrace the murderous forces of the universe to kill a cranefly; but it had molested me anally . It's a long story). My past connection with its species made it completely impossible for me to allow any harm to come to the mouse today. I'll have to take some sort of action if the school ends up setting up traps -- like putting non-fatal ones in my classroom, to try to rescue as many mice as possible. I'll find a way to smuggle them out and give them a stern talking to about never coming back.
One of my higher-ups actually got annoyed at me for not killing the mouse -- and for further being so careless as to show it around: "they have germs." She clearly didn't grow up playing in fields like I did...
Saturday, June 18, 2005
My Schedule for the Jazz Festival
Okay, folks: here’s my jazz festival lineup – you can look up the artists and sometimes hear samples on the official site.
June 24th: Free Fall with Ken Vandermark at the Western Front
June 26th: Bik Bent Braam (early free show in Gastown)
June 26th: The Marks Brothers (early show at the Western Front)
June 26th: Dave Holland Quintet with Atomic, at the Centre
June 28th: Bik Bent Braam with the Jonas Kullhammar Quartet, at the Culch
June 29th: Mavis Staples with Dr. Lonnie Smith, at the Centre
June 30th: Evan Parker at the Culch
July 1st: Lol Coxhill and Torsten Muller (early show), at the Western Front
July 1st: enough of this jazzy shit, I’m going to see the Subhumans at the Brickyard!
July 2nd: a bunch of early, free shows at the Roundhouse, yet to be determined
July 2nd: Dedication Orchestra at the Culch
July 3rd: another bunch of early free shows at the Roundhouse, again, yet to be determined
July 3rd: Roscoe Mitchell Quintet with Mwata Bowden/Paul Plimley at the Culch
Hope to see some of you there!
June 24th: Free Fall with Ken Vandermark at the Western Front
June 26th: Bik Bent Braam (early free show in Gastown)
June 26th: The Marks Brothers (early show at the Western Front)
June 26th: Dave Holland Quintet with Atomic, at the Centre
June 28th: Bik Bent Braam with the Jonas Kullhammar Quartet, at the Culch
June 29th: Mavis Staples with Dr. Lonnie Smith, at the Centre
June 30th: Evan Parker at the Culch
July 1st: Lol Coxhill and Torsten Muller (early show), at the Western Front
July 1st: enough of this jazzy shit, I’m going to see the Subhumans at the Brickyard!
July 2nd: a bunch of early, free shows at the Roundhouse, yet to be determined
July 2nd: Dedication Orchestra at the Culch
July 3rd: another bunch of early free shows at the Roundhouse, again, yet to be determined
July 3rd: Roscoe Mitchell Quintet with Mwata Bowden/Paul Plimley at the Culch
Hope to see some of you there!
9/11 Conspiracy Theories
There's so much 9/11 conspiracy stuff to be found out there, and so much of it is bunk that pretty much all of it starts to seem suspect, as do conspiracy theories in general (click here for an interesting analysis of why conspiracy theories aren't that useful as a means of interpreting the world). The stuff that gets under my skin, which I believe originates with that French fellow who put the Flash stuff online questioning whether a plane really hit the Pentagon (an interesting presentation, debunked elsewhere, though who knows how valid that debunking is, either) are the various "facts" offered in support of the theory that the collapse of the WTC had to have been a controlled demolition. The problem is that I don't know if anyone who is repeating these "facts" is actually taking time to verify them, or if they're just directly regurgitating someone else's assertions, which may not be facts at all; given how often the main source of the news is other news, I could easily imagine that these arguments can be and have been successfully contradicted elsewhere, but continue to swim around the net anyhow. Even former members of the Bush government are being swayed by some of this stuff, but that doesn't make it more credible... Still, it gets under my skin, a little. And seems to stay there.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Subhumans Reunion July 1
You all are paying attention, right? Mike Graham has finally been cajoled, Gerry Hannah is in town, and Brian "Wimpy Roy" Goble has given the boot to the Surrey teenagers who so enthusiastically filled their spots at the Vancouver Complication gig: the Subhumans play the Brickyard on Canaduh Day. Do I need to say anything else?
