I loved many of the Jackson 5 tunes — Get It Together was an LP I listened to nonstop along with Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall record. Quincy Jones’s production on the latter LP was impeccably precise — it is as shiny a pop product as an aspiring superstar could wish for while still containing funky African-inspired grooves and textures. Significantly, though, the records that followed had fewer of these elements, but sold more copies. I didn’t like Thriller or Bad — they seemed to me like pure pandering to the mass (white) pop audience. But the coda of “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” on Off The Wall is pure intersecting overlapping lilting Africa. (Later Michael would “quote” the great Manu Dibango song “Soul Makossa” and “forget” to give credit.) That same song’s reference to The Force was a corny “Hey I’ve got a great idea for a pop novelty song! Let’s reference Star Wars!” kind of idea that a 13-year-old boy might have — but the groove and Michael’s singing transcended much of that silliness.
At that point Jackson was still a young black man — he had yet to transform into the androgynous eccentric that he would become. He claimed his skin bleaching was the result of disease, but most of us who know about the lightening creams that sadly abound in black neighborhoods and throughout the Third World suspected differently.
The shock, to me, was that a young black man who was conquering the world of white pop (and video! He was the ONLY black man on MTV!) was simultaneously ashamed or very mixed up about his blackness. What kind of example does it set for black adolescents watching Michael get whiter and whiter every year? How’s a Brother supposed to get further with this shit going on?
The night that news of Mr. Jackson’s death came, Ingrid Deabreu, 49, a patient care and dialysis technician from Guyana who lives in Brooklyn, stayed up watching a marathon of his videos with her 7-year-old daughter Kimberly. When the video of Mr. Jackson’s “Black and White” came on, her daughter turned to Ms. Deabreu and asked: “Mommy, he said it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white. So why’s he trying to make his skin white?”
A life in the pill bottle tied Michael to Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and too many more. The surreal chemical universe these stars create for themselves is hard for me to fathom — when I have some success (at least recently), I’m very happy about it. Of course, my success is nowhere near what theirs was — I can live a normal life and buy toilet paper and OJ at the corner deli. In a way it seems a retreat to origins, to the womb of poor beginnings in Gary, Indiana or Tupelo, Mississippi — where, in a kind of weird link between distant galaxies, poor folks also pop painkillers like OxyContin if and when they can.
We arrived here from the Denver area, where we played Red Rocks Amphitheatre the night before. DeVotchKa, who are a local band, opened for us and got an enthusiastic response. The setting is legendary, amazing — and the audience was immense and on their feet, even in the chilly Rocky Mountain Foothills evening.
[Photo: Tony Orlando]
After a brief shower in the morning I stayed on the bus, but soon the weather cleared and Steven and I were met by Jane, a friend of my friend Ford, who was happy to give us a super brief tour. We went to the Gilgal Sculpture Garden, where during the 40s Thomas Battersby Child, Jr. carved and erected some curious sculptures in his backyard that reference both Mormonism and Masonic imagery. Jane said when she was young it was just a run-down, weird place and she’d come here to get high. There was even a moment when it was going to be torn down, but some locals formed an organization to save it. Here is Joseph Smith’s (the Mormon visionary) head on a reduced size Sphinx.
Around the corner was a man with pants made of bricks — a tribute to man the builder, and the secret Masonic knowledge that enables man to create homes and temples. The Mormon Church of the Latter-day Saints (LDS) eventually disavowed Gilgal and his works, as they wanted to distance themselves from the more “magical” aspects of Masonry.
Much of the garden refers to the Book of Daniel, specifically Daniel’s interpretations of the dreams of Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian ruler who conquered Jerusalem and later went crazy.
We then visited the relatively new LDS Conference Center in Temple Square. The assembly hall inside is massive, like something out of a science fiction movie, and, as in Star Wars, there are instant simultaneous translations in dozens of languages when the LDS faithful from around the world congregate here. There are no columns blocking the views of the podium as a massive steel girder holds the ceiling up — which gives the effect that the roof is magically floating.
