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Did my “Record Companies — Who needs them?” slide talk as part of the music conference here. Got periodic laughs, which is a good sign…I think the pacing is improving, but I still don’t have an ending.
One of the questions from the audience afterwards made me realize that essentially it’s an optimistic presentation, despite delivering the (obvious) news that CDs will be gone in a few years and record stores will be gone well before that. The good news is that there are more and varied options for artists (and music business folks) in terms of distribution and marketing models. There is a whole spectrum of possibilities now, many more than when I was coming up. They range from the record company entity sharing in every aspect of the artist’s life — the T-shirts, the concerts and the music (this is the kind of deal Robbie Williams made) to the DIY scenario in which the artist or their manager or business rep essentially does everything (or contracts everything) themselves. Aimee Mann and Ani DiFranco are well known for succeeding in this way of doing things.
I point out other obvious factors that affect the viability of these various models — that recording costs have shrunken, and that as on-line sales rise, distribution and manufacturing costs approach zero. Both of these costs traditionally necessitated funds that record companies provided for artists, but now that dependency is going away at least.
I am slightly surprised that some of this is news, but maybe I’m able to view it from a slight distance…or a time perspective.
Mauro had asked where his group Forro In The Dark should play down here so I arranged with Liz that they play the San Jose patio for an unscheduled late-night mostly acoustic set. It goes smoothly and is loads of fun. I sing a few songs — some from their CD and some from my own CD Uh-Oh that we’d previously done Forro-style. The hotel kept a lid on the crowd so it’s relaxed — and we’re not too loud and I think everyone had a good time. I got Joe Boyd in, who was down here talking about his White Bicycles book due out soon. Some of the crowd was dancing and what was photographer Bruce Weber doing here? [His Let’s Get Lost film was screening.] Went across the street to the Continental and caught the tail end of John Doe’s set and Jerry H. and Carol were hanging out, too. The streets are filled with music — coming out of doorways, from parking lots and vacant lots. Everywhere young hopefuls are walking to and fro, networking or performing. That’s an awful lot of guitars, a lot of young men and women pouring out their souls and a lot of gimmie caps.
The series of Carnegie Hall dates in the first week of February are ready for their post-mortem. I didn’t read the press, the various reviews, except for one piece on Here Lies Love in Time magazine that was sent to me and cheered me as it was by a Philippine writer.
The series sold out — so I was told — even the last one, opposite the Super Bowel on Sunday, so the sales alone made Carnegie Hall happy. I was happy about that too, but maybe moreso that artistically it all seemed to work. People heard things they’d never heard before, in a place they seldom if ever visited. Some of the events will be unlikely to happen again, which was exciting, too. Carnegie has mentioned the possibility of doing something in ‘08, so we’ll see what they have in mind. Apparently there were sound issues on the Here Lies Love night — the usual Carnegie problem with drums or anything of volume. We had worked hard all afternoon and had planned well in advance to beat these problems to a bloody pulp, but some remnant apparently stayed alive, especially for those in the “good” seats.
The other nights had no such problems. In the Dreamland night the artists rose to the occasion, creating an evening with no set changes and with a constantly morphing lineup reflective of a community, and with low volume that could still be heard in the furthest reaches of the hall. It was pretty magical, and it would be logical for some commercial promoter to take a lineup like that on a world tour. [Link to review]
The Knee Plays music-only revival went off well — I added a vocal to "I Bid You Good Night", inspired by others who had done the song previously — Joseph Spence, The Incredible String Band and The Grateful Dead. [Link to reviews]
The last night, One Note, was maybe the most hodgepodge: disparate acts held together by a musical concept — the root or drone note — that many times only musicians are aware of. But in the end the smörgåsbord concept worked — and the sound in Zankel was perfect. [Link to Review]
…
Saw Arcade Fire at Judson Church where they played for a few nights — they were introducing new material. They got slammed for sound issues in the press as I did recently, so at least it wasn’t just me who was getting the sonic criticism. Up in the VIP balcony the sound did indeed suck, so I wormed my way to within a few yards of the stage, in front of one of the PA speakers, and it was wonderful. The new songs are grand, personal, apocalyptic and totally heartfelt. Just to see and hear a band that is so obviously playing from the heart and not making career moves was incredibly moving — but of course the songs and arrangements are good, too. Yes, I could hear little bits of Talking Heads in their earlier material and shows — which was flattering — but now I think most of their influences are pretty invisible. They’ve become what they are.
Sat in at Joe’s with Mauro’s band, Forró In The Dark, last night. It was a show to celebrate the release of their record [see Voice review] so all the guest artists who appeared on the CD were on stage — Bebel Gilberto, Miho Hatori and myself. Forró (pronounced: foe ho) is a style of Brazilian regional music, linked to the harsh life of the sertao — the plains of the northeast. It sounds a little like Zydeco, the style from Louisiana that is also accordion-driven and wildly danceable. In Mauro’s group the accordion is replaced by flute and sometimes pifano (a wooden flute).
On Mauro’s record I sang 2 songs, one of them a translation of a Brazilian standard, “Asa Branca”. (See Gonzaga and Humberto Teixeira entry back in Sept.) Denise, Humberto’s daughter, is shepherding a film crew who are shooting a doc on Teixeira — and Mauro’s gig is part of that story — so there were 16mm cameras everywhere. The film is being directed by the director of Baile Perfumado, a film that took place in the Northeast (of Brasil) and featured the late great Chico Science and his band Nação Zumbi. Bebel sang a famous forró song — in English — a version previously recorded by Peggy Lee (!). The words had been changed completely in the English version (and I hear there are some publishing “issues” as well.) It sounded lovely — so she sang it again! Miho did a famous forró song that had been translated and recorded in Japan after WWII — again the lyrics were changed considerably — the Portuguese lyrics say something like “Paraiba women will kick your ass!” while the Japanese version is about a lonely farmer.
Photo by Vladimir Radojicic
I sang “Asa Branca” and “I Wish” — the latter song emerged out of a jam. I was warming up with some chord changes and Mauro suggested during the recording session that we all improvise around those chords. The result was surprisingly good — but, maybe because I can, I suggested that with just a few words added, with a vocal, the song might be more focused. The lyrics and vocal turned it into a vaguely Country outpouring of pain, anger and loss — which maybe made explicit the link between forró and north American country music.
After putting Malu and her friend in a taxi I joined some friends for drinks — while Mauro and Co. regrouped for a late set at Nublu, where they got their start.
Participated in a benefit concert (“Revenge of the Book Eaters”) last Wednesday for the “826” young writers mentoring projects that the McSweeney’s gang have established in a number of cites. Volunteers help kids with their writing on a one-on-one basis and publish collections of the results now and then.
The concert was larger than the 826 benefit I did two years ago in Brooklyn — this recent one sold out the Beacon. Well, this one featured Jon Stewart, Sufjan Stevens, Sarah Vowell, Dave Eggers, John Hodgeman and myself, so it promised an entertaining evening — the typical eclectic McSweeney’s event, but with more well-known names.
Benefits are funny things. Often the public pays exaggerated ticket price to see “watered down” versions of the musical acts — most times I myself play a few songs on acoustic guitar, as do many of the others. Now, watered down it maybe be, but sometimes the “unplugged” version is more moving and emotionally involving that the more fully arranged version — well, sometimes. When that happens it’s not a bait and switch deal.
For this show I decided that since Sarah Vowell liked my version of Webb Pierce’s “There Stands The Glass” that I did in Brooklyn I would take that as a hint and do an all country set. My rhythm section consisted of Mauro, Paul and Graham augmented by Jon G. on pedal steel, fresh off a recording session with Ryan Adams.
I asked Sufjan via e-mail if he wanted to do “Saginaw Michigan”, the song made famous by Lefty Frizzell, with me. (I thought many would think he wrote it for his Michigan-themed CD. I wonder if anyone fell for it?) He agreed and I sent him an MP3, chords and lyrics. My bunch also did the country-ish tune that I sang on Mauro’s upcoming Forro in the Dark CD. So, a lot of new stuff.
Anyway, the evening went well — it was scary doing so many new (to me) tunes, but I think it came off O.K. Jon Stewart did an American History skit with his producer as foil, and Eggers explained the 826 project and showed slides of the wonderful work of a young writer-collagist. Sufjan softly sang some of his catchiest tunes, and won over the crowd, many of whom may not have been familiar with him.