James Blood Ulmer at the Yale
Well -- not much trace of Ornette Coleman remains in this man's music, and I certainly had hoped to see him in a band setting, rather than playing solo up there on the stage (which he confessed was odd -- "I'm a band man," he said); but I still had a damned good time listing to James Blood Ulmer play the blues tonight at the Yale. The songs mostly all sounded the same (and in some cases, were the same -- at least three of the songs in the second set were songs from the first set) and one sensed that, with the exception of one bouncier standard, there was little difference between what Mr. Ulmer did tonight at the Yale and what he would have done had he been playing to a small crowd of friends in his living room -- but that's exactly why tonight was a success; had he gotten rid of the pauses between songs and just strung them together into one long voyage on the guitar I'd've been even happier. Who needs songs, anyways? The point was to hear him play, and play he did -- the best moments creating a dark twisting tunnel that drew you ever onwards and forwards, with spiralling sparks of colour swirling around you; there was just enough repetition, just enough structure to create the needed propulsion, and the rest was a pure celebration of the form, a dance of writhing ephemeral sprites garbed in hot neon, escaping from their earthy graves to seek freedom in starlight for awhile, twining around you as you spiralled out into the blackness yourself. I closed my eyes and let my spine make shapes (pint glass in my hand, ass planted firmly on the barstool, but still); for more than a few moments I lost myself, transported, following wherever the man's fingers led me, and that's as much of a testament to him as I figure I'm going to manage tonight -- what more could one ask of music, anyhow? It's almost enough to make me think of someday going back to the Yale -- but, nah, I doubt I will.
Check it out: that cool guy with the beard from the Magic Flute in Kits was there, too! For weeks on end last year he'd be at damn near every concert I went to, from Mission of Burma to Diamanda Galas... I think his name begins with T... Hi, cool guy!
Check it out: that cool guy with the beard from the Magic Flute in Kits was there, too! For weeks on end last year he'd be at damn near every concert I went to, from Mission of Burma to Diamanda Galas... I think his name begins with T... Hi, cool guy!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Upcoming Movies on DVD
... was peeking at the "Coming soon to DVD" section in the bottom right corner of Roger Ebert's main page. Three films to be excited about will be released on DVD in the next month or two: Arther Penn's Night Moves, Jerry Schatzberg's Scarecrow, and Jean Luc Godard's Weekend (which I've been eagerly waiting for). Night Moves (which stars Gene Hackman) I haven't seen, but it's a private-eye thriller that supposedly is somewhat subversive -- one of the 1970's movies that Robin Wood gets excited about in his interesting Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan, which posits that many of the films of the 1970's showed a society in a state of unease; that, pre-Star Wars, pre-Rambo, pre-Spielberg, there was actually a period in American cinema where filmmakers could ask difficult questions, expose contradictions and confusions in American society, and serve to upset the status quo -- something Wood sees little hope for in the state of contemporary cinema. Scarecrow, which I have seen, certainly also deserves a place in such a book -- it's a movie about two drifters, played by Gene Hackman and Al Pacino, trying to survive together on the road. It's one of those films that slips something under your skin that stays; though I would never call it a favourite film of mine, every few years I have the desire to see it, to work with it, to try to understand it better, to feel what it wants me to feel as we watch its protagonists' generally downward arc. I'll probably buy the DVD.
I've also seen Weekend. It's harder to describe. It's Godard's angry rejection of bourgeois cinema, his assertion of an intent to challenge, assault, and criticize the way movies are viewed. It also deals with violence and our reactions to it, and, if I recall, has a middleclass couple setting out on a holiday which ends in revolution, murder and cannibalism... I'm interested in seeing it mostly because its one of the only films by Godard that I felt I fully understood and sympathized with -- usually with Godard I feel things whooshing by my head at every turn. It's been some time since I attempted to view his films (I challenged myself to Hail Mary, Prenom: Carmen, and a few other late-period films of his when I was in my early 20's), so I might be in a better position to view them now... I'm certainly looking forward to seeing Weekend again.
