Hostels are really really strange environments. Right now I'm sitting in the common room at Canadiana Backpackers Hostel, writing and watching a group of very drunk Peruvians play cards, drink more, and just generally carouse. One of them just sat on my table until one of the men pressed her back towards me in a half-welcomed embrace. She pushes him away laughing and staggers forward a couple steps. On the other side of the room, a couple of GWAR fans I spoke to earlier are standing over the garbage can. One of them seems about ready to throw up, but doesn't.
I know there are a great many important things afoot in the world right now, but it seems to me that this really ought to be front page news worldwide. A group of Chinese intellectuals, government officials, and ordinary people signed a bigdealio declaration in favor of democratic reforms, human rights, and a new constitution two weeks ago and there's been a rather dramatic crackdown internally since. Lots of writers and journalists are being put in jail, and it looks like this could get real interesting real fast.
I am sitting in the Canadiana Hostel in western Toronto, drinking free coffee and enjoying the Christmas soundtrack. Today is my birthday. I am 23. I am also alone in a foreign city and completely in love with everything. I have a pile of good books to keep me company for the next few days: I'm hoping to finish Sources of the Self in the next week, maybe get in to some of the novels I got for free, beginning with V.S. Naipaul's Half a Life. I fly home in two days. Then it will be Christmas. Thank God.
Now, rest, reading, probably further posting later today.
Woke up this morning to a VERY large snowstorm blasting outside my window. I may make the attempt to visit the Royal Ontario Art Museum I was planning but then again maybe not.
Regardless of the weather, the internet is full of interesting and useful things, two of which I'll pass on:
The dictionary’s ostensible purpose of settling and “fixing” the language was a chimera. Its real, implicit purpose was to reassure a growing new world of middle-class readers that there were rules, and someone who could give them. Young men on the street, people in boats on the Thames, bluestockings at dinner parties would stop him, gather up their courage, and ask him how to pronounce “irreparable.” Johnson was sometimes annoyed by the constant demands on him to be the No. 1 Word Man, full of wise definings. As he said once, “we all know what light is; but it is not easy to tell what it is.”
2.) The Atlantic scores an interview with Gao Xiqing, head of China's dollar investments. Very interesting. Also, brilliantly titled. And scary.
I was predicting this many years ago. In 1999 or 2000, I gave a talk to the State Council [China’s main ruling body], with Premier Zhu Rongji. They wanted me to explain about capital markets and how they worked. These were all ministers and mostly not from a financial background. So I wondered, How do I explain derivatives?, and I used the model of mirrors.
First of all, you have this book to sell. [He picks up a leather-bound book.] This is worth something, because of all the labor and so on you put in it. But then someone says, “I don’t have to sell the book itself! I have a mirror, and I can sell the mirror image of the book!” Okay. That’s a stock certificate. And then someone else says, “I have another mirror—I can sell a mirror image of that mirror.” Derivatives. That’s fine too, for a while. Then you have 10,000 mirrors, and the image is almost perfect. People start to believe that these mirrors are almost the real thing. But at some point, the image is interrupted. And all the rest will go.
When I told the State Council about the mirrors, they all started laughing. “How can you sell a mirror image! Won’t there be distortion?” But this is what happened with the American economy, and it will be a long and painful process to come down.
I think we should do an overhaul and say, “Let’s get rid of 90 percent of the derivatives.” Of course, that’s going to be very unpopular, because many people will lose jobs.
I promised photos of election night a few months ago and finally managed to bug Daniel into passing them on. Here they are then, better late than never. (Thanks Daniel!)
Fig 1.1 Approaching the crowd
Fig 1.2 Flags and crowds
Fig 1.3
Word comes that Obama wins. (That's a generational change he's got caught between his thumb and forefinger there.)
So as many readers may be aware, there's been a rather large shake-up in the Canadian government in the last few months. Stephen Harper, the Conservative prime minister, has inspired very little confidence with his economic policies and as a result the opposition announced he would be removed from office and they would form a coalition government in his place, likely with Michael Ignatieff as its head. This is an unsurprisingly controversial move, since Canada has no real history of coalition government and the only way to make it a real majority coalition is to involve the Bloc Quebecois, who the conservatives suggest would tear the country apart with their seperatist leanings. But where there is controversy, there are rallies, and as it so happens one of them happened literally in my backyard.
Of course I went, and I borrowed my roommate's camera. (Thanks Bojan!) Here is the afternoon in images:
Fig 1.1 A first take. The building in the background is city hall.
Fig 1.2 Some parts of the 62 percent majority.
Fig 1.3 Mathematics, once again obscuring as much as it reveals. Thanks math.
Party Bigwigs also made appearances:
Fig 2.1 Stephan Dion, then head of the Liberal Party.
Fig 2.2 Jack Layton of the New Democratic Party.
Fig 2.3 Broken Social Scene, life of the party. (Unseen to the left are Jack Layton and Stephan Dion standing awkwardly onstage.)
