Possibly the best way you’ll spend four-and-a-half minutes today.
People like Jim Power -and the art he creates, and the community it, in turn, creates -are the reason I love New York City so much. But the fact he’s homeless is infuriating. Makes the stuff in Tampa right now a lot harder to watch, much less stomach.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said not-so-softly, tilting straw hat ever so slightly toward the blazing sun, “you can’t just go around saying any goddam thing you like anytime , any place you like. They should’ve known better, those girls.”
They should have known better. The words echoed and bounced around in my head as the gin and tonic glinted in the the afternoon sunshine. Should the members of Pussy Riot -Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, 22, Ekaterina Samutsevich, 30, and Maria Alekhina, 24 -stayed quiet? Writer Lynn Crosie recently observed that the girls’ actions were “hideous” to have happened in a church. Watching the video for their new single, it’s not difficult to see how they offended traditional, church-going sensibilities. The elderly nuns look perplexed and more than a bit pissed off by these pesky masked aerobi-dancing young women. But the protest did not involve any swear words or cussing, nor did it use a holy name in any obscene way; it lasted less than a minute and invoked a religious figure, in a sincere request for delivery from a perceived (if very real, to every day Russians) evil. The hypocrisy of the trial and obscene harshness of the sentence are all out of proportion to the actual crime, but Pussy Riot have become an international cause celebre in the process.
The whole affair points to a fetid underbelly of the ruling Russian politburo worthy of deeper investigation and exploration. The name “Anna Politkovskaya” floats somehow, ghostly, above all of this. But what’s been heartening lately has been the outpouring of sincere support from various outspoken celebrities, including the holy (and wholly inspiring, to my mind) triumvirate of artsy female greatness; Madonna, Bjork, and Patti Smith have let it be publicly known they stand with the three members of Pussy Riot. Madonna donned a mask and wrote the band’s name in marker on her own body during a concert in Oslo; Bjork did a manic live dance with a bevy of female chorister-musicians, shrieking in her signature banshee-like howl above the din. It was a beautiful, if perfect echo of Pussy Riot’s own protest in one of Russia’s holiest sites.
“Jesus Christ would fucking forgive them!” roared Smith at recent concert in Stockholm. One senses she’s right. Surely Jesus would smile at the ballsy, youthful vigor of it all. It’s surreal, the protest -tacky, surreal, unsettling, gormless, and… young. That brave, outrageous, ballsy stuff we do when we’re young translates into the stuff we awkwardly admire from the comfortable distance of gap-toothed time and fat adulthood. We may not do it again… but damn, we want to.
The childlike sincerity of Pussy Riot’s protest dances with a childish desire to shock, which isn’t so childish if you know the admittedly scary politics of Putin’s Russia. It’s as if the rioters, in using the slang for female genitalia so boldly, and doing their funky young-wooman-goddess-thing in a Christian environ, are asking people to stop and think where true power lies in 2012 Russia, and where it should lie; they’re daring people to stop, to think, to choose, and to reconsider. As Crosbie wisely notes, “the word “pussy” has been on everyone’s lips for weeks. It’s hard to imagine a more simple and more complex way of disseminating the blunt, beautiful nature of the girls’ mission.” Those colorful masked figures are 2012’s gangly, Gaia-like, guitar-slinging Teletubbies, Mother Russia’s monstrous, balaclava’d court jesters, pointing up the ridiculous nudity of Sovereign, State, and Society. All we can do, us boring grown-up women, is stand and smile as they call upon the Saint for delivery, mouths open, eyes wide, inspired by the bravery of youth and the beautiful danger of pussy power in holy houses made flesh and blood.
Jesus would forgive them – even if they knew better, but most especially if they didn’t.
The idea of imitation being the most sincere form of flattery is one I’ve been mentally turning back and forth the last while. If someone stands up on a stage and imitates someone else – well – does that make them a great artist too, or merely a gifted technician?
This question came into focus the last few months as I attended two different musical theater events, Million Dollar Quartet and Backbeat: The Birth Of The Beatles. Both works are based on real people and real music history events, and both involve the depiction of cultural touchstones. Constant comparison is an evitable part of such events, especially if one’s been exposed to the real thing -or even, bizarrely, a good imitation of the real thing.
In the former, my companion turned up her nose to the performer playing Elvis Presley, dryly noting she’d seen far better impersonators in concert, and noting the actor playing Johnny Cash wasn’t menacing enough; she’d seen (and met) the real thing years before, and the performance (/imitation) simply didn’t measure up. Similarly, attending Backbeat afforded me the opportunity of unfair comparison, having seen Paul McCartney perform at Yankee Stadium last year. It wasn’t so much the performer didn’t measure up that bothered me as it was the knowledge he never could.