For anyone's reference, the films I'd most like to see distributed on DVD are, in the order they occur to me:
Cassavetes' Husbands and Love Streams
Robert Kramer's Ice and Milestones
Nic Roeg's Performance and Bad Timing
Antonioni's Zabriskie Point and The Passenger
the first season of The Naked City, starring John McIntyre
Lars Von Trier's Zentropa
Philip Ridley's The Reflecting Skin
Bertrand Tavernier's Death Watch (the long version, please! Great, unknown film with Harvey Keitel, Max von Sydow, and Harry Dean Stanton -- all very bankable! -- plus the last performance of the terrific Romy Schneider)
Bruce Sweeney's Dirty
Jeremy Podeswa's Eclipse
Ingmar Bergman's Face to Face
Wim Wenders' Alice in the Cities, Wrong Move, Kings of the Road, and The State of Things
Nick Ray's The Lusty Men
More Bela Tarr
More Peter Watkins (esp. Privilige)
Any Aleksei German (Russian filmmaker I've had recommended to me)
All Jodorowsky... and I mean in legit, Region 1 formats!!!
...I must be forgetting a few. Feel free to append your own list in the comments section!
I've also seen Weekend. It's harder to describe. It's Godard's angry rejection of bourgeois cinema, his assertion of an intent to challenge, assault, and criticize the way movies are viewed. It also deals with violence and our reactions to it, and, if I recall, has a middleclass couple setting out on a holiday which ends in revolution, murder and cannibalism... I'm interested in seeing it mostly because its one of the only films by Godard that I felt I fully understood and sympathized with -- usually with Godard I feel things whooshing by my head at every turn. It's been some time since I attempted to view his films (I challenged myself to Hail Mary, Prenom: Carmen, and a few other late-period films of his when I was in my early 20's), so I might be in a better position to view them now... I'm certainly looking forward to seeing Weekend again.
For anyone's reference, the films I'd most like to see distributed on DVD are, in the order they occur to me:
Cassavetes' Husbands and Love Streams
Robert Kramer's Ice and Milestones
Nic Roeg's Performance and Bad Timing
Antonioni's Zabriskie Point and The Passenger
the first season of The Naked City, starring John McIntyre
Lars Von Trier's Zentropa
Philip Ridley's The Reflecting Skin
Bertrand Tavernier's Death Watch (the long version, please! Great, unknown film with Harvey Keitel, Max von Sydow, and Harry Dean Stanton -- all very bankable! -- plus the last performance of the terrific Romy Schneider)
Bruce Sweeney's Dirty
Jeremy Podeswa's Eclipse
Ingmar Bergman's Face to Face
Wim Wenders' Alice in the Cities, Wrong Move, Kings of the Road, and The State of Things
Nick Ray's The Lusty Men
More Bela Tarr
More Peter Watkins (esp. Privilige)
Any Aleksei German (Russian filmmaker I've had recommended to me)
All Jodorowsky... and I mean in legit, Region 1 formats!!!
...I must be forgetting a few. Feel free to append your own list in the comments section!
Apologizing to Ellen McIlwaine, plus Drug Dealers Next Door Part 2
Here's a convoluted one, a tour through a blogger's conscience:
1. I went to see the talented, engaging slide guitarist Ellen McIlwaine at the Western Front about a year ago. I'd been aware of her work for awhile (since I'd chatted with this interesting, cute, but, alas, not-single Purolater Courier truck driver and guitarist at a New West library record sale some time ago; sometimes I check out music that people recommend to me solely on the basis of my wanting to sleep with said people -- don't you?). At the concert, I really enjoyed what Ms. McIlwaine did -- she was witty, her songs were passionate, her yodelling is kind of delightfully odd, and she even scatted a bit in Japanese, telling us anecdotes about her childhood in Japan -- where I'd spent three years, myself. Thing was: she was wearing these sweatpants on stage, and I really didn't like them, thought they brought her image down a bit -- they're a kind of housewifely thing to wear. I wrote a generally positive review of her show -- but I included a snide comment about the sweats. Actually, it was less specific than that... Something about how her wardrobe reminded me of Peg Bundy. Ouch. (But, you know, the character wore sweats all the time). It really was just the sweats I didn't care for...