Last week I went to see Handel's Messiah at the Knox College chapel. It was good. Because I'm sick to death of writing useful, interesting, informative prose in a linear format, I'm opting for a list!
Chapel: Like the rest of Knox, fake Gothic with unpolished wood and matte stone. Humble, yet oddly disconcerting; machine-produced materials laboring to appear hand-made. I imagine John Ruskin as a suicide bomber.
Me: Needlessly fancy.
Date: Same as above.
Handel: The story goes that Handel's first performance of the Messiah was not held in London, which was New York in those days, but in Dublin (which was rather like Buffalo). The concert was small, in a church, and used around thirty musicians total. This nights performance is modeled on the Dublin performance, or at least as much as we can put together, which is not a lot, but its a much warmer and ultimately much more human kind of piece; harmony over scale, honesty over pomp. Music for people, not kings.
King George III: King George III liked the later showings so much that he stood up for the Hallelujah chorus. Now the rule is that everyone has to stand up for that part of the show. I didn't know this, so that part came as a bit of a shock. Choir: Seven members, plus the four soloists. When they open their books in unison it reminds me of a flock of birds. Soloist 1: Dances a little as he sings. I don't know if this is normal. His hair is curly and his demeanor chirpy. Nice voice too. Soloist 2: Eyebrows, beard. Would look good in a devil costume. Soloist 3: Looked very very sad for the sad parts. Unsure how to interpret.
Sheep: We like them?
Couple sitting in front of us: The guy looks suspiciously like a young Bill Gates. Rest of audience, excluding author and company: Graying. This is the first time I've been around people not between 18-25 in months and it is good to be near them. The Night: Cold, dark, empty, completely beautiful. Stars are very bright. I scuttle home down university in a large green coat, head bent and ears ringing.
I know I've been rather negligent with updating this thing for the last month or so. But as of last night at 5 or so, finals are finally done. Forever. I am now done with my college career.
(Subdued cheering from the exhausted villagers. John crosses the finish line. The propaganda minister applauds wildly then makes snide remarks under his breath.)
I now have a week which I hope to spend doing interesting things in toronto, which will hopefully translate in to interesting reading. I may also put up posts of other interesting and worthwhile things out here from earlier in the semester that haven't gotten written yet. So we'll see.
In the meantime, here are some photos from our (Bojan, Helen, self) adventures into the closed shopping mall under our hall.
Somewhere between death metal and laringitus. I look around me, startled; seemingly empty transit station, merchant stalls, magazines, gum, tile floor. Not another soul in sight.
"Gnaaaaggghh."
Suddenly notice the guy behind the counter, doing what I think is clearing his throat. Except its at a customer, similarly just materialized and who walks away looking disconcerted. Death-metal-laringitis glances towards me. I glance first at the magazines (scientific american) then seeing that he's going to try to sell me something, quickly exit the station.
Fear trumps curiosity.
Episode 2:
Act 1: A pirate is going down the steps to the subway. I only notice him just before he vanishes, but one of the disembarking passengers and lock eyes and he nods towards tricorn hat now making its way down the stairs, amused. As am I.
Act 2: Pirate sighted smoking in front of Polish League Hall with group of homeless people. He is wearing sneakers.
As we enter these later days of GM's existence, it's worthwhile to pause and consider just how much better the Asians do everything that Westerners think they can do. (And without the help of the government either!)
Finals week presses closer and everything shifts into wierdly comfortable stressful-freakout. In lieu of more substantive and interesting posts, here are some good things to look at:
1.) Good profile in the Times of Lewis Hyde, author of The Gift and more recently proponent of copyright reform. It's really really good. (Props to Eagan for pointing it out.)
2.) A piece from the Atlantic about Reinhold Niebuhr and his legacy... super interesting, particularly given Obama's admiration for the guy's thinking.
3.) Yes, it is in fact possible to mention derivatives and aporia in the same article.
Winter in Toronto has so far been a stop-again-start-again kind of thing. Usually it will snow and then rain and then be merely cold, and nothing gets particularly pretty. That is, until this morning, when it started snowing and everything looked beautiful and I got off the subway and wandering between the victorian buildings, decided I live in paradise.
Run on sentences.
This weekend I am going to go take pictures of my daily haunts. So stay tuned to this channel, kids!
Where would we be without your sage advice? (Or with it?)
The United States is not an N.G.O., so it’s not as if we throw out every other interest or every other concern with a country because it’s authoritarian. And sometimes we aren’t able to effect change as completely as we like. It has to be indigenous change.
After the election results have come in, I wander over to Eaton Center, Toronto's downsized attempt to mimic Times Square. People have already gathered; loud music, bad techno music, is playing. People have booze, a slight smell of marijuana in the air. Some have got American and Canadian flags, and they are dashing around the edges of the crowd. A shorter bearded man has a megaphone. "O-bam-a!" he yells, "O-bam-a" replies the crowd. "Yes we can!" he chants, syncopating now. "Yes we can" they (we?) chant back in time with the music. It goes on like this for the next hour, more people arriving and other drifting away. Champagne is sprayed. Many people with cameras are there; I grab their attention and make them take a picture of me with my sticker. I want to be there when they show people years later and say, see, this is what this was like when Obama became president.