826NYC is also home to the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company — a sort of art installation/store.
Upcoming 826 benefits will be in LA, San Francisco, Seattle, Ann Arbor and Chicago. There will be different lineups for each show. (Tonight is LA.)
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Language and ideology
The torturer aims to dehumanize his victim, and becomes dehumanized in the process.
Recent doublespeak:
War in Iraq used to refer to the U.S. invasion of Iraq.
Unlawful combatants — a meaningless phrase intended to allow trial without due process, which turns back the legal clock in a developed country by at least 100 years.
Rendition has been substituted for kidnapping.
Freedom has been substituted for economic exploitation and corruption.
Globalization has been substituted for corporate rule.
Last night was the second performance — much better technically than the first, but without the nervous edge, which is strangely sometimes a nice thing. For the audience it must be like watching a high wire act and wondering if the performer will slip and fall; it’s usually less than perfect, but there’s a riveting voyeuristic appeal. For the performer there is an added adrenalin rush generated by the terror and fear of trying to get through it alive.
Photo © Helge Thelen
Last night I sensed that the orchestra, having witnessed our reception the previous night, was in a more generous and accepting mood, and their playing and smiles showed it. The band — Greg, Kenny, Charlie — were less glued to their charts, and they played more as though they knew where the songs were going, which they did.
“Empire”, the ironic national anthem, was well received, as was “Here Lies Love” and “Un Di Felice”. We threw in a couple of old favorites like “Road To Nowhere” (without the orchestra) and “Psycho Killer” (with) and Joe Henry joined on a country tune and Allen Toussaint’s “Soul Sister”.
Now Kenny and I are at Düsseldorf airport, having just gone through two security checks — the second more thorough one for passengers headed to the U.S.
More about songs
At last night’s farewell dinner either Thomas or Greg, again musing on the roots of popular song, suggested that it was the Russian Jews who immigrated West, in successive waves, carrying with them metaphorical “suitcases of songs” — an approach which had a huge impact on the development of popular song in the West. These songs did not consist of sheet music or scores, but musical seeds, in their heads, that would mutate and sprout in the West, evolving into the composed song pre-rock and roll, country and R&B. (Interesting that the huge infusion of African elements into song also came from structures and elements carried in the heads of slave/immigrants.) Elements of folksong (already appropriated by Russian composers) were combined with compositional technique, and there you go, the 20th century popular song. When asked why this form took root in America, Dimitri Tomkin was quoted as saying, “the taiga is the taiga” — meaning the steppes of Russia and the American Great Plains fostered similar sensibilities.
Went to visit the UNESCO world heritage industrial ruin in Essen. It’s not really a ruin, as it only closed a decade ago, but it does have the feeling of an abandoned city, from a sci-fi movie maybe, or City Of Lost Children. From the web: “The Zollverein mine-cokery combo started in 1847, creating the largest coal mine in the world.” The goal was steel, and the region is dotted with coalmines and foundries. Here they connected an incredibly large mine in one area with a cokery via an elevated tube that moved the coal, in train type cars, hundreds of meters through the air to the cokery — a wall of vertical ovens that would cook the coal and covert it to coke, which burns hotter, and is needed for making steel. The cokery is a factory, but looks more like a bizarre machine that puny humans attend and feed. It’s as long a two football fields, and the heat (these are ovens, after all) and the coal dust must have been unbelievable. (The venue we’re playing in Bochum was a former gas works, supplying gas to these various factory-machines.) The architects, Fritz Schupp and Martin Kremmer, inspired by the Bauhaus style, designed the buildings. Zollverein XII remained in operation until 1986. I remember seeing it right after it closed — I was scouting locations for a film interpretation of The Forest, the piece I did with Bob Wilson. The Gilgamesh character in that story had been updated to an industrialist like Krupp, whose steel factory was nearby.
It’s a massive site — the size of central park, almost — and has been turned into a combination park, memorial to industry and cultural center. The cultural center part is aided by the legendary German arts budget, but even so it still moves incrementally. Only one of the giant gasworks buildings has been converted into performance spaces, for example. Next to it sits a turbine hall — 2 turbines still squatting there in the semi darkness.
The Essen site sprawls across grassy paths linked by pipes and elevated conveyers. One building houses Russian artist Kabakov’s “Palace Of Projects”, a kind of imaginary world’s fair pavilion as if made by a group of high school science students — crude, handmade and full of preposterous utopian and visionary proposals. It’s like a magical Calvino book come to life. 
Another building will soon house the Essen art museum, which has outgrown its current site. There are plenty more empty shells available after that.
Buildings like these, but on a much smaller scale, have been converted in the U.S. — the Mattress Factory in Pittsburg, MASS MoCA in North Adams, Mass., and the DIA Nabisco factory in Beacon. But nothing approaches this scale or sheer amount of metal. This region is doing a wholesale changeover from industrialkulture to the culture industry.
The next day Thomas takes me to another Essen industrial site — this one the blast furnace complex. We view a semi-outdoor venue that is often used for the Century of Song dates and an indoor black box theater above a turbine room that can be reconfigured according to the needs of the show. A possible venue for Here Lies Love? 
The blast furnace here, and its small hole, about half a meter across, at its base, is the ultimate focal point, the goal of this whole industrial valley — the coal mines, the cokeries, the gas works, the trains, the barges and ports are all about making the molten steel pour out this relatively small hole at the end of the process. Hard to conceive so much manpower, effort, creativity, sweat and resources with their vanishing point, their glorious final product, the glowing red steel that spews out the mouth (or ass?) of this giant furnace. All the elements brought together — by pipe, road, train and sea — all to make this substance that would be used to make other machines. Trains, rails, cars (eventually), cannons, ships, tanks, bridges, dynamos, girders, tools, guns. The steel makes machines that allow for the production of more steel.
There is one bridge over the Rhine from which one can see the smokestacks and cooling towers dotting the landscape in an amazing 360º panorama. Most of these factories are inactive, but a few are still puffing away. I was told that during its heyday the Ruhr valley was like Pittsburg, where the skies were so darkened by the amount of smoke that one had to turn on lamps in the daytime.
Someone else said to me, “it was here that the two world wars were ‘made’.” It’s puzzling then that the factory buildings are still standing — Berlin and Dresden were reduced to smoking hulks while so many of these factories and steelworks, so essential to the German war effort, survived. Did the Allies think they would do a Halliburton and take them over for themselves, and therefore they spared them the bombing? Or maybe they realized that without industry a defeated Germany would have no possibility of reconstruction — they would be shattered refugees — desperate, pathetic, ready for anything that would restore some dignity.
Before/after photos of bombing in Essen (Link):
And more about the bombing of the factory (Link): Q. During WWII, what made Essen, Germany, a primary target for combined US/British bomber forces?
A. Founded by Alfred Krupp and greatly extended by his son Friedrich the Krupp iron and steel works at Essen became one of the most powerful industrial combines in the world and the largest manufacturer of arms in WWI. In the mid-1930s the factory was the centre of German rearmament. Bombing had destroyed 70 per cent of the works by 1945 and the Allies confiscated the remainder but the courts restored the works to the Krupp family in 1951. See The Encyclopedia of World War Two edited by Thomas Parrish.
Thomas W. tells us that the Chinese wanted to buy this entire site when it closed — their own coalfields are not entirely depleted — not just yet — so they can actually reanimate this creature. As this Essen colliery/cokery was the last one in the area to close the local government hesitated approving the sale, and decided instead that their glorious industrial past should be remembered, memorialized rather than obliterated and forgotten, so they declined that particular offer. They call them industruialkulture monuments. Cathedrals of Industry. Other nearby sites had been sold in entirety to the Chinese — in Dortmund a similar site was completely dismantled and shipped to China. Hundreds of workers were shipped in, housed in tents on site, meals and facilities provided, as they took the beasts apart. How did they do it? We gaze at the tangle of pipes around us, the huge metal machines that dwarf human scale. How could anyone keep track of the parts? Where would you begin? The scale is like ants taking a car apart and then reassembling it — and hoping it works. 