2. I then e-mailed Ms. McIlwaine, because I thought she might like some Japanese outsider folk I'd been listening to -- Kan Mikami and Tomokawa Kazuki, two odd, passionate, little-known folk singers/guitarists from the Japanese scene. Offered to send her some CDs, said I really enjoyed her show. What I didn't realize was that my e-mail included a signature invite to visit my blog. She replied to my e-mail, most politely, and said she was going to look at my blog, whereupon I panicked. Oh no! She'll see my cutting remarks on her sweatpants and be hurt! I rushed to modify my review.
3. I then contemplated how being a reviewer, even in an obscure forum such as this, required tact and discipline, which I hadn't realized before. (Most reviewers seem to write like they don't give a damn how they affect the people they're writing about... I've worried -- say, when writing about Grant Hart, below, whose show I walked out on -- if I'm being fair, civil, etc... It seems like it must be hard enough to get up on stage without later having to read snide comments by completely insensitive assholes who let the world know your failings).
4. I sent off the CDs to Ms. McIlwaine, as promised, and never heard back from her. Whereupon I began to worry. What if she'd read my unrevised blog, expecting fan writing, to discover a cruel potshot instead? What if I'd hurt her feelings? What if she didn't have particularly thick skin? What if she'd worn sweats because of her hip problems (which she mentions on her website) or for other such reasons and was in fact self-conscious about them? Perhaps (I worried, whenever the thought crossed my mind) I'd destroyed her ability to perform in public!
5. It also seemed possible that she never actually read the blog entry, never bothered with the CDs, and that I was worrying for nothing. But I'm the type of guy who, once I've constructed a worst-case scenario for myself to worry about, ends up dwelling on it. What can I say.
6. Anyhow, I woke up from a nap today to discover that some dim part of my mind had returned to worrying about my effect on Ellen McIlwaine! Gah! Enough of it! I needed to get this off my conscience. I wrote her, just now, another e-mail, explaining the above briefly, and apologizing for my comments, in case she actually read them.
7. Whereupon I now worry that she'll read the e-mail and think I'm some kind of nut. (Particularly if she also noticed my offer, some months ago, to let Diamanda Galas sodomize me - which I'd snail-mailed to Ms. Galas and published here -- alas, to no response).
Let it be known: the responsibilities of blogging weigh heavy on my shoulders.
On a lighter note, the drug dealers next door have finally been evicted! No more booming hip hop coming through the wall at 3 AM! Yaaay!
1. I went to see the talented, engaging slide guitarist Ellen McIlwaine at the Western Front about a year ago. I'd been aware of her work for awhile (since I'd chatted with this interesting, cute, but, alas, not-single Purolater Courier truck driver and guitarist at a New West library record sale some time ago; sometimes I check out music that people recommend to me solely on the basis of my wanting to sleep with said people -- don't you?). At the concert, I really enjoyed what Ms. McIlwaine did -- she was witty, her songs were passionate, her yodelling is kind of delightfully odd, and she even scatted a bit in Japanese, telling us anecdotes about her childhood in Japan -- where I'd spent three years, myself. Thing was: she was wearing these sweatpants on stage, and I really didn't like them, thought they brought her image down a bit -- they're a kind of housewifely thing to wear. I wrote a generally positive review of her show -- but I included a snide comment about the sweats. Actually, it was less specific than that... Something about how her wardrobe reminded me of Peg Bundy. Ouch. (But, you know, the character wore sweats all the time). It really was just the sweats I didn't care for...