The street people gathered at the edges too, looking on in silence, maybe in apathy. It's impossible to tell with them. As I am leaving the gathering with Dan, a friend from New Zealand, we stop to buy food and immediately there's a man at my shoulder, asking for a hot dog. An awkward moment, but I buy him one and wish him good night. I feel justified: it's a gift, not a handout. And it's a good night for giving gifts.
Ottawa is a big town full of constrained office buildings and older architecture left over from back when the city was home only to petty gangsters (the Irish) and less petty gangsters (the Government). Shortly after arrival, I wandered three blocks away from the hotel and found a tiny Catholic church nearly lost amid the highrises. The doors were huge, and I struggled with pushing for a good minute before discovering that pulling was in fact the best strategy.
The interior was huge, ornate, beautifully painted with arching ceilings and a lovely marble baroque alter. It was empty except for a few elderly people at the front of the sanctuary, murmuring into the echoing overhead. An amplified voice periodically came out of nowhere, reciting prayers in French, too raspy to be God and too young to be from the crowd. The whispers of the few alternated with the voice of the one, each succeeding the other like waves breaking silently against the shoreline. Somewhere in the distance a siren started up, barely breaking the stillness of the afternoon. I sat for a while then left.
There's something deeply strange about traveling by train. You get on it and it goes and goes. Staring out the windows, you are struck both by the closeness of things, by the sensation that you could reach out and touch these leaves, these houses, but also by the impossibility of contact; the sheer velocity of the train isolates it from it's surroundings, makes it a world unto itself with the bright but unreachable outside as good as images thrown on the glass. Things burst into sight and just as quickly pass away, and you are left feeling strangely unsure of what's there outside the cabin. And then you arrive at a new station and a normal speed, and things pick up just as before, the faces are more or less familiar, the buildings more or less the same, a little more French in the cafes and a little more English in the accent.
Gail, you know one thing I didn’t get a chance to get into in that column was the theory of 10,000 hours: The idea is that it takes 10,000 hours to get really good at anything, whether it is playing tennis or playing the violin or writing journalism.
I’m actually a big believer in that idea, because it underlines the way I think we learn, by subconsciously absorbing situations in our heads and melding them, again, below the level of awareness, into templates of reality.
Templates of reality, eh? Lets go to the master, shall we?
That wherein Dasein already understands itself in this way is always something with which it is primordially familiar. This familiarity with the world does not necessarily require that the relations which are constitutive for the world as world should be theoretically transparent. However, the possibility of giving these relations an explicit interpretation, is grounded in this familiarity with the world; and this familiarity, in turn, is constituive for Dasein, and makes up Dasein's understanding of Being.
I don't know how many David Foster Wallace fans read this, but regardless of whether you know who he is or if his recent death matters at all to you, you should read this. It's a speech he gave at Kenyon a few years ago and like much of his work it sums up a lot of stuff all at once and doesn't turn away from dealing with hard things in a very real way. And, as usual, it's quite funny, which only makes his loss seem more sad.
Currently sitting in the Chestnut Skylounge (TM) again. The weather's shifted in a more autumnal direction this last week and so today the air's a bit cooler and the entire city is covered in a fog that's been thinning out since dawn. This is a huge step up from last week's muggy heat, which made me seriously consider giving up showering for the sheer futility of the thing, but it leaves everything seeming pensive in ways it wasn't last week.
Classes started on Monday after a week of thoroughly pointless Orientation Activities (TM) that I mostly skipped. I'll write more on it at a later date, but suffice it to say, whoever decided that giving A type personalities complete control of the lives of impressionable young'uns was the best way to establish genuine community must have been (a) out of their mind or (b) themselves an A type personality. I know they put in a big effort and all, but the events resulting from their decisions are mostly just draining and stressful and didn't result in knowing other people any better. (And a waste of money; I asked one of the group leaders what they were getting from being group leader, and she looked at me funny and said it cost her 75 dollars to even be one in the first place. Bizarre.)
Putting froshweek aside, however, all of my classes seem promising. I got seriously lost on Tuesday hunting for my Medieval Philosophy class, but ultimately found it in time to hear the second half of a seriously interesting lecture about Peter Abelard's castration. 19th Century Europe looks likewise positive, especially since it's given in an awesome two-tiered lecture hall and the professor is a Greek sixty-something with a ponytail and fluorescent green shirts. This morning I had my first class on the Holocaust to 1941, which is taught in a gigantic lecture hall by a professor who obviously feeds off the energy of large groups of students and used to do religious history at Notre Dame. It was a strangely anonymous experience, despite the fact I found myself participating more than in all the previous classes I'd had... Lonely too, since there's no real intellectual community there just yet and I'm sort of doubtful it'll ever grow up outside of the tutorial sections.