Last night was our first performance — 3 encores, so I guess we did all right. I was pretty nervous — if you get off the rails with the orchestra they don’t accommodate, they keep right on playing what they’ve got in front of them… so you have to kind of surf their wave, and if you’re successful the connection feels natural and the intensity of my singing, for example, will anticipate what they’re going to do. If it works it doesn’t sound like anyone is following or being led; it sounds like you and the orchestra are emotionally linked. Luckily for me many of the songs have some kind of groove, so I can focus one ear on Kenny’s percussion or hi-hat and hope the orchestra and Anthony the conductor do the same. Watching and paying attention to Anthony’s baton is fun and exciting, but conductors tend to give the rhythm almost a full beat ahead to an orchestra — sort of a “this is where we’re going not where we’re at” — so looking for a downbeat from the baton is hopeless — but the tempo and the crescendos and diminuendos are all there.
The orchestral Philly soul version of "Here Lies Love" went over well, as did "Un Di Felice", which was a surprise, as I thought I’d get giggles from the classical crowd on that one.
I’m over here for a part of the RuhrTriennale called A Century Of Song. The Ruhr valley was the former Germen rust belt, and in recent decades became Germany’s poorest, most depressed area — so a fair amount of money was poured in for revitalization, including arts budgets. Former factories were converted into venues and industrial ruin parks. Bassist and arranger Greg Cohen has been curating a performance series and I was invited to join him and his friends as well as the Duisburg Symphony for two shows. To prepare we have almost a week of rehearsal.
We had dinner last night and Greg talked about the roots of popular song structures. Most standards are AABA form, and many jazz pieces, being adaptations of the chord changes of standards, follow that pattern. (A lot of rock and roll and R&B is ABABCB — B being the chorus, A being the verses and C the middle 8 or bridge.)
But these structures are not static; they evolve and change over time. Greg said that ragtime — Scott Joplin, etc. — used much more complex structures. He said their pieces were like potpourri cut-and-paste tunes, medleys that had a number of sections not only in different keys but even in different rhythms. (One might say that contemporary pop songs vary the rhythms on the choruses in order to raise the level of intensity in those parts — build and release.)
This variety pak song structure emerged out of practical necessity — to cater to a dancing audience. This was originally music to dance to, and the audiences were acquainted with a variety of dances, often European in origin. If a song, or even part of a song, allowed you to show what steps you knew and to dance and meet a partner then those particular rhythms were what was demanded. So the dancehall venue, and the dancers within it, shaped this music and its structures.
The influence and development of venues went further. Some of the performers in St. Louis and New Orleans began to improvise. I imagine if a certain song section and its attendant dance came into favor and became extra popular, then the audience would naturally prefer that the section go on longer. So if a smart performer had exhausted that section as written, as it naturally occurred in the song, then he or she could make the part continue longer by improvising some new sections in that same style. The dancers were “creating” the music as much as the musicians and composers were, in a way.
Popular acts got booked on the riverboats that went from St. Louis to New Orleans. These were pleasure boats, not freighters or mere transportation. In order to be heard above the noise of the paddle wheels, and probably above that of the audience, the bands had to find a way to be louder. Mandolins or tenor banjos replaced fiddles, basses were added, cellos were originally there, but were often replaced by alto banjos — and in addition the guitars and everything else hit the grooves harder. The venue had changed the music once again.
I wrote about this for CBGB and OMFUG: Thirty Years from the Home of Underground Rock — here’s an excerpt:
In my opinion it is the venue that makes the music scene happen just as much as the creativity of the musicians. There is continually and forever a pool of talent, energy, and expression waiting to be tapped—it simply needs the right place in which to express itself. […]
The space in which music is to be heard can determine what kind of music the artists create. The physical shape, acoustics, floor plan, and layout of a venue can contribute to the sound. For example, The Kitchen, which was an art-music-performance-loft in SoHo, was austere, reverberant, and echoey. The resultant music, from Phil Glass to Rys Chatham, was pretty spacey and trancelike. Jazz clubs tend to be extremely intimate. The music that results is one of details and an intricate, narrow focus of expression. Arena rock is written to be performed in an arena—it sounds and looks ridiculous in an intimate club. Symphony halls work best for classical music written during a particular era, opera halls…you get the idea. It might seem dispiriting to believe that the brick and mortar determines what form of music a creative soul pours out, but I think there is an element of truth here. Songs and performances are, one hopes, absolutely heartfelt, passionate, and true — but we both consciously and unconsciously guide our feelings, passions, and ineffable creative urges to make that which is appropriate work in the given situation.
The same process of the venue changing the music also happened in country music, especially honky-tonk. When this music began to be played in bars, to drunks and dancers alike, it needed to be loud and forceful — and the writing and instrumentation evolved to fulfill that need. Electric guitars replaced acoustic ones, drum kits were added, and rhythms got emphasized.
So how is this process happening now? In arena rock, for example, the songs are intuitively written that will song good booming out to a sea of fists in a sports arena. Some of us have seen bands used to playing arenas doing their “intimate” club dates — and often they can’t adjust. They retain their stadium gestures and grandiose musical stylings and it all just seems completely over the top and out of place.
Is music being written and recorded expressly to cater to the iPod wearer? Is music being written for an audience of one? Private music, intimate, personal — full of details and space?
Is hip hop made to sound the way it does so that it sounds good on a giant booming car audio system?
And what of the dance music of today? DJs play for dancers — their back and forth relationships and interplay with their dancing tranced out audience might be similar to that of the early jazz musicians. They can sense what the audience wants next, and they search through their box of vinyl in hopes of providing it by the next segue. Their sets, therefore, are shaped as much by their audience tastes and desires as by their own. The art is a balancing act between merely giving people what they want and surprising them with what they didn’t even know they wanted because they haven’t heard it yet.
Usually the process is a little slower than it is with DJs — most acts can’t come up with a whole new direction for their set determined by how an audience is reacting. But the next show’s set, the next day, might reflect the experience — more intimate tunes if it’s a small venue, rousing favorites if it’s a big space. And eventually, when it’s time to write more songs, they’ll be written with the past performance experiences in mind — well, for those of us who actually perform — and a kind of evolution will occur.
We’re all exhausted — the band more than I, as they stayed on at the club last night to greet friends and well-wishers. Bariloche is a 2 hour flight south — it is a ski town so the shops are all filled with ski outfits, souvenirs and chocolates (German/Swiss influence up here…one of the famous Nazis was hiding out in this region…as were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid and their molls.)
It’s drizzling; we grab a bite to eat as the next world cup game plays on a massive TV. I get ½ hour sleep before the band begins a short one-hour set (8PM — early this time) …me joining at the end, as before. We suspect the crowd here will be less familiar with all of our stuff, both theirs and mine, which is true — they are mostly locals — but the reaction is good. A few mention that they never expected to see me live in their lifetime, so they are fairly thrilled.
I remember all the words this time.
Immediately after we finish a fireworks display commences — to celebrate the end of the snow festival. The PA pumps out music that someone has attempted to synch with the fireworks. Pink Floyd, Björk, some very grand Beethoven-type classical music. It sort of works — kind of like the dancing waters in Las Vegas but with fireworks.
We walk to a local club to get some dinner and maybe catch a BA singer who will be doing a show later (her show starts at 1 it seems, so we pass on staying for it.) 2 giant video screens play live concert videos of U.S. and UK acts over and over. The Eagles, Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, Sting, Phil Collins. Not a single Spanish language act. Diego comments that this music is sort of folkloric…global folkloric? Hearing these tunes here — songs I would never listen to at home — I reluctantly realize that some of the songs are powerfully catchy — or just plain bombastic in some cases. I do feel sort of bad witnessing what I thought was a thing of the past. The steamrollering of local music by international acts. (I know, I am one.) Argentina was one of the first Latin countries to have a wave of Rock Nacional — homegrown rock acts that sometimes, O.K., imitated Northern models, but just as often they added local elements that proposed that the local audience might not merely be satisfied being consumers of Northern corporate rock. The hegemony of international corporate acts was being countered.
Another generation of bands and artists followed the originals; these new ones were often (though not always) even more independent-minded, culturally localized and original (in my opinion). La Portuaria might be considered a member of this second wave. I felt that where once I would enter a club in Rio and never hear a samba or in Bogotá and never hear cumbia or vallantao, well I thought those days were over. They’re not over up here in ski country. Maybe ski village soundtrack music is the same everywhere.