Outside there are other visitors blinking in the summer sun, and a few in fundamentalist LDS garb — ladies in long skirts or modest (some would say frumpy) dresses… not quite the more extreme pseudo-prairie attire, but getting there.
The Tabernacle across the way, where the famous choir performs and rehearses, now seems underwhelming compared to this new conference center, but its visitor center next door has dioramas and Bible paintings and a wonderful stairway to the stars.
Steven asks Jane and I what exactly Mormonism is, and I say it is a religion that has added additional chapters to the Bible — chapters in which Jesus visited the New World. Jane elaborated a little — this happened, according to the visions Joseph Smith had while reading the golden tablets he reportedly dug up in upstate New York, during the three days after Jesus “died,” and before he was resurrected. Jesus visited the New World and the Indian tribes that lived here. Smith’s version of New World pre-Columbian history is, again, like a science fiction novel — complex, dramatic and convoluted. I recommend a book I read as research when I was scoring a season of the HBO show Big Love — Under the Banner of Heaven, by Jon Krakauer (Into Thin Air and Into The Wild). In the book, which is definitely not loved by the Mormon faithful, a murder amongst the polygamist faction of the LDS (which the official church disavows) is used by Krakauer to thread together bits of Mormon history and belief. In order to “interpret” the golden tablets that he found and that no one ever saw, Joseph Smith put “peeping stones” in a hat, then put his face in the hat and magically the words of the extra chapters of the Bible came to him.
A winding ramp leads up to the stars where a giant white Jesus gazes out towards the tabernacle.
Very cool. I asked Jane about the drinking laws in Salt Lake City and in Utah, as I’d remembered when we played here many years ago we had to smuggle some beers into our dressing rooms. I also seem to remember half the audience being on uppers, as religious laws regarding those somehow slipped though the net.
Until recently you could get only get a drink if you were a member of a “social club.” Visitors to the area could instantly become members for a fee. Things have loosened up a bit recently.
I was told one could get a drink in a restaurant, but the sight of alcohol being poured was deemed to be dangerous and offensive, so pouring and preparation went on behind a glass partition referred to (by some) as the Zion Curtain. This year the Zion Curtain came down.
Polygamy was practiced by Smith and others, but due to pressure from the rest of the country it was eventually outlawed from LDS practice. Fundamentalist LDS faithful still practice it. There are houses in downtown Salt Lake City that have special basements where the “sisterwives” can be hidden when the man comes around. I suspect that polygamy was actually a common practice in the Middle East 2000 years ago, so it might not be made up like much of the rest of Mormonism — though it sure must have met some of Joseph Smith’s “needs” at the time.
Some of us might roll our eyes at the science fiction religions of Mormonism and Scientology — their preposterous myths and stories and references to cosmic apocalyptic events. Mormons believe that when all have had a chance to hear the word of God the apocalypse will commence… hence the rush to conversion. L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology, wrote that 75 million years ago, the head of the Galactic Federation, made up of 76 planets, was a being named Xenu. Faced with an overpopulation problem, he brought beings to this planet, blew them up with hydrogen bombs, and packaged them. Their spirits now infest our bodies. [from Scientology Lies]
We scoff at religions clearly “made up” by men just like ourselves within the last couple of centuries. Peeping stones? Xenu? But what makes the more established religions any less preposterous? Weren’t they also mostly “made up” by men like ourselves? Yes, some have been augmented by other men — additional rules and imagery added over the millennia — but isn’t it just time that gives them more credence or respect? If we’re going to roll our eyes at only the new religions then we are, in my opinion, being very unfair.
Salt Lake City had a progressive mayor, Rocky Anderson, until recently — now he is President of High Road for Human Rights. He instituted green programs, mass transit improvements, bike friendly policies, supported gay marriage and more. When Bush visited Salt Lake City Anderson helped organize a protest! Although we might think of Utah as a red state and a bastion of religious-based conservatism, Salt Lake City went blue.
Woke up on the bus and looked out the lounge window onto a parking lot with a few cars evenly spread out, like birds on a wire. Despite the heat I went for a bike ride later with C. There were almost no people on the streets — at a major downtown intersection I counted two. We rode past towering banks and oil company headquarters, offices and empty plazas, with no one about except for the poor and little clumps of smokers, huddled in the shadow of massive corporate towers.