Much like the classroom experience, Toronto's campus is both inspiring and rather hard to feel connected to. Architecturally it's a fascinating place, with a lot of the standard fake gothic next to the brick-colored Victorian style that Canada uses for most of its federal buildings next to huge glass cubes next to a big chessboard held up by multi-colored pillars. The two centerpieces of the campus make a really fascinating contrast, with Hart House, the student union, trying very hard to be from Oxford, and Robarts Library trying hard to disguise itself as a concrete turkey. (See fig 1.1)
Fig 1.1 Robarts Library
(I was very excited to discover that there is a name for this style of building: Brutalism. Derived from the French word for raw, it doesn't actually refer to the psychological effects these buildings have on people, though it certainly does nothing to run away from them, perhaps best embodied by Morris's own brutalist masterpiece, Gay Hall.)
Alright, that's all I have to say for the moment. Tonight I have my first lecture on Charles Taylor, and I am very, very excited. I may even put on a fancy shirt.
I love me some late antiquity. Here's Augustine, massively out of context, courtesy of Intro to Early Medieveal Philosophy;
Gradually and unconsciously, I was led to the absurd trivialities of believing that a fig weeps when it is picked, and that the fig tree its mother sheds milky tears. Yet if some saint ate it, provided that the sin of picking was done not by his own hand but by another's, then he would digest it in his stomach and as a result would breathe out angels, or rather, as he groaned in prayer and retched he would bring up bits of God. -Confessions, Book III.
Just like last Saturday, I woke up this morning to the sound of booming megaphoned voices coming down the street. Staggering to the window, I peered out to see, again just like last week, large crowds gathered, signs hoisted high and banners waving. A rally, for what I don't know. Last week it was labor day. Today, I imagine it will be about the upcoming elections spurred by the United States continued economic stupidity. It's not that I'm unhappy to be here to see this; so often the foreign impact of the U.S.'s economic decisions is given a paragraph at the end of the coverage of its domestic impact, and duh, these things are important to understand. It's just that I didn't need to get up at 9:30 to hear it. (It's currently shifted over to a soul singer. Bizzarre.)
And now, after months of fantasizing about brilliant things I was going to post on this space about Toronto architecture, Canadian culture, about the meaning of whatever I could lay my deconstructive hands on, I find myself completely stumped as to how to begin, or what to write about, or how to describe the experience of the last 72 hours.
Blast.
I'm currently sitting in the rooftop lounge of the Chestnut Residence, the converted luxury hotel that now serves as Toronto's international and "other" dormitory. Back when the building was a home for tourists, this room housed a restaurant featuring a 360 degree panoramic view of the city, made more dramatic by the slow rotation of the entire floor. Nowdays it serves as the space for makeshift ice-cream socials, like the one going on around me as I write this, and as a study space for students who can put aside the massive incongruity between the space's form and function. (Harder than you might think, as I'm discovering writing this post.)
Looking out from up here, it's hard not to spend a good moment thinking about the kind of hubris necessary to put up skyscrapers. Chestnut is a very tall building in a city of very tall buildings, all with comparably novel tricks. Ahead of me, for example, is the CN Tower, for many years the world's tallest free-standing structure and now yet another world landmark surpassed outside the developed world. There's a beautiful light show that they project on it at night, with alternating bands of red and white running up and down the whole length of the structure and circling the saucerlike viewing platform suspended midway to the top. It was surpassed earlier this year by the Burj Dubai, still under construction in the UAE, and will likely be surpassed again once that buildings exact height is announced. Soon it will be just another new world landmark like those possessed by most major cities; something to remember the city by, a reminder of past efforts and a place by which tourists can validate their experience of a place, but no longer a thing adequate to the purpose for which it was built. A monument to the game which has now forgotten it.
Laying negativity aside though, Toronto has been a fascinating place so far. It's definitely the most multi-ethnic place I've ever been. Just getting off the plane at the airport, I heard no fewer than eight languages being spoken, and saw some representative of most of the major ethnic groups of the city. Toronto International itself is like most international airports, huge and built to give the impression of enormous motion and importance; vast spans of steel thrown up at odd angles, blaring apocalyptic voices, well-dressed business people straying anonymously across the tarmac, etc. It made me incredibly nervous and I was glad to escape. I hoped a bus and a subway to Downtown Toronto, where Chestnut is located, and promptly got myself lost for a good hour, eventually arriving home and checking in.
It's probably too soon to be trying to describe this place in too much detail, since I've only wandered around Downtown and I have the feeling there are large and amazing parts of the city I'm neglecting. Still, the sections I've seen feel like a strange combination of San Francisco and Chicago. Lake Ontario shapes the geography of the city much like the Ocean does for SF, with huge highrises dominating the coastline and buisnesses becoming more prominent the further inland you go. There are not a lot of green spaces, sadly, but the feeling is definitely not cramped. There is room to breathe and people will not run you down if you cross the street to early. Their manners are also very friendly, much like the Midwest, though I did see a tiny man on a tiny bicycle screaming "Go to hell Toronto, you're terrible and I hate all of it!" (I muttered "I love you Toronto" after he was out of hearing range. A little premature maybe, but also completely called for.)