The following morning we drive to La Angostura, a small town in a huge national park — the 2nd one created in the New World after Yellowstone. Eventually the sun came out. Here is a view from our cabin where we all stayed.
Looks like a postcard. The green low area on the opposite shore is a smaller park within the park. Los Arrayanes — a peninsula that is home to a grove of peculiar trees — this is where we will go hiking tomorrow. They are a species of myrtle and this is the largest stand in the world.
Early afternoon. Rehearsal with La Portuaria at the Trastiendo club in the San Telmo district. They are well prepared. As well as a couple of their own songs we practice a couple of Talking Heads songs and, at the end of the rehearsal, there arrives a small (6 person) choir to sing the choir parts of "Road To Nowhere". It sounds incredible — I usually cut that part of the song if I perform it, as it is impossible to do without a bunch of singers — so this is a treat.
We finish rehearsal just as the Mexican and Argentine players enter the field for the World Cup match that will decide which of them continues to the final rounds. The entire city has stopped for the game. All the club and band technicians gather round the TV. The national hymns are sung and the players take the field. Diego drives me to my hotel — he’s not a big football fanatic — the streets are almost deserted. All shops and restaurants are closed except a few where televisions can be seen with clumps of people huddled in front. All worshipping at The Church of Football.
We stop at a sandwich shop for a late lunch. It is manned entirely by women, which might explain why it remains open — though there is a tiny TV sitting on the bar, which competes with the techno music. Diego mentions that he was in high school during the dictatorship. The world cup was here then — in ‘78 — and he says that some claim it was used as a screen for many to go missing and become disappeared. The government supported the event massively and used it as a clever way to disappear people when few were paying attention.
Most people were then, and even now remain, in partial denial, many claiming they saw or knew nothing — although many sensed that this was happening. As a high school student Diego went to visit some friends one day and no one answered the door. The house was vacant and remained so — later his father said maybe they were taken. There was a general feeling of paranoia — and for a high school kid the fear manifested in stuff that a typical school kid of that time might worry about — that if your hair was too long or if you got caught with a joint you might be picked up. Only the repercussions of being picked up were ominous. Everyone was careful, political talk was hushed. Gunshots could be heard on the streets at night — the military or police (often the same thing) doing business.
I myself remember paranoia in elementary school. It was the Cuban missile crisis and the level of fear must have been intense. I remember walking home from school in suburban Baltimore (I would have been in 5th grade maybe — 10 years old?) It might have been about a mile to my home through mostly old suburban neighborhoods of lawns and trees. I remember I could imagine the dark winged bombers coming overheard (Cuban bombers? Russians?) …and as I walked I planned my route to shelter, block by block. On this block I could make it to Dean’s house — it was just over there — then, a little further, my friend Ricky’s house would be a better bet. The way home had to be calculated, planned, measured.
Changing neighborhoods
Palermo, where we are having a sandwich now, used to be a quiet neighborhood with lots of pocket parks — which are still here. It got gentrified in the last few years and now it’s filled with clothing boutiques, chic eateries and bars. Diego recently moved out of his apartment across the plaza from this sandwich shop. The house is for sale. He asks what changes NY is going through — commenting that it now seems so clean. Same process — the artists and new arrivals seek apartments further out as the rising rents drive them out, away from the center. I comment that the resulting lack of concentration and mixing of people is ultimately detrimental to creation. Creation of all kinds. With young creative types now spread out over NJ, Bronx, Williamsburg, Red Hook and elsewhere it’s harder for a scene to gain traction…the city will end up like Hong Kong or Singapore — a vast gleaming business and shopping center.
We walk to my hotel — a few blocks. The streets are empty (football is still going on.) The rain has stopped. Diego asks about hip-hop. I reply that the beats and music are often incredibly innovative and sophisticated, but for the most part the lyrics are gangster crowing and put-downs of bitches. He brings up Baile Funk — the fairly recent Brazilian evolution of 808 beats, techno, hip-hop, and funk (though it’s more like being pummeled in a violently disorienting fairground ride than getting funky, in my opinion) — we agree it’s incredibly innovative and ridiculously extreme. Diego says the lyrics in the Brazilian case are violent and rough, but unlike hip-hop the words are usually from a victim’s POV.
Argentina just scored a goal — it's 2-1 Argentina — shouts go up from the hotel bar.
Now Argentina plays control-the-ball, beautifully, I hear.
15 minutes later — Argentina has won — the crowds in the club tonight are sure to be in good spirits.
They are. It’s a typically late show in Buenos Aires (12:30 start…maybe later.) I joined the band at the end of the set and the crowd was caught unawares. I flubbed some lyrics in the excitement, but the vibe was good. Got back to my hotel around 3AM and fell out, as we fly to Bariloche in the lake district of Patagonia tomorrow for the closing show of the festival de nieve.
I’ve been reading an Argentine guidebook alternating with Lolita. Nabakov’s hilarious descriptions of his darling Dolores Haze (what a perfect name), her mother and anyone who enters his view are perfect. The way he catches how one obsessed fixates on skin, the back of a neck, a goofy posture — “polyp-like lips” was part of a description of a neighbor of “Big Haze and Little Haze”.
Even his descriptions of the object of his obsession and desire are less than flattering — gum chewing, silly, and slightly awkward — but they still convey the perverse rose-colored view of one in love — love of a very special sort.
One of the funniest books I’ve ever read.
Joined the video shoot with La Portuaria all day yesterday at a bar called Rodney across from the massive Chacarita cemetery. I played a bartender/owner in a strange sparkly vest. A man named Dani directed — very focused, and he kept everything more or less on schedule.
The band is easy and relaxed and when we “sang” some choruses together in synch with the playback it all felt very natural.
Adi Azicri: guitarra y coros
Colo Belmonte: batería
Diego Frenkel: guitarra y voz
Pablo Giménez: bajo
Sebastián Schachtel: teclados
Diego’s wife appeared in the afternoon with their new baby. She was in the original company of De La Guarda when that group came to NYC, which was why when I saw their show there I was targeted to be lifted up — by “the hairy butt man”, as Malu described him. She was terrified that a half-naked flying stranger would abduct her papa (she was young at the time.)
Funny, I always saw that show — Villa Villa — as a political allegory. A celebration of release, freedom, anarchy after years of dictatorship — a roar of freedom, yet still acknowledging the painful and creepy past. I might have been imagining all that, projecting my own ideas about Argentine culture and memory onto a freewheeling piece of physical theater — but maybe?
This reminds me of the human chain that brings me here. Bernardo Palumbo, an Argentine folksinger, was teaching me Spanish in the early 90s. He introduced me to the music of Susana Baca, Silvio Rodriguez and others. Amelia Lafferriere, a friend of his here in BA, had worked with Silvio, as well as with Leon Gieco, a folk rock singer here — who was also friends with Mercedes Sosa. I did one of his songs on my first tour here (and one of hers too I think) and later in NY he invited me to join him on a concert he did with Pete Seeger. (The connections are mind-boggling.)
Years ago a La Portuaria song, amongst many others, was slated to be on a Luaka Bop Latin Rock compilation that never happened, mainly for legal clearance reasons — but news of it got around, which served as another introduction. Juana Molina, who opened for me on many dates of my last U.S. tour, is friendly with many of these same people. The tango group El Arranque was introduced to me on my last our here — mainly through Glover Gil, the Austin leader of the Tosca group that my strings belong to. The chain just goes on and on. One often wonders how what seems like fate or pre-determined meetings or collaborations happen — how does one end up in Patagonia with an Argentine band? This is how it happens — a human chain.
The interviews we did between set-ups all remarked on the time years ago when Diego was visiting NY and he stopped by Luaka Bop and I suggested we catch Los Autenticos Decedantes, an Argentine band, later that night. I was going to lend them an accordion, so I was going anyway. They were playing at a Latin ballroom, so their gig didn’t show up on the usual NY rock listings.