This was the home of Enron, and other now-defunct entities have skyscrapers here as well. Some of the names and logos have been swapped out, but not all. We pass a residential neighborhood with lovely oak trees shading the street, and then, without any major landmark to let us know we’ve crossed a line, we’re in the ghetto, with shotgun shacks and old black men sitting on stoops in the withering heat. Boarded up houses, and vacant lots with cars on blocks.
From here one can see “downtown” a few blocks away.
“Downtown” is in quotes because Houston has hub cities further out that are almost as big.
A block or so past the run-down shacks — this is Houston where there is NO zoning — is the new Federal Reserve Bank. It’s a weird, almost surreal post-modern edifice.
The mind turns to Alan Greenspan, former head of the Fed, who helped via deregulation to get us into the mess we’re in today — the whole Goddamn world is fucked, Alan! This very out of place structure somehow lingers, like a fart left by someone no longer in an elevator. Alan was recently quoted as saying “I made a mistake.”
A few blocks further away is a bayou — a stagnant body of water in the shape of a river, with a bike/jogging path running alongside it. In this heat (100 ºF) the path is all but unusable, though we pass a few joggers who are possibly more insane than us. Looming over a grassy knoll is Houston’s AIG headquarters. If I were them I’d come up with a new name or logo ASAP.
The town is crisscrossed by massive elevated freeways, and as a result the sprawl here is immense. Though there is a center to the town, there are also myriad mini-cities — or, more properly, clusters of towers, splattered here and there, linked by the freeways. I imagine that if oil companies could control more cities they’d all look like this.
We’re playing at Jones Hall, a lovely symphony hall named after Jesse Jones, an entrepreneur and philanthropist who at one time was head of the US Department of Commerce and a large bank, owned the newspaper and was a major developer— all at the same time! You could say Jesse had this town locked up and could basically do whatever he wanted — for better and for worse.
Right after the turn of the century Jones owned almost 100 buildings in Houston, and he then
began to concentrate on real estate and banking. In 1908 he bought part of the Houston Chronicle. Between 1908 and 1918 he organized and became chairman of the Texas Trust Company and was active in most of the banking and real estate activities of the city. By 1912 he was president of the National Bank of Commerce (later Texas Commerce Bank, and by 2008, part of JPMorgan Chase & Co.). During this period he made one of his few ventures into oil as an original stockholder in Humble Oil and Refining Company (now Exxon).
President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed Jones chairman of the Reconstruction Finance Corporation — an entity created to help banks and businesses survive the Depression. He held that position from 1933 until 1939, and as a result, became one of the most powerful men in America. He helped prevent the nationwide failure of farms, banks, railroads, and many other businesses. [Link]
Some folks referred to Jones as "the fourth branch of government.” [Source]
As the first chairman of the Houston Harbor Board he raised money for the Houston Ship Channel’s completion. A shallow waterway was dredged, and the city became a viable port… and he built this concert hall, as oligarchs do, to both enhance his reputation and “improve” the cultural life of Houston — and as a byproduct, provide a place where the upper crust could mingle. In a backstage hallway leading to the symphony players’ locker rooms are some 8x10 glossies of retired classical musicians. A happy bunch of misfits and one photo of a stern-looking Eastern European conductor.
The stage sound is possibly the best of any hall we’ve played in. Extremely dry (not echoey) for a symphony hall… so we can hear ourselves and each other clearly.
After the show we have drinks at the oldest bar in town, La Carafe, and a man tells Steven that there are now a series of bike lanes here that enable people living in neighborhoods within the freeway ring road zone to commute to work. Hard to believe anyone would ride regularly in the Texas summer heat… but in the mornings (around 7:30) it is actually quite cool… so I guess if one gets an early start it might be OK.
Walked along the just opened, not quite finished High Line elevated park last night after taking my daughter and her pals to a birthday dinner. It's extraordinary... postmodern zen... the feeling of strolling on an elevated walkway is pretty special. Romantic but industrial. Slick but free.