Anyhow, I suppose that'll have to do till my next post. Welcome to all the new readers who have hopefully gotten my email or hopped over from facebook. Keep your fingers crossed I don't die once the schoolyear starts.
I've been rather caught up in navigating the trans-continental bureaucratic morass for the last week, so apologies to any regular readers who may (or may not) be reading this and are expecting regular content. Hopefully I'll have more time/energy/love to spend on this thing once the move is complete.
In the mean time, here is a link to the really fascinating documentary on the history of Twin Cities rock n' roll that they broadcast on MPR last week. I know getting hyped up about contradictory artforms is so last week, but the idea of cobbling together a history of people who in many cases explicitly rejected the very idea of ties to pre-existing history is extremely cool to me; watching the baby-boomer cultural revolution slowly fall from rejection of the cultural status quo to become the status quo itself even cooler.
Speaking of which, here are the Suicide Commandos playing in front of their house as it goes up in flames.
At some point I want to write an essay about how the diffusion of cheap visual technology and the medium of the internet have revived craftsmanship as an artistic ideal. In a perfect world, it would start at a factory somewhere in Asia where the means for the shift are being produced at an industrial scale, and then shift to the West, where artists are using these technologies in ways that acknowledge its mass-produced origins, but create things that are beautiful precisely because someone made them by hand. Of course, I'll probably never have the money to make the requisite trips to Asia, so that part will remain a dream, but it's still a cool idea; there's so many facets to this story that are just waiting to be written on. Is this a move away from the nihilistic technologism that's dominated art since Warhol? Or just a new facet of it? How does it reflect its economic understructure? Etc.
Regardless of whether I ever make it to Asia, whenever I try to write about this, Theo Jansen will figure prominently in it, since his work is so extraordinary and captures so much of what this movement towards craftsmanship is about.
Here's a not great video of him giving a lecture about his creations:
I highly recommend poking around his website... He's got some beautiful photography of his creatures up there that really conveys the majesty of his creations, something that's lost in the TED lecture.
The family is currently repainting most of the doorways in the house, which requires lots of standing around with a face mask with a radial sander. Gripping stuff indeed. Luckily, it's grinding monotone reminded me of this clip from the mini-series Subsonics, which aired in Australia and profiled a whole pile of interesting avant-garde people. Here's one nice lady who got excited about dot matrix printers.
In other news, the section of this blog concerned with my adventures in Canada can now officially begin. The ticket is bought, the fellowship is in place, and I will soon be off to the great north. (Which, incidentally, is at a lower longitude than Minneapolis.) I've really gotten to enjoy the feeling of complete disbelief that comes over me in the weeks before I do something radically new with myself... Particularly when it comes just as I've finally acclimated to my surroundings and thus feel it incomprehensible that things might be different. But they will be, and sooner than I think.
Well, this just about captures the entire post-war cultural dynamic. Is this the beginnings of the culture war, the absorption of Bohemia into the middle class, or just a terrible, terrible mistake?
Many people don't know about the Monks outside of Germany, where they had their big hit. This is a shame, since not only were they rightful precursors of both punk and psychedelic, but they also had truly daring haircuts and the best group-guitar solos I've heard anywhere. (Two things, incidentally, that the Velvet Underground decisively lacked.)
Hat tip to Huck Brock's shirt for reminding me of these guys. (One of the Monks is his great uncle.)
I have an extremely warm spot in my heart for virtuosic playing of obscure instruments. Here's Jake Shimabukuro, almost certainly the only Jimmy Buffet opening act who will ever appear on these pages, destroying the house that Tiny Tim built.
It's been a while since I've written you. There's no excuse really, but then again, can you blame me for not wanting to talk if you're not going to also be writing letters that are poorly disguised reviews of my music, or being in San Fransisco when I'm there with the express intention of breaking your heart, or trying to pawn off my music on your parents? Never have you reciprocated any of my gestures, and its only rarely that you even acknowledge them. Love is a two way street, Jolie, a thing that takes hard work and mutual recognition, two things that our relationship has decisively lacked.
That's why I'm writting to let you know that I've now moved on from our (admittedly lopsided) love affair to something else entirely. I've met someone new: Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lappelles. I went to their album release show two nights ago and now know where my metaphorical affections lie. Which means we, my dear, are finished.
"Why are they a better fit for him?" you may be asking yourself. First off, they are a group of people, whereas you are one person. You may think to yourself, "ah that's silly, you can't be in love with a group of people, that's just no feasible way to get over the emotional and logistical hurdles it requires." But your mistake was to assume I want a relationship: indeed, the genius of being secretly in love with a group of people is that it will be literally impossible to profess my love appropriately outside of an online context, because getting them all together in private would be a public event attended by at least half a dozen people. Love without commitment, Daniel Johnston style. Pure genius on my part. Such a shame it will never be yours again.