Los Autenticos Decedantes were viewed by locals here as a kind of theatrical comedy band — which they were at the beginning. Musically, they weren’t taken seriously, though soon enough they learned to play, stay in tune and write amazingly catchy tunes in a variety of rootsy and popular genres — if you include disco anthems as roots music — and I do, since disco pop is heard in bars alongside rancheras and cumbias everywhere. The media here thought it was poignant that I would be inviting Diego to see an Argentine band that he wasn’t aware was in town. Diego admitted that seeing them outside of Argentina was like seeing them for the first time.
While they were shooting their bits of the video or setting up takes I took walks in the cemetery across the street to memorize their song lyrics. Here is the grave of Gardel, the famous tango artist who died in a plane crash. The tomb is covered in plaques commemorating his influential work and inspiring (for some) example.
This, even more than Recoleta cemetery (where Evita is buried) is a city of the dead — long avenues of “buidings” in varied architectural styles — art deco, classic Greco Roman, gothic, modern — block after block, an entire metropolis for the dead, built on a slightly reduced scale from the real city outside the high walls that surround the cemetery. A few men sweep and clean dead flowers, a few people wander aimlessly and a few bring flowers.
The citizens of the city are upstanding
Tired of living
and some will be devoured by buzzards.
I’m down here at the invitation of the band La Portuaria. We did a song together some months ago and I guess it was well received (they won the Argentine equivalent of a Grammy) so they invited me to hang out for a week, be in their video and join them on stage at their show this week. I like the band and this town and I was free, so it was an irresistible invitation. Today I went for a bike ride to the Parque Ecological, quite a ways from the hotel, which is here in the Palermo district. I rode there to shake off the jet lag and as an attempt to say hello to the band as they were beginning their video shoot. Cell phone problems — we didn’t meet — but I had a nice long ride through the park, which has paths through wetlands that border one side of the city. It seems the park is also a place for secluded meetings, as there signs advising that the park is not a place for “encuentros” …meaning sex, I guess.
The hotel in Palermo is named after the book Bobos In Paradise, a humorous view of the gentrification of bohemian culture, which is confusing as this area and the hotel are prime examples of that kind of gentrification. As if the Tribeca Grand poked fun at the fact that it’s located in a formerly arty neighborhood. This hotel is located on Guatemala, between Jorge Luis Borges and Thames — the names alone say a lot about the cultural makeup of this town. A mixture of Latin America and Europe — a mixture that produced a writer and culture that are completely unique.
…
[October 2004 Buenos Aires tour posts: 10.12.04, 10.13.04, 10.15.04, 10.21.04]
Went for another surfing bout yesterday. Last time was about a year ago in Perth. Mauro was the organizer, naturally. He's the most avid surfer. We had to drive south, to the bottom of the peninsula, about an hour away, where the actual sea was. Lovely beach, if a bit windy, and I could get up on the board as far as my knees and steer with them — and be hands free!
Saw llamas, parrots, kangaroos and some ibis as we drove back north.
Stopped at McLaren Vale winery area for an early dinner on the way back and fell out when I got back to the hotel.
More Aussie cuisine: • Hundreds and thousands — (also known as freckles) — Tiny candy sprinkles.
• Spiders — ice cream in a soda.
• Capsicum — red or yellow peppers (not the hot ones.)
Here are some local election posters — Keep those bastards honest, Kate!:
Nice piece in 3 Quarks Daily on Trapped In The Closet. I’m jealous. It’s a lovely musing that begins with observations of this surprising pop phenomena and segues into thoughts about how our brains organize our thoughts and how we tell stories — with some words I’ve never heard before. “…if it's true that it all comes down to syntax, then you could also say that human thought can be divided into two basic categories, paratactic and hypotactic. They are the two most elemental ways of putting thought together.”
Ganda cooked over 100 dumplings for everyone last night in her room after the show. Dana’s mom dropped off cupcakes that spelled “Here Lies Love”.
I went by the museum and took some pictures of their lovely dioramas — but was stopped for using a tripod. But I managed to get a few off before I had to put it away.
Tonight is the last show…until when?
Giant animals that used to live in Australia:
In Pleistocene times, giant "megafauna" inhabited Australia. These animals mysteriously disappeared in Australia about 15,000 years ago, including: • The great rhinoceros-like Diprotodon, the giant kangaroo standing 3 metres (10 feet) high
• A giant marsupial wombat
• Megalania, a goanna 6 metres (12 feet) long
• Quinkana, a land crocodile 3 metres long
• Wonambi, a python 7 metres long
• The flightless birds, Genyornis (giant emu) and Dromornis, which matched the great Moa in size
Here they are seen in a kind of Antipodean garden of paradise.
Aboriginal stories which have been recorded throughout Australia indicate clearly that the animals were a part of the environment of early man on this continent, remembered with both fear and awe for generations.
The oral tradition goes back that far…15, 000 years! It makes written history seem — well, not worth the papyrus it’s written on.
Tonight’s show was the last one here. It was probably the best played one we’ve done. Really beginning to lock and rock on many tunes. Kind of sad to be putting the performances on hiatus for a while, but we’ll see. Got lots to think about — how the narrative can be transmitted without my talking bits — which are fun but kill the momentum, etc. etc.
Had a pot luck late lunch in Graham’s room…almost everyone brought food or cooked food in the hotel kitchenettes and we had loads of leftovers that we ate after the show.
2 shows in one day! (yesterday) Real Broadway style.
Mums and grans at the matinee show — and some performers from other festival shows. So the 1st show was like a long sound check run-through for the 2nd show — which was the best so far. My patter is taking shape and the band is hitting a stride and comfort level that is exciting. I actually almost cried during “1081”, which is what Dana said she felt when she first saw the video footage. More and more audience members are dancing and I saw some smiles and hands in the air. I think some of the subtext is starting to filter through — the sense of politics as an enactment of both good and bad psychological fantasies…that’s simplifying a bit, but it’s beginning to emerge.
Second show was last night. It was the official premier (so there may be reviews somewhere.) We played a lot better — a lot better — sometimes I could even abandon myself to pure enjoyment instead of thinking about what chord, lyric or bit of stage business was coming next.
Cutting the 2 songs in the middle worked fine, but cutting my commentary as much as I did didn’t help — so some of that is going back in tonight. The lights playing over the audience (the standing section anyway) on key numbers worked fine, though I heard that this crowd was a bit talky…I was unaware, maybe my ear monitors kept it out. It was Friday night and maybe this somewhat younger bunch was hoping for an evening at the club and maybe an opportunity to hook up. Heard that some members of the audience we’re E’d up.
At the riverside bar later a man told me he really expected it to more like a rave. And someone else overheard someone say “I’m going to see Fatboy Slim tonight!”
The show has not been sold like that — as if Norm was going to be spinning — but simply seeing his name attached as a collaborator is probably enough to generate some wishful thinking.
Various phone text and other reviews coming in. All very positive, which is a relief. Many say that audience members feel like they are witnessing the beginning of something.
Met with Brett (festival director) and Marianne this morning and we have decided to cut two numbers from the middle of the show tonight. It was running 2 hours and 15 minutes and, well, yes maybe it feels just a tiny bit long to be standing all that time. One of the Imelda/Dana tunes and one of mine will be cut, so that’s fair, and it won’t really hurt the story at all — in fact it might make it tighter. We’ll see. Will also trim some of my spoken intros to songs — which, although informative and amusing, can kill the momentum a bit.
Went to Central Market — the justifiably famous food market in the center of town here. Stocked up on groceries.
The very first performance of HLL. It was billed as a preview, so no press allowed yet. It went pretty well, from my point of view — seemed like a full house, some folks dancing in the audience; we played well (after only the 2nd full run through!) and the arc of the story was, I think, apparent. As a band member I felt elated and relieved — we got through it with no big hitches and there was a fair amount of groove and feeling being thrown off the stage — and I’m sure the video elements helped a lot, too. Whew whew. A helluva lot to accomplish. Brett, the festival director, said it was courageous, which was a lovely compliment. It will improve in leaps and bounds, I suspect, now that we’ve got the first one under our belts. The band, many of whom must be fairly jet-lagged, did incredibly well — no obvious tiredness or grumpiness.
Onward and upward.
One of my favorite pieces in the Whitney Biennial:
Long tech rehearsal today. Band is amazing, as most of them have just gotten off the 20+ hour flight — they check in to the hotel and then are rushed over here to the venue. They all work hard and no one complains about being tired, not once.