Here are some black metal (and related genres) album covers.
I think they're beautiful. They've gone beyond the cartoon horror of traditional metal graphics, and have arrived at something sublime, something almost peaceful in their apocalyptic moodiness. I've heard only some of these bands, so I can't claim to be knowledgeable about all of the music these covers represent — but my imagination can fill in some of the blanks.
We’re three shows into this NA leg. By last night’s show in Montclair, NJ we felt like we had clawed our way back to the level of performance we reached at the end of the previous legs. We were fine at the first two shows, but some of us, not just me, had to think now and then about what we were doing — which didn’t really affect the show, but was a little bit of a reminder that there’s a lot going on.
Jon Pollak, our LD for this whole tour, has left for I don’t know where. We’ll miss him — his lighting was wonderful — but our new LD, David A, will be up to speed soon.
On the night bus ride from Canandaigua, NY (near Rochester) to Montclair the crew bus broke down — a radiator pipe problem, I was told. In the middle of the night (5 AM?) the band and dancer buses circled back around and picked up the survivors. Crew members groggily piled on and slept the rest of the night in the empty bunks and on lounge sofas as we continued on to NJ.
Amazingly, I slept though the whole thing, as did Mauro, Paul and some others. I woke up in a parking lot in Fairfield, NJ to find Victor (guitar tech) and Bruce (FOH mixer) sitting in our bus lounge, surrounded by luggage, drinking coffee.
The abandoned bus was repaired, and showed up in Montclair mid-afternoon with Arlene, the driver, behind the wheel.
Mauro and I decided to bike from the hotel in Fairfield to the Edison house and lab, a National Historic site in nearby West Orange (about 9 miles away). Rolling hills along the route, through Verona and some other hamlets, made for a bit more of a workout than we anticipated. We passed by pleasant wooded suburbs and some pretty big houses. No bike paths (no surprise there) and not even sidewalks in some areas. If you don’t have a car in NJ you really are a second-class citizen. When we got there — a gatehouse to a private community marked the entrance — we were told that it was open only on weekends, and the lab was under renovation. My fault for not double-checking opening hours.
I’d read in a new book about recorded sound (Perfecting Sound Forever: An Aural History of Recorded Music by Greg Milner) that Edison arranged demonstrations of his “perfected” wax cylinder recorders at various theaters around the continent. He’d have a known singer sing along with their own recorded voice, and then at some point the singer would stop and the recording took over. Testimonials claimed that the audience gasped and couldn’t tell the difference between the live singer and the recording (like “Is it real or is it Memorex?” for those who remember those cassette tape ads).
This seems a little far-fetched, though it’s true that we do hear what we want to hear to a large extent, and the amount of hype Edison was capable of generating was considerable — and hype can affect what we see and hear. There was indeed some information that surfaced alleging that Edison had “trained” the singers to imitate the quality and sound of the recordings — slightly pinched and not very loud — to make the gag work. This seems likely, as any decent singer could sing far louder than the volume of those old machines.
Although this may make Edison out to be a bit of a three-card Monte showman (as, like that game, the demonstration was rigged), it also shows what a talent he had for marketing and promoting his inventions. Coming up with an amazing idea and even patenting it was only half the battle… at least as far as getting it out there goes.
The rigged demonstration also gives an early hint at how performance is influenced by technology. Technology feigns neutrality — to simply record and capture (photography, audio, digitizing) — but not only does each technology skew the copy in some direction, the copy soon becomes the gold standard against which performance is measured. Even if the copy is not 100% faithful, in a weird backwards turn it becomes the “real” thing. While this seems almost comic — early singers imitating wax recordings or photographers imitating Impressionist paintings — with multi-track and now digital recording the worlds of recorded (and manipulated) sound and live performance drift ever further apart.
Our show in NJ went great — the crowd was up on their feet for a good part of the evening.
I’ve been in contact with some of the Extra Action Marching Band crew about doing more songs together when we reconnect in Portland, Seattle and Berkeley. Emails have been exchanged about brass arrangements and stage attire.