Secondly, Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lappelles have discovered a very interesting balance between being a backing band and a large ensemble, something that you, being one person, could never do. Though there is definitely a sense of having a center of attention in Lucy's staggering weird and wonderful vocals, one was never left with a sense that she was the sole center of attention, or of musical interestingness. There were bizzarro cello solos, lovely harmonizations, and seemingly unscheduled sing-alongs from the audience. For several songs Lucy Michelle was not even on stage, being waylaid at an actual piano just offstage. It was wonderful.
Do you know what would happen if you were to leave the stage Jolie? There wouldn't be any music, and people would wonder if you weren't secretly Chan Marhsall. You don't want that. I certainly don't want that.
Thirdly and maybe most importantly, Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lappelles make me want to live when I am at their shows, whereas at your shows I find myself requesting songs like "I Want To Die," and feeling cathartic and more than a little drunk in the aftermath. I could never dance at one of your shows. But did I dance with Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lappelles, in styles I didn't even know I could dance to. It was wonderful; I have never sweated with such ebullience. But somehow I don't think that that, or anything I've expressed here, is something you would understand, since as usual you aren't actually reading this.
Anyway, I hope this doesn't come as to much of a shock to you. Somehow I imagine it won't. Au Revoir, in any case.
Cordially, John
P.S. Here's Lucy with a smaller group of Lappelles from earlier this year.
Radiohead has a new music video out. Since it was shot with lasers rather than cameras, it's kinda neat, and so maybe not surprisingly, the making of video is vastly cooler than the video itself. But the coolest by far is the tool Google has up where you can finally see what Thom Yorke's face looks like from the inside.
You know it's a dark day when Newsweek has become a major source for your music news. But then again, maybe it isn't; by the time an act is getting covered by Newsweek chances are it alread gone through the grinders of snobby hipster opinion and emerged relatively unscathed. Or, alternatively, it's about to be shredded to cries of "sell-out" that will force the informed classes to forget the act entirely, leaving you the last devoted fan on Earth, a position glorious and pathetic in equal measures.
So that said, I was super excited when I read this. It's about the Sparrow Quartet, a group composed of Abigail Washburn, Bela Fleck, and two other unnamed string players, who are travelling around China playing for the respective folk musics of both countries for Chinese audiences. Apparenty they will also be doing the first ever American folk tour of Tibet, which I imagine would be... interesting.
There are many, many angles to a story like this, where music is simultaneously functioning as a tool for cross-cultural understanding and as propaganda for two deeply ambivalent superpowers, each of whom has a very different understanding of what the music is and what it's presence means. Fortunately for me, I'm no longer under threat of academic destruction, and so I can leave those thoughts hanging for later posts. (Of which there are sure to be more.)
In the place of a more full discussion, please accept this extremely strange peice of modal awesomeness. (Yes, I know the vocals are less than ideal. But seriously, where else are you going to hear Bela Fleck pull a whatingodsnameisthat, as he does at 2:30. Obey, mortals.)
Fig 1.1 Gordon Karadzic Responsible for deaths of thousands
And now, a stunning resemblence!
Fig 1.2 Fred Frith Responsible for wierd noises
How better to escape war crimes than disguising yourself as an affable professor of avant-garde music! Brilliant! Major props to the Serbians for cracking the case.
(Actually, the truth is actually just as weird, if not more so. There's some excellent audio commentary over at the Times, for any interested parties.)
In the mid-80s MTV had a show called The Cutting Edge, which starred Peter Zaremba traveling around the country and trying to find interesting things to broadcast, hopefully relating to music. Perhaps not surprisingly, the results were mixed; one of the show's highlights featured Daniel Johnston showing up unannounced at a sponsored barbecue and pushing his new tape, Hi, How Are You to a national audience.
Fig 1.1
More often the show became an theater of the contrived bizzarre, as best exemplified by the following interview with Dexter Romweber of the Flat Duo Jets, who lived in a dilapitated shack full of the collected cultural debris of the past hundred years.
Fig 1.2
I stumbled across this a few days ago, and I still can't decide if its ultimately a good thing or not. It's one of those cases where you have someone who's clearly not mentally alright pretending to be not mentally alright, with the entertainment value deriving from the tension between the two and the fact that anyone could live that way, regardless of whether its an act or not. Uncomfortable. (Though I suppose the same applies to Johnston's appearance as well, which I feel weirdly okay with. Hmm.)
Written yesterday: After an afternoon of laboring over French conjugations, H and myself drifted over the Kitty Kat Klub, where we arrived just in time to have The Daredevil Christopher Wright explode whatever preconceptions about male vocal chords we may have had:
It was quite a good show, though as is often the case when you get more than two high-voiced men in a confined space, they couldn't entirely escape the danger of castrati-chipmunkism. But no matter; the staggeringly hirsute leading men more than compensated for whatever loses they may have sustained in the masculinity department.
P.S. In the future I will omit more unneccessary words, I swear by God.