It’s like doing a first gig ever — so many new songs and so much to remember — lyrics, marks, lighting, guitar chords and settings — I’m scared and overwhelmed. Kind of nice, though, thrilling even, being less than sure and confident about it all. Jumping in the deep end without too much of a safety net. But scary as hell.
Aussie cuisine:
Pie Floater — a meat pie “floating” in sea of mushy pea soup, with a squirt of tomato sauce on top. To be eaten when drunk.
Flavored milks. Saw a large strawberry milk at the venue lunch counter. Milk here comes in a variety of flavors, such as apple, banana, caramel, chocolate, cookies 'n cream, lime, malt, mango, papaya, strawberry, tropical fruits and vanilla, with a few more exotic flavors available.
 NZ features many more flavors — spearmint and…peanut butter flavored milk!
Woolworth’s in Whangarei (NZ) decided they could get around some selling restrictions by also selling "Milk Flavoured Milk". Milk flavored milk!
South Australia has the highest consumption of flavoured milk per person, where Farmers Union Iced Coffee outsells Coca-Cola.
I remember from a previous visit the shockingly unusual crisp (potato chip) flavors. Ham and mustard. Big red and meat pie. Feta and herb, Thai chili.
To be fair, almost every restaurant meal I’ve had here has been extraordinarily delicious. It would be nice to think that the cooking is simply all top notch, which in many cases it is, but I think other things might be involved. I’m going to suggest that due to the relative sparseness of the population here, and the fertility and abundance of the local fields and seas, there is an unusual availability of fresh produce, meats and seafood. I suggest that it is this freshness of all of these that makes the foods so much better — and that we, especially in NYC, are just not used to super fresh foods. The taste is definitely better.
I had some calamari that were lovely and an octopus over greens that was much much better than the mangy little tentacles served up in top restaurants in NY. This was like a steak but with big suckers on the side!
The band’s flight from NYC was cancelled. Graham texted me as did Ganda. No reason is given or replacement plane offered. They have managed to catch the same flight the next day. They will therefore have no day to recover from jet lag, and will be ushered into rehearsal almost immediately upon arrival.
Marianne’s flight from NZ was cancelled, too.
Rode my bike to the beach by following a bike path along the Torrens River that runs through Adelaide. I was told it’s a 10km trip following this winding route, which took about 45 minutes each way. It’s shorter if one takes the road, but this is more peaceful. The path winds through eucalyptus groves (gum trees they are called here) and there are magpies and pelicans hanging out.
The trees eventually begin to disappear and the river empties into the sea. This was a Sunday, it was hot, but there were only 6 people on this part of the beach.
A bit further north in the town of Charles Sturt there were cafes and restaurants overlooking the beach. I had a beer, some calamari and assorted dips, then headed back to practice guitar and went to the venue for yet another tech check (the Australians are careful, so I’m told.)
The sold-out PowerPoint talk goes well. Some of the slides (Hamlet as a PowerPoint-style slide turning the famous monologue into a list of pros and cons — to be, or not to be — etc.) get big laughs, no credit to me — I just found them online. The talk has a little arc to it now — it starts off with some jokes, then gets serious for a bit, then winds up with the PowerPoint sent to me from the space station, which is also amusing. It’s becoming an example of my proposal that presentations are a form of theater.
Some of the crew has arrived in town today and in spite of their jet lag they’re up for the festival’s party in a hotel walking distance from this venue. An attractive woman with bangs that cover the top half of her face delivers some “gossip rap” about celebs and their diet problems — accompanied by slides of Oprah and Brittney. I discover a bucket of oysters on a table (a bucket!) and not having had dinner I park myself there and suck down a few.
Reading The Selfish Gene, the Richard Dawkins book about how things that often appear to have a “purpose” in fact are merely arriving at an evolutionarily stable strategy. It’s a relatively early classic in this field and he has added loads of footnotes apologizing for mistakes in the first edition and his past overprosyletizing.
Some amusing bits:
• The Virgin Mary was never a virgin in the original Hebrew version — she was simply a young woman. It was the much later (mis)translation by Matthew into Greek that changed the word and hence “improved” the story. In English it would be sort of as if young woman became maiden, which someone then assumed meant virgin. I would suspect that this change in a word made the myth, the legend, more amazing, cosmic and profound. The story got embellished in retelling, as stories do. Hollywood would say it have been given a “polish”.
• Not only does the female mantis often eat her husband after he’s mated with her, she sometimes bites his head off ahead of time. It seems he performs better without a head. Ladies, take note. Talk about thinking with your dick!
Dawkins now is hosting a TV series in the UK that “proves” most religions are bunk. You’d never see a show like that in the U.S.
A cluster of Aborigines sits on the grass in a tiny city park. A few meters away the traffic roars through the main street of Adelaide and pedestrians pass by. The little clump of people are like living ghosts, a reminder of the deep history of this land that is now currently occupied by people of European descent. These people are, if not the land’s custodians, at least its children, birthed and formed by this land — they embody it, they do not manipulate it. (Maybe this is a romantic view.) The fact that they have chosen to congregate in a little patch of lawn, right in the middle of town, visible but ignored, is somehow portentous, meaningful. It’s a sign, a reminder, and a living billboard that says that all the buildings and hustle and bustle surrounding them and us who pass by is superficial. That there is a deep and slow biological and geological history that this new colonial world seeks to cover over and obliterate from memory.
But it never will be obliterated completely.
Australia is full of unpleasant reminders.
Poisonous snakes, frogs, spiky plants, poisonous spiders, rip currents. They’re always there to remind you, to assure you that you’re just a guest.
Did a tech check at the PowerPoint talk venue, Elder Hall.
Participated in a benefit for New Orleans organized by The New Yorker at Town Hall last night. I decided to resurrect the brass band I worked with on The Knee Plays with Robert Wilson 20 years ago. Although this local band, Les Misérables, are not really a New Orleans brass band, the music I wrote was at least partly inspired by The Dirty Dozen, an amazing NO band that I’d seen many times at a NO joint called the Glass House. The stuff I wrote was, no surprise, a little stiffer and more herky-jerky than the traditional NO stuff — but with some funky parts snuck in. My usual benefit mode is familiar songs of mine, unplugged, but this time I wanted to try something different, so I tracked down these guys and they agreed to participate. Thank you all. Here we are backstage (minus drummer Curtis Hasselbring who was packing up.) Thanks Jeanne for the pic. And thanks Toni Morrison for the use of the dressing room.
Here we are onstage (thanks to Tony Orlando for the photo):
[Click here for a Knee Plays review]
As it was a New Yorker sponsored event there were lots of writers represented. Greg Mosher was brought in as director, so there was nice pacing — writers interspersed with musical acts, no one allowed more than 5 minutes.
High points for me were the PowerPoint slides of New Orleans (parades, funerals, bands in clubs, the quarter,) Kevin Klein doing Randy Newman’s song “Louisiana” about the ’27 flood, Phillip Seymour Hoffman reading the first few pages of “Confederacy of Dunces”, Elvis Costello singing a new song, Audra McDonald singing a song I didn’t know, Calvin Trillin telling his own beautiful New Orleans stories with a message, and Patricia Clarkson reading some Tennessee Williams letters. Some of the musical acts like Queen Ida and Little Queenie were great, but maybe due to Town Hall’s acoustics their too-short single song sets never had the chance or sound to achieve true liftoff. Maybe music in this venue tends to stay “contained” due to the space and its acoustics — it’s a space which works in favor of more intimate performances.
We had one rehearsal at my place earlier in the day and after a couple of hours the piece sounded pretty damn good. It balances a fine line between funk and stiff mechanical rigidity, and we pretty much got that. The text, a series of contradictory predictions about the future, now seems to be about the present.
At the afterparty a man introduced himself as a fan — he looked like Harvey Keitel with a skinhead haircut, and that’s who I thought it was. Turns out it was the NYC Police Commissioner. If only I had parking tickets! If only I had a car!