2. I then e-mailed Ms. McIlwaine, because I thought she might like some Japanese outsider folk I'd been listening to -- Kan Mikami and Tomokawa Kazuki, two odd, passionate, little-known folk singers/guitarists from the Japanese scene. Offered to send her some CDs, said I really enjoyed her show. What I didn't realize was that my e-mail included a signature invite to visit my blog. She replied to my e-mail, most politely, and said she was going to look at my blog, whereupon I panicked. Oh no! She'll see my cutting remarks on her sweatpants and be hurt! I rushed to modify my review.
3. I then contemplated how being a reviewer, even in an obscure forum such as this, required tact and discipline, which I hadn't realized before. (Most reviewers seem to write like they don't give a damn how they affect the people they're writing about... I've worried -- say, when writing about Grant Hart, below, whose show I walked out on -- if I'm being fair, civil, etc... It seems like it must be hard enough to get up on stage without later having to read snide comments by completely insensitive assholes who let the world know your failings).
4. I sent off the CDs to Ms. McIlwaine, as promised, and never heard back from her. Whereupon I began to worry. What if she'd read my unrevised blog, expecting fan writing, to discover a cruel potshot instead? What if I'd hurt her feelings? What if she didn't have particularly thick skin? What if she'd worn sweats because of her hip problems (which she mentions on her website) or for other such reasons and was in fact self-conscious about them? Perhaps (I worried, whenever the thought crossed my mind) I'd destroyed her ability to perform in public!
5. It also seemed possible that she never actually read the blog entry, never bothered with the CDs, and that I was worrying for nothing. But I'm the type of guy who, once I've constructed a worst-case scenario for myself to worry about, ends up dwelling on it. What can I say.
6. Anyhow, I woke up from a nap today to discover that some dim part of my mind had returned to worrying about my effect on Ellen McIlwaine! Gah! Enough of it! I needed to get this off my conscience. I wrote her, just now, another e-mail, explaining the above briefly, and apologizing for my comments, in case she actually read them.
7. Whereupon I now worry that she'll read the e-mail and think I'm some kind of nut. (Particularly if she also noticed my offer, some months ago, to let Diamanda Galas sodomize me - which I'd snail-mailed to Ms. Galas and published here -- alas, to no response).
Let it be known: the responsibilities of blogging weigh heavy on my shoulders.
On a lighter note, the drug dealers next door have finally been evicted! No more booming hip hop coming through the wall at 3 AM! Yaaay!
Friday, June 10, 2005
The Wide Blue Road
I liked this film exactly as much as I hoped I would, and I had high hopes for it. An early work by Gillo Pontecorvo, best known for The Battle of Algiers and Burn!, it's strongly left-leaning, but more romantic, lyrical, and exciting than your standard work of social realism; and the Italian coastal waters on which much of the film is shot are truly lovely to look at. It focuses on the struggles of a dynamite fisherman, played by the charismatic Yves Montand -- Mario in The Wages of Fear, another great film recently watched -- to support his family and survive in the community of his peers, who fish with nets and, though they like him, resent his more successful (but illegal and "uncompetitive") means of making his catch. The film has various subplots -- the coming of age of his sons, the desire of his daughter to marry, and the struggles of the local fishermen to wriggle out from under the thumb of the local capitalist monopolist who controls the prices they get for their fish -- but the main story is compelling enough: what a good man, in a bad trade, must do to keep his family fed, avoid the police, and somehow still keep the esteem of his fellows, his children, and of himself. Probably not an easy one to find in a rental shop, but worth seeking out.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Black Market Urine
Sales of clean urine, to avoid being busted during workforce drug tests, are doing well in Alberta, apparently. What I want to know is, where do the hemp companies that sell the pee, buy the stuff from? (Assumedly their own pee is not very clean). Do the pee-ers know what their pee is being used for? Do the people who sell the the pee ever lie and consume drugs themselves, selling bad pee? Are the people who buy the pee forced to do drug tests on it first, or on the pee vendors, to guarantee their product? It would be amusing to me, if people who are selling pee to help others pass drug tests are themselves subject to drug tests. Perhaps they buy pee to help foil them...