I figure I may as well review last night's excellent concert by Roma di Luna at the Mill City Ruins. Suffice it to say, they are very good and put on a very solid show despite being forced indoors due to threatening weather that never materialized. There was a secret part of me that was very happy about this; as much as I love outdoor music, the acoustics in the museum's courtyard are, uh, less than ideal and the interior, though unseasonably warm, is much much better suited to big, awesome Americana harmonizing. Which we got in droves, particularly towards the end of the show, when they busted out the driving "Bury me Beneath the Killing Fields," a song which, despite its totally death metal title owes more to the gospel-country tradition of "Down by the Riverside" or the better tracks off Will the Circle be Unbroken.
Here's a less than ideal video of said song that I wouldn't be posting if the band hadn't endorsed it by sticking it on their myspace. It does get better than its beginning would suggest:
For anyone who may be a regular reader of this monstrousity, my dear friend K is launching a new music blog of her own, The Curves of the Needle,, which will likely be vastly more interesting than this one has been recently. Go look at it. You'll feel better.
Dear anyone who may be a regular reader of this blog,
I apologize for the last two week's absence. In penance, I offer you this amazing video with music by the Tin Hat Trio. It's a bit slow at the beginning, but it's well worth your while.
Sincerely, John
Monday, June 30, 2008
This next piece comes from OOIOO, a side project of the Boredoms, one of Japan's more established noise rock bands. I am genuinely glad that I have no idea what the lyrics to this song are, nor what they might mean beyond that.
Stumbled across this a couple of weeks ago... Brought back memories of the glory days for sure for sure. I've been a gigantic fan of Califone since junior year of high school, and I can only barely convey how happy it makes me that they like to hang out in bathrooms too.
Plus the harmonies are really lovely, which is something this band has always done amazingly well.
I recognize that this next bit may be old hat for most of this blog's readers at this point, but I just stumbled across it and it made me very happy.
For me, this brings back all my fond memories of working in the library and waiting 20 minutes while the free dot matrix printers made their melodic screaming sounds into the text of whichever thesis I was working on at the time. Oh school. Oh obsolescence.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Meredith Monk was recently at the Walker Art Center, and by all accounts gave an awesome performance. I totally missed this fact and now kick myself daily for failing to go see it.
Luckily for me, someone has kindly posted excerpts from her movie, Book of Days, on youtube and boy are they weird. (Sniff.)
I swore I wouldn't complain about politics in this thing, and by God I abided by it for a month... But this morning's paper has me riled up, and my throat has gone all sick so I can't complain at the parents about it, which leaves only you, dear semi-anonymous reader, as an outlet for my barely articulated grumblings.
Alright, two things: 1. David Brooks definitely definitely knows better than to write this. Definitely.
In fact, when it comes to Iraq, Bush was at his worst when he was humbly deferring to the generals and at his best when he was arrogantly overruling them. During that period in 2006 and 2007, Bush stiffed the brass and sided with a band of dissidents: military officers like David Petraeus and Raymond Odierno, senators like John McCain and Lindsey Graham, and outside strategists like Fred Kagan of the American Enterprise Institute and Jack Keane, a retired general.
No. No. No. Do not, under any circumstances, encourage this administration's belief in the power of Bush's gut instincts. It's what convinced him Putin could be trusted, that Maliki was the right man to lead Iraq, and that going into Iraq in the first place was a good idea. If we were to total up the number of foreign policy blunders of the last eight years, at least half of them would be found to originate in Bush's gut, while those positive things that have happened are primarily the work of (a) luck or (b) Bush relenting on some policy his gut had told him to follow at some earlier date. Just doing whatever feel right is not how you do international politics; it's a startlingly effective way to fail on the grand stage. (Or in Chess, as Tzvi demonstrated to me yesterday)
Which is why I'm stunned to see Brooks claiming the apparent success of the surge as a triumph of the President's intuitions. Because that's the ONE thing it definitely wasn't. In fact, its probably the clearest example of the second category of Bush successes; the surge has leveled off violence precisely because it was such a radical change from the Rumsfeldian "take, hold, abandon" approach that Bush followed doggedly through the first three years of the war. Maybe Brooks is right about Bush defying his generals on this one, but that certainly doesn't mean that he's best while behaving like the failed businessman he is.
2. Nienstadt is forcing St. Joan of Arc to give up the gays. The bastard.
So Echo City is this improvisational new music group that's bummed around the globe for the last 20 years, building awesome sound installations and inspiring unemployed do-nothings like myself to get off their bums and start making neato widget devices.
There's a legend that Salvador Dali once went to see an art film made entirely from stock footage, became terribly enraged during the course of the film, and spat on the face of the director during the credits. Not because it was bad, mind you; Dali liked the film, but he was angry at it's creator for having the idea before him. I now know how he felt.
Strictly speaking, this is neither music (in any normal sense) nor Canada. However, it does contain things I understand, which makes it suitable content. Or something. Maybe.
I swear this is the last thing I will write about people influenced by Bartok, and then I will get back to talking about things I understand (for example).