New “radio” stream went up yesterday. This time it’s all Italian stuff, a change form the eclectic pop mix I’ve stuck with so far. For starters, none of the Italian stuff is in English, so I may lose some listeners, at least in the U.S. But maybe not. There was a review in the NY Times of the SummerStage show. No mention at all of the Sons Of Thunder, so I suspect the reviewer didn’t stay for the end. Maybe he didn’t even stay till the end of my set, who knows? As there was no break at all between my set and theirs, in fact I never even said goodnight, how could they possibly have missed them? Wasn’t the reviewer even curious? Whatever, he missed an important part of the concept of the evening. Too bad. The review was not positive, which was a little sad, as both the band and the public seemed to enjoy it as we stretched out in a variety of directions during these shows. The audience, to their credit, goes with it a lot of the time. Some audiences prefer old favorites, but not everywhere. That could be a factor of the venue more than the audience. An arena-sized crowd tends to be conservative. Most adjectives in the review were backhanded begrudging compliments to this effect, so maybe that says more about the reviewer than about what we have been up to for the last 4+ years. The Freedom Tower, the building proposed to fill the World Trade Center site, or a least the most prominent one on that site, has been redesigned yet again. Apparently all the self-congratulatory design competitions and ceremonies for the site in the years immediately following the attack were just for show, as this most recent proposal has nothing to do with higher ideals of any sort.
The new proposal is a glass tower on a massive fortified concrete base. 20 stories (!!) high almost windowless concrete. Basically, a fortress. Or a prison. It wouldn’t look out of place to have a gun turret or anti-aircraft weaponry on the roof. My daddy’s reaction was, “this says: ‘we have no faith in the future.’” I think he’s right. The site could have stood for all that is good and open and innovative about the United States. The can-do spirit, the possibility of re-invention, tolerance of all kinds of weirdos, mixtures of a multitude of races and creeds, all living together. Sometimes the U.S. is like that anyway. And the site could be a way of saying THIS is what we believe in and what we stand for. This instead is a big fuck you to the rest of the world at the entrance of NY harbor, it says we are isolationist, protectionist and closed. As dad suggests it says we don’t think things will get better, we don’t believe good will triumph; instead we think things will get a lot worse. It’s back to medieval days for us.
On a purely practical level, what kind of attack are the people who thought of this expecting? A car bomb that could somehow get across a well-protected plaza? Didn’t the previous attack come from the air?
I think it’s not really about the practicalities of security or protection, but about symbolizing an attitude, a climate of fear and of a walled-in nation.
Played what will be our last show for some time at SummerStage in central park last night. There was an almost constant sprinkling of rain, but no one seemed to mind too much. Pink Martini opened. Incredible musicians, and China Forbes has an amazing voice. I hadn’t seen them in years, so it was a treat. The audience was the youngest I’d seen in a while, which made me feel pretty good. And surprisingly, for New York, where I’m usually feeling tense playing a hometown gig, I was pretty relaxed. We never left for the usual game of encores. Instead, without a pause, I brought on The McCollough Sons of Thunder, a massed trombone ensemble based out of The United House of Prayer in Harlem. I figured that way the audience wouldn’t even have time to even think about leaving before experiencing a little of their incredible sound and energy. They started off slowly, the seven or more trombones (plus sousaphone and trumpet) creating a huge wave of sound, a giant chord, while Elder Babb praised the Lord and exhorted the crowd. It gave me chills. Not just because of the music, but also because here was faith, religion and spirituality that was manifesting itself as joyous, life affirming and uplifting, as opposed to militant, oppressive and death-dealing. We’re getting too much of that these days, from Muslims and Christians alike, so this was a beautiful healthy antidote, and a reminder not to throw out the spiritual baby with the bathwater — those of us who feel the nastiness of fundamentalisms cast doubt on belief of any kind.
It was a good way to end the tour. You can order a CD that features the Sons of Thunder here. You can view photos from the show here.
Staying at a hotel near the venue, the Hollywood Bowl. Out my window I can see a massive triumphal arch, covered in quasi-Babylonian or Egyptian figures, beyond which tower two vaguely Hindu style rampant elephants — more Cecil B. Demil than Mumbai (or Babylon), actually:
This is a shopping center mixed with an upscale food court. This is what draws crowds here in L.A. There are few “cultural” monuments or centers here, so the focus is theme parks and shopping centers. Or the two rolled into one. Consumption and the distant scent of celebrity. This is what passes for a cultural center here — and it is bustling, the place is crowded, and the scene continues on the street leading down to the (former) Chinese Theater. People stop and take pictures of themselves to commemorate their visit to — a shopping mall! Framing themselves under the weird Babylonian arch. (Is it odd that the U.S. has invaded the real Babylon?) Our own hotel lobby is filled with black men with shaved heads and gorgeous women dressed like hos. The BET awards are to be in the adjacent theater tomorrow. It is the same theater where the academy awards are held now. The academy awards are held in a shopping mall. O.K., it’s a theater, but it’s a theater in a shopping mall. Perfect. I am reminded that hip hop and RNB are two of the biggest forces in contemporary music and culture in the U.S. — in much of the whole wide world — a fact that seems to have created a weird fizzy cocktail. There is in this scene incredible creativity, innovation and imagination coupled with sleazy self-promotion, hucksterism, minstrelsy and debasement of the race. Just like what white culture has done for centuries.
Here are the BET winners: BEST FEMALE HIP HOP: Remy Ma
BEST MALE HIP HOP: Kanye West
BEST COLLABORATION: Ciara f/ Missy Elliott “1, 2 Step”
BEST FEMALE R&B: Alicia Keys
BEST MALE R&B: Usher
BEST GROUP: Destiny’s Child
BEST NEW ARTIST: John Legend
BEST GOSPEL ARTIST: Donnie McClurkin
VIDEO OF THE YEAR: Kanye West “Jesus Walks”
BEST ACTRESS: Regina King
BEST ACTOR: Jamie Foxx
FEMALE ATHLETE OF THE YEAR: Serena Williams “Tennis”
MALE ATHLETE OF THE YEAR: Shaquille O'Neal “Basketball”
BET.COM VIEWERS’ CHOICE AWARD: Omarion “O”
Pretty much all talent, skill and creativity in that list. So, though the awards don’t reward skeeziness, to their credit, lots of the media lap it up and serve it as the representation of black culture. I’ve spent my grownup life resisting the latent racist tendencies I realize I secretly harbor, and it doesn’t help when the corporate media and those who play along reinforce clichés.
Yesterday we did our show at the Hollywood Bowl. Si*Sé, Arcade Fire, The Extra Action Marching Band and myself. Promoted by KCRW. It nearly sold out — 17,500 tickets! Holy Moses! Three years ago in L.A. I couldn’t sell out the Palace, which holds just over 1,000. But maybe that’s because the Palace crowd is not my demographic? More likely it’s that factor, combined with the fact that this is a KCRW-produced show, which means they promote the hell out of it on their own station for months prior. Being the best station around means the audience often follows where they lead. Plus maybe I’m being appreciated by a new generation.
Our whole day is spent teching and rehearsing songs we will do together with Arcade Fire and Extra Action. I had the insanely ambitious idea that the show should be a seamless flow from one band to the next, with inter-band connections and collaborations common. Given that it’s a tightly controlled union hall this is a real challenge. It is hugely ambitious to have this many acts on the bill and to get decent sound checks, but adding the rehearsing of new numbers and attempting untried collaborations makes it nearly impossible. Tempers stay within bounds, but the air is tense.
The show goes incredibly well. The audience is taken by surprise and the flow pretty much works. (In our booking agent’s words, “it was historic.”) There’s a rise and fall in intensity throughout the evening, which feels natural and organic, and apparently turns out to be well-paced. The high-priced seats up front, mostly filled with corporate comps, take a long time to react, as expected. No surprise there. They finally get begin moving when I throw in some popular Talking Heads songs (ugh.) The back half of the bowl has been up for a while already. Hilburn, in his L.A. Times review claims that these oldies are just better songs and that is why everyone was less excited about my other newer stuff. Of course, being me, I would disagree — I would say the older songs are mostly simpler, and often they are more rousing and fun to sing, but that is different than being better. Many other audiences elsewhere react more evenly to both new and old. Hilburn is an old-school rock guy, this we know. But given the size of this audience, the idea of introducing new songs (which I did) is admittedly slightly perverse. So maybe I shouldn’t have tried to introduce new material at an arena show? Ah, why not? If I’m gonna be stuck playing oldies I’ll quit.