After Antibalas: Thoughts on Michael Jackson
It took me awhile to get into what Antibalas were doing last night at the Commodore. Their opening song had what seemed a kind of simple, repetitive riff to it and not a lot of soloing -- it seemed like a "warming up" sort of number. Perhaps it was my cold, perhaps its that my mind was on other things, but I didn't get excited about what they were doing. For the second song, I closed my eyes, and that helped a lot. When I wasn't dancing, I meditated on how the singer used tribal energies and identifications to lead the audience, and on how it was rather gutsy to begin "Who is Dis America (Dem Speak of Today)" with a routine about "chopping down an overgrown Bush" -- particularly if they're saying that in the United States when they perform. It seems, given the tension and hysteria one associates with the divide opening up down there, that it could actually be a little dangerous to make such statements in public.
I enjoyed what I saw of the show, but I have a cold, and wanted to get enough sleep so that I could consider going to work this morning, which I'm not doing. After four songs, I let myself go home, saying goodbye to Mel, who I'd taken to the concert for her birthday.
On the way home, a homeless guy asserted himself at me with a joke -- part of his shtick to get attention and thereby money. "Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?"
I told him I really wasn't in the mood -- I was deep in other thoughts -- and he moved on to someone else without skipping a beat. "Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?"
I continued home, thinking whatever it was I was thinking, when suddenly the answer to the joke came to me.
Q: Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?
A: Because he heard they use child labour.
Ha.
You know, you wonder about Michael Jackson. There seems to be this process of publicly ostracizing him from the human tribe going on among all but his most devoted fans. He is widely regarded as a freak, and treated very cruelly, as the above joke attests (in him, even the homeless have someone they can abuse!); yet he seems to have participated so actively in this process, behaving so bizarrely, so publicly, that it is rather hard to sympathize. It starts to seem creepily significant that he tried to buy the remains of John Merrick, the so-called Elephant Man; as if Jackson could express his own feelings of freakishness, explore them, through owning such a thing -- as if he were saying he was, somehow, like Merrick. Why else would he want them?
I enjoyed what I saw of the show, but I have a cold, and wanted to get enough sleep so that I could consider going to work this morning, which I'm not doing. After four songs, I let myself go home, saying goodbye to Mel, who I'd taken to the concert for her birthday.
On the way home, a homeless guy asserted himself at me with a joke -- part of his shtick to get attention and thereby money. "Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?"
I told him I really wasn't in the mood -- I was deep in other thoughts -- and he moved on to someone else without skipping a beat. "Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?"
I continued home, thinking whatever it was I was thinking, when suddenly the answer to the joke came to me.
Q: Why was Michael Jackson in Wal-Mart?
A: Because he heard they use child labour.
Ha.
You know, you wonder about Michael Jackson. There seems to be this process of publicly ostracizing him from the human tribe going on among all but his most devoted fans. He is widely regarded as a freak, and treated very cruelly, as the above joke attests (in him, even the homeless have someone they can abuse!); yet he seems to have participated so actively in this process, behaving so bizarrely, so publicly, that it is rather hard to sympathize. It starts to seem creepily significant that he tried to buy the remains of John Merrick, the so-called Elephant Man; as if Jackson could express his own feelings of freakishness, explore them, through owning such a thing -- as if he were saying he was, somehow, like Merrick. Why else would he want them?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Naomi Klein on Torture
An excellent, concise little article -- and perhaps prescient, since Rumsfield and Bush may resort to realpolitik yet. (If lying ever stops working, say). Looks like Ms. Klein is one of those who have caught up with The Battle of Algiers, in the light of its recent relevance... Great film, very interesting.