At the end of Backbeat, people were cheering and applauding, out of their seats and dancing to the loud, raucous sound of “Twist and Shout” – but what were they cheering, really? The performance? Or the music itself -and their memories associated with the music? It struck me as a surreal sort of nostalgia, one magnified by years of people having a casual connection (however tenuous and imagined) with their pop idols via the internet, where a few clicks yields live performances they very well may’ve been at themselves. Who wouldn’t want to re-live happy memories, of happier times, with a younger self, bright and bushy-tailed, full of beer and brawl, piss and vinegar, howl and hope? The internet provides a quick, easy hit of nostalgia, available 24/7 – but I wonder, at what cost?
In June, I saw Patti Smith perform material from her remarkable new album “Banga.” Before an excited audience at the Barnes and Noble near Union Square, Smith and her band (including longtime guitarist Lenny Kaye) did three numbers from the album: the swirlingly romantic”April Fool”, the 50s ballad-like “This Is The Girl”, and the album’s title cut, with its fittingly literary inspiration. The audience smiled, cheered, clapped, initially hesitant but eventually exuberant. There were no calls for “Dancing Barefoot” or “Because The Night” though I’m sure a few people were panting to hear them. This wasn’t about nostalgia -it was promotion, after all -but Smith seemed far more interested in forging an authentic connection with her audience; it was refreshingly to see an artist of her calibre so genuinely happy to be there, wandering through the crowd before the show, chatting, and later, proudly presenting new material and carefully explaining various songs’ origins. I found it especially encouraging to note so many young women in the audience, hanging on Smith’s every word. The smartphones and cameras were firmly away when she spoke. The crowd, quiet but ready to laugh at Smith’s knowing, occasionally self-deprecating asides, was genuinely interested in hearing -and experiencing -new material from an old favorite, first-hand.
New memories are forged through this sort of event; the holy spirits of exploration, expansion, and inspiration ask us, as arts lovers, to go see and do something just a bit different, regularly, rather than live in the spin cycle of favorite playlists, repeated ad nauseum. It’s nice to revisit old times and places (and people) with a few clicks (or swipes), but I wouldn’t want to re-live those times, live, at any concert; a few well-chosen old nuggets are just right when placed beside newer, more unfamiliar material. There’s always a wealth of new memories being created -sometimes it’s new sounds that give them the nudge into creation. More than ever, I want to celebrate that creation.
(Photos from my Flickr stream)
Roughly an hour after my review of a new musical was posted came word that Chavela Vargas had passed. There was something eerie in the timing; my review had got me thinking more than ever about Astrid Kirchherr and women like her – the strong, uncompromising female artists who refused to fit into tidy pre-determined roles around their femininity and whose art was never determined solely by their gender or the place that put that at in the world.
Vargas, the throaty Latin singer had long been a favorite of mine. The first time I saw her, in Frida, I was entranced. What a voice… what a soul… what a presence.
It feels as if this year has been a horrible one for losing strong female artists and presences. Zelda Kaplan, who passed in February, was another sparky figure I greatly admired; my clubbing days would’ve extended longer, I think, had I had gone with her. There was an Auntie Mame-esque joie de vivre about her. Alternately, Nora Ephron and Maeve Binchy felt like confidantes -the sort who’d be hilariously blunt with how ugly those jeans look on you, and why you (I) should stay from men who don’t do a lot of reading or like art galleries. Donna Summer was the woman who stopped everyone talking (and got them dancing); self-contained in her sensuousness, confident in her calm sexuality, she never had to try hard, she simply was. Real sex appeal, as I recently told a friend, can’t be faked. It only fools some of the people some of the time.
Donna Summer’s moans, simpers, sighs and statements were a declaration of her independence, alright -the exact same way Chavela Vargas’ anguished, fierce, defiant tones were. They still are, for me and female artists everywhere. Their tunes didn’t definer them as a woman; they defined them as fleshy, living human beings: let me be what I am, here and now.
There’s so much more I could say, should say, about these women, but it’s not the time or place, and I still haven’t finished meditating on their role in my life, or mourning their loss. Lou Reed’s 1992 album Magic And Loss captures much of this feeling, of losing personal friends who were also artistic heroes. Creative and personal so often bleeds over in life, and in art. That’s probably a good thing.
All I can say at this point is: Dear Ms. Kirchherr, please hang on. I haven’t met you yet, and I want to.
As has been noted, part of my mission this summer is to educate myself about music a little more – new music, old music, everything in-between. Being an arts journalist has afforded me a ton of opportunities to go exploring, even if time constraints mean I frequently feel a bit of a musical dilettante, skipping from one artist/band/era/genre to the next. But one thing caught my attention, and it’s stayed glued there for months now. It even resulted in my writing a formal feature.