The show climaxed with three songs we rehearsed with the marching band — all of us together on stage (there are about 30 of them!) — their flag girls and cheerleaders out front on a semi-circular platform that juts out into the audience. Shaking their butts in the faces of the corporate seat holders, doing things with flags and pom-poms that go beyond wardrobe malfunction.
Everyone seemed to love it, but some of us, in my band and in the Extra Action crew, agree that smaller more intimate venues are more fun. The audience in smaller venues can sense more of the humanity of the performers and when chaos and anarchy does erupt there is a real sense of wildness and even danger… not to mention elation and joy. But we’re all thrilled.
Here I am with Arcade Fire backstage (photo by Adam Travis):
Went for a walk with Malu along the shore right across the street from Humphrey’s, the bayside venue here. We saw pelicans and then further up a woman in a Winnebago with her pet pig and small fluffy dog. The pig, named, Lucy, was happily moving along the grass on this little shorefront park, snorting and sometimes rooting in the grass with her snout. “Don’t do that, Lucy! You did that at the other part of the park!” Lucy was friendly; she didn’t mind being petted, though pig bristles are not soft and friendly. The woman said she has to give Lucy mud baths or Lucy will have problems, as pigs don’t perspire.
After our show the Extra Action crew have another gig, at a local punk club called the Casbah. A few of our bunch partake, and it sounded from their tales the next morning like a wonderful, messy continuation of the show.
The L.A. Times contained an article on the complete and utter failure of the so-called Drug War. This is based on a UN report, which the Bushies will no doubt deny, and they will no doubt provide their own evidence to support continued and increased funding of a “war” which has achieved none of its ends.
Maybe the solution lies in jobs for North Americans combined with supporting small-scale agriculture in Latin America — giving the farmers an economic incentive and choice.
A NY Times article on Italy charging CIA agents with abducting one of their citizens details the different approaches to combating terror between the U.S. and Italy. The U.S. abducts suspects, then tortures and interrogates them. Which, as is universally known, does not provide accurate or useful information — a detainee under coercion will pretty much say anything to survive. The value of the intelligence is very low. (But maybe the satisfaction of abuse makes up for it?)
The Italians, long practiced at secretly amassing information in order to build cases against Mafia suspects, use a different process — slow and tedious infiltration and research, which results in extensive knowledge of a whole network, some of which, like the mob, extend into a multitude of areas and nations. Thus the whole house of cards can be successfully brought down, through the legal process. It’s slower and more complicated, but it actually stops the whole network, or one whole branch of it at least.
The U.S. method seems instead to be about power, revenge, and show of force — and is largely ineffective. In fact, I suspect it actually does more to recruit, create and strengthen the terrorist networks than it does to bring them out in the open. The U.S. war on terror makes more terrorists. Perfect, their work will never be done. Halliburton and others will always have jobs. Endless war. A population constantly in fear. An eternal enemy. The renditions, the torture, the disregard for human rights — have become worldwide hallmarks of U.S. policy. The world knows these U.S. methods and doesn’t believe the claims of installing democracy or even of eliminating terrorism anymore. The ends don’t justify the brutal means. Though they might be seen to do so, if the ends were actually achieved. In most cases, sadly, they are not. Instead there is a wake of carnage.
I believe it is indeed possible to wage a sort of “war” on terrorism. But the Bush administration is hopelessly inept, and is going about it in exactly the wrong way. Bush could never run any of the companies he was handed on a silver tray, except into the ground, so it’s no surprise he can’t run a war either.
The band and I are doing a short run of dates, mostly in the western U.S., and then ending in NYC. Since there was a fairly long break after the last set of tour dates I revamped the set a bit to keep it fresh and added some new songs — the collaboration with Thievery Corporation from last year and a song written with Ryuichi Sakamoto. Last night was a re-match of last year’s Aspen gig. We’d been there a year ago but got pretty much rained out — the blowing rain across the covered stage meant the strings couldn’t play — so we did a short acoustic set, which apparently went over well enough to encourage this return engagement. Aspen is a strange place. Never having been there except for these concert dates my experience is limited. But seeing a glossy magazine in the hotel lobby called Aspen Philanthropist pretty much tells the story. On the cover is a close-up of a gorgeous (white) woman in full makeup cradling a photo of a starving African child. A bunch of us went for a lovely ride on rented bikes in the afternoon. Nothing too strenuous — not up into the mountains that surround this town — but along a gently rolling path that follows the little river that runs through the valley. We traveled maybe 15 miles of pathways, gurgling water and sunshine. You can see why people come up here. My friend Sam and I rented the full suspension bikes. The shop said they retail for around 2 thousand dollars! It’s a beautiful day. Here is the view from our hotel:
There is a massive waterfall, partially frozen, outside my window. There's also a blizzard.
Waking up and emerging into the dark lobby and hallways of the W hotel where I am staying is like suddenly being tossed into an (upscale) whorehouse. At night the entrance and lobby is dark and moody and filled with scantily-clad women in various states of inebriation. They wobble on their heels and hike up their bustiers as the guys around them attempt to act cool. The staff, all dressed in black, affect an air of efficiency as they move through the crowds — talking on their earpieces and walkie-talkie phones. Addressing drunks in tones of utmost respect. Well, you never know who they might be, I guess.
A couple of nights ago I did my presentation at the nearby Hammer Museum. No relation to MC Hammer, or even to Arm and Hammer baking soda. Related to Occidental Oil. There's a wonderful show of local sculpture up at the moment... along with a video installation by Hiraki Sawa, whose work I'd seen and enjoyed previously in NY. (In the video his little apartment becomes filled with tiny planes flying around, like the airspace over a large metropolitan airport:)
The main show, curated by their Scottish curator, is called Thing, which is appropriate, as the stuff sometimes elicits a "what the hell IS that?" reaction. A full-sized car made of unfired clay, crumbling and decaying in one room, a sloth sits on a metal table which in turn squeezes one of those big bouncy balls that kids play with, a sisal doormat on the floor includes a sisal dog sleeping on it.
The show and book signing go fine. Afterwards I walk (in L.A.!) to a nearby restaurant on the way to my hotel to have a drink and a snack. A businessman at the bar was at my presentation and he says hello. He deals in California abstract art from the 20th century. He reels off a list of artists and I've never head of any of them. Soon he's joined by his date, a young yoga instructor, and he proceeds to impart tidbits of random wisdom to her. It's obviously their first meeting, and I can't help but overhear everything they're saying.
I drive the next afternoon to meet Pat Dillett who is working on a Mary Blige CD. He's been here for months. She likes the way he records her voice, while other producers "create" the tracks, delivering pre programmed beats and sequences that she writes over. All hip hop royalty are involved. Producers like Dr. Dre and Swizz Beats are involved, along with other hip hop and R&B royalty. Some of these guys are getting as much as 100K per track (are their beats really THAT good, to be worth that much money for some BEATS? Well, maybe they are, they certainly jump right out of the radio.) Jay Z stops by. The list goes on. Pat says the record budget MUST be around 2 million. No surprise. But as they'll make that back in sales (presumably) it's a safe investment. On a vastly different scale from what I do. Am I jealous? Maybe. Maybe not.
We meet for lunch at the Farmers' Market, one of the few places in L.A. with some history and genuine atmosphere — or so I remember. Now it's been engulfed by a huge shopping and movie complex called The Grove, which is truly amazing. It's like a Disney version of a street of shops in a small town, but all the shops are chains and franchises. The Las Vegas casino malls are similar, laid out like streets, with lampposts and, in this case even a trolley, but of course it's all completely artificial, like a movie set. No surprise there either, I guess, but I'm still in awe. Shock and awe. Maybe here movies ARE the reality, so the idea of making real life appear to be a set is perfectly natural.
We walk through the movie set street and enter the old Farmers' Market which hasn't been a farmers' market for years, but has a slightly run down (unusual for here) and casual eating area where you get your food on trays from various vendors and share tables, mostly with retired folks. In fact, the whole place seems to be retired folks, tottering buy holding their trays with their cream pies and giant apple deserts. I get a fresh broiled fish and it's pretty good. I offer to bus some of the trays scattered all over, but am told to leave them alone.
(Man next to me on cell phone here in LAX where I begin writing this entry: "I've got to do this PowerPoint thing for this big ca |