Yet Another REALLY HARD FREE CELL
20725. My God. Maybe I'm dense, but I spent over an hour on it (I'm home sick from work and have the inclination to do little else). Try it and tell me: is this not the hardest free cell ever?
Creature Storms
Magnolia was overrated: I'm coming to agree, tho' I enjoyed the film at the time. I'm getting a little sick of the way people flock to these sorts of mass-marketed "art" films and make a fuss about them -- Cassavetes scholar and film professor Ray Carney has a point when he talks (in these cool packages of writings he sent me) about them being kitsch, fake art, part of the Hollywood celebrity system, where everyone fawns over some new artsy film that seems meaningful, but is easy to digest, easy to unpack, and which offers us little we don't already know -- films that flatter us and cater to our prejudices, without challenging us in any real way. At the same time, regardless of anything Ray might say, I remain delighted that the film introduced a storm of frogs into the popular imagination; if nothing else, it afforded those of us in the know to explain about Charles Fort and the history of creature storms (you'd be shocked how many people just plum don't know about this stuff), and, well, as for me, I like to show these sorts of things off (just get me talkin' about the mating habits of the praying mantis sometime). It's probably the greatest good to come from the film. I don't dislike the movie, but I don't imagine I'll be able to sit through it again -- it was of no lasting interest; it's nothing more than an entertainment, however it might appear.
Anyhow, there's been a frog storm in Serbia. That was really all I wanted to point out.
Also, hey, see the following site for the complete text of various books by Fort, including creature storms and more!
Finally, from the Fortean Times site: some body parts rained on NY, but there's a pretty unexciting explanation, and it was only a couple of parts.
I am now going to go peruse some Fort myself.
Anyhow, there's been a frog storm in Serbia. That was really all I wanted to point out.
Also, hey, see the following site for the complete text of various books by Fort, including creature storms and more!
Finally, from the Fortean Times site: some body parts rained on NY, but there's a pretty unexciting explanation, and it was only a couple of parts.
I am now going to go peruse some Fort myself.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Mysterious Japanese Guardrail Sabotage
Note: I lived in Saitama for three years, so it's pretty interesting to me to note that this is one of the central areas affected by this strange act: planting metal spikes in guardrails, to cut and damage those who pass too close. Note that Japan uses guardrails as a sort of vertical speedbump, too: instead of slowing to go over a bump in the road, you slow to pass through a narrow set of guardrails. If this were one of the things affected by this freakish form of sabotage, it would make getting around without badly damaging your paintjob a bit of a challenge!
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
George A. Romero's new dead film, plus the Drug Dealers Nextdoor
...opens June 24th in the US, and presumably around the same time in Canada. There's a trailer for it here, and if you poke around IMDB's message boards you can find links to the screenplay -- which sounds like it has potential, tho' it has one very strange flaw -- the idea that money has value in it's post-apocalyptic, zombie-ridden environment. I'm worried that I'm just not going to care about this film, but I'm eager for its release no less.
Here's an odd detail: my tattooed, hip-hop-blaring neighbour, with whom my only contact has been when I knocked on his door to ask him to turn his music down the other day, just started joking with me as we passed in the doorway about how other people in the building were whispering about how he's a crack dealer; he informed me, by way of stoned elaboration, that he deals only in "chronic." Kind of funny to have a sheer stranger tell you he deals one drug because he's indignant that people have assumed he deals in another. If he'd only keep his fuckin' music down, I wouldn't much care if he dealt in sarin...
Here's an odd detail: my tattooed, hip-hop-blaring neighbour, with whom my only contact has been when I knocked on his door to ask him to turn his music down the other day, just started joking with me as we passed in the doorway about how other people in the building were whispering about how he's a crack dealer; he informed me, by way of stoned elaboration, that he deals only in "chronic." Kind of funny to have a sheer stranger tell you he deals one drug because he's indignant that people have assumed he deals in another. If he'd only keep his fuckin' music down, I wouldn't much care if he dealt in sarin...
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