Gyorgy Ligeti is a phenomenal composer, and as I discovered looking at his wikipedia page, he also was a big fan of Douglas Hofstadter, author of Godel, Escher, Bach: The Eternal Golden Braid. In that book, Hofstadter showed that between areas as wide ranging as music, artificial intelligence, computer science, mathematical logic, the works of Lewis Caroll, and the drawings of M.C. Escher, we could find strange loops of self reference and repetition that have profound implications for all of the concerned systems. It's an awesome book that belongs somewhere in everyone's pile, and the fact that it found a home in Legeti's library makes this make so much more sense:
Two of the best shows I saw last year were given by Charlie Parr, one of the upper midwest's better bluesman and recent honeree of the Star Trib's best albums of the year award. Never have I seen so many drunken hipsters singing about jesus as if they believed; never have I seen myself drunkenly clapping as I clapped that night. The crowd would have destroyed the Turf Club had he told us to, straight up.
So yeah. Charlie Parr is amazing. More amazing still is this hand shot video that makes the lighting look better than it probably was. (I was not at this show, which looks to have half of the TC's bluegrass scene on stage. Tear.)
Well, as long as we're on the subject of pizzicato-laden music of ambiguously European origin, why not include this lovely clip of Sally Potter dancing somewhat stiffly with Pablo Veron in The Tango Lesson? The background music is Osvaldo Pugliese's La Yumba, which allegedly derived its name from the sound of air being sucked in the bandeon, the devilishly difficult squeeze box that provides the melodic backbone for most tango ensembles.
This was the background music for most of the period when I was writing my honors thesis... Listening to it now brings back only the positive memories, thankfully, rather than inducing the Pavlovian panic attack it probably should.
A few years ago, I went to go hear George Crumb (of Black Angels fame) speak at the McPhail Institue in Minneapolis, and he talked for a full ten minutes about how Bartok had influenced him in most of his early work, and how he was finally coming around to it again. I was reminded of that today I stumbled across this gem earlier while surfing in my pajamas:
Compare and contrast comrades! (If you don't feel like listening to a convincing musical rendition of human violence, skip to about 1:33, where the influence becomes a bit more obvious.)
I remember listening to this man's music on an airplane while flying cross-country at age five. I didn't know until five minutes ago that he also has a big career in Japan. Like, huge.
David Byrne is doing the things I wish I had. Again. Jerk. Read:
The organ’s innards had been replaced with relays and wires and light blue air hoses. And when the key was pressed, a 110-volt motor strapped to a girder high up in the room’s ceiling began to vibrate, essentially playing the girder and producing a deafening low hum — like one of the tuba tones played by the mother ship in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” Or, if you were less charitably inclined, like a truck on Canal Street with a loose muffler. Mr. Byrne ran his fingers up the keyboard, causing more hums and whines, moans and plunks and clinks until he came to a key that seemed to do nothing.
In all fairness, he's actually not the first person to do this. There's a long tradition of people making the spaces of industrialization into theaters of the avant-garde. Luigi Russolo, an Italian futurist of the worst kind, was all but demanding it as early as 1913:
We therefore invite young musicians of talent to conduct a sustained observation of all noises, in order to understand the various rhythms of which they are composed, their principal and secondary tones. By comparing the various tones of noises with those of sounds, they will be convinced of the extent to which the former exceed the latter. This will afford not only an understanding, but also a taste and passion for noises. After being conquered by Futurist eyes our multiplied sensibilities will at last hear with Futurist ears. In this way the motors and machines of our industrial cities will one day be consciously attuned, so that every factory will be transformed into an intoxicating orchestra of noises.
Speaking of unpleasant intoxicating orchestras of noise, here's Harry Parch making Jam.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Second post on the new blog. Already feeling overwhelmed. *deep breathing*
Here's something I stumbled across late last night. It looks to be Sam Amidon playing Sons of Levi with Nico Muhly (of New Yorker profile fame) providing chord organ accompaniment.
If you're not immediately enchanted, wait until about 1:38, when it suddenly gets amazing and stays that way for the next 40 or so seconds.
It may look easy, but its not, as I discovered in the shower this morning.
Hello all. This blog is intended to accomplish two things.
Thing #1: Document my adventures in Canada.
I will be studying at the University of Toronto this coming fall and I would like to document that experience for anyone who cares to know what I'm up to. I will do my best to avoid posting anything that will dampen your day, destroy my future career prospects, or ruin your marriage. Hopefully I'll have something insightful to say about Canada more than once or twice, but I wouldn't count on it.
Thing #2: Point out videos of good music on Youtube.
Other blogs exist to do this, and assuredly do it better than I can or will, so why add to the clutter? There really isn't a good reason, but lest we forget, the internet was settled by people whose sole mission in life was to fill cyberspace with trite, often narcissistic user-generated content. I am merely following in their footsteps the way I know best, i.e. redundantly.
Occasionally I may complain about religion, politics or philosophy as well, but I'll try to keep that to a minimum. Baby steps, my friends, baby steps.
I attended University of Toronto last fall, and this blog was supposed to be a record of my adventures. Alas, reality sucks, and my posting as irregular as the pre-ExLax era. So now I'm not sure what to do with it. Maybe I'll just keep filling it with things. Delicious delicious things.