Bands like Major Thinkers, Chant Chant Chant, and The Threat may not have lasted in any literal sense, but I’d like to think that listening to them affords me a peek into a creatively compelling place and time, one that’s bled over into our own multi-faceted era of mixed sounds and places and experiences.
Addendum: For a detailed examination of the bands on Strange Passion, do check out Ian Maleney’s excellent piece over at The Quietus.
The New York Times featured this lovely work by animator Gary Leib today. With a gorgeously simple sax soundtrack by Mike Hashim, the just-over two-minute video portrays city life in all its surreal splendour an sordid squalor. There’s so much going on this piece of animation that reflects life in New York in 2012: peoples’ sense of isolation mixed with a weary independence; their close relationship to pets; their love/hate relationships with nature and nurture; the dreariness of work; and the fortifying comfort of old (addictive) habits as a means of bolstering an ever-shifting identity. The animation is both whimsical and surreal, innocent and haunting – suitable for a man who created the sublimely bizarre underground comic Idiotland (gorgeous front and back covers here), and whose work I’ve enjoyed seeing in The New Yorker now for a while.
Also: viva coffee! Though I used to be a hardcore tea drinker, lately I can’t start the day without a good strong cup poured from the French press. Thank you NYT; thank you Mr. Leib; I’ll think of ravenous birds and waitresses with bottomless carafes as I take my first morning sips now.
I’ve sat through many awful Jobim interpretations. However, this cover, by Gretchen Parlato and Esperanza Spalding, is well and truly astonishing; it doesn’t belong anywhere near the tired old “predictable Jobim cover” bin.
Perhaps I’ve had covers on the brain lately, what with seeing Bettye LaVette perform this past weekend (and falling even more in love with that raspy voice of hers, if that’s possible), and giving Robert Plant’s Band Of Joy record a much-overdue re-listen -but it feels like when artists cover others artists’ work, they take the safe high road of sonic politeness and predictability. If I wanted to hear it exactly like the original… hell, I’d put the original on for myself. When I hear an artist do a cover version, I want something creative, original, soulful, and thought-provoking; I don’t have to agree with the result to appreciate the effort, but I want the feel the artist understands the meaning of the word “interpret.” Most don’t, or are cowed by the potential hisses of shrewd audiences. But what is artistry without a bit of risk? Chances are that just as many people will be pleased as be pissed off. Dear Artists: take the risk!
A composer like Jobim simply begs for interpretation. This duet delivers the goods. The poetically simple instrumentation – voices, hands, bass – combined with the tonal variations in voices, combined with that gorgeous, loping bassline, make for a swoon-worthy listen. My Monday just got a whole better hearing/watching this. Give it a watch/listen – yours may, too.
Addendum: for a beautiful version of the original, check out Ella Fitzgerald singing “Useless Landscape” live at Montreux in 1969. Awesome scatting included. Swooooon.
Summer makes posting blogs here difficult because a/ it’s festival season, meaning I’m busy reporting (and interviewing awesomely cool people like Bettye LaVette, woot!); b/ when I’m not writing I’m researching and doing the social media thing; and c/ when I’m not doing either of those (which takes up a fair chunk of time in any given day), I’m trying to do all the things I promised myself I’d do, namely, read more fiction, and expand my musical knowledge, as I wrote about in my last post.
Oh, and when I’m not doing THAT, I’m in the garden.
Along with a few discoveries amidst the weeds and ever-shifting soil, I’ve made a few musical ones too. (Soundcheck, you’d be proud!)
First, I sat down and finally listened to the entirety of Some Girls, by The Rolling Stones something I’d not done before. The reissue bonus track “Keep Up Blues” was my favorite – the corollaries between it and contemporary rap were especially striking, as was Mick’s sexy, strutting delivery. I could practically see him thrusting hips and lips out in the studio. Brilliant. Hot. Listen.
Secondly, Tumblr is really becoming my mode of choice to discover new music. I came across English band the xx only today, and was struck by the way they’re able to combine verbal and sonic poetry in one gorgeous package. This song is also wildly romantic, as reflected in the lyrics:
And I’ll cross oceans, like never before
So you can feel the way I feel too
And I’ll mirror images back at you
So you can see the way I feel too
The rhythmic repetition of such simple words and sounds is beautifully echoed in an aching series of guitar lines, making for a very haunting (if addictive) listen.
It’s taken from Strange Passion, a compilation of Irish post-punk and experimental music that’s recently been released through Rough Trade. Irish music site Thumped.com wrote in their review of the album that “this compilation has become crucial, already. Hats off to all involved.” I take that “crucial” to be applicable to anyone interested in not only the history of modern Irish music, but in understanding where we are now, in our very synth-sounding world.
I love “Fire From Above” because it’s so amazingly modern, and again, has a gorgeous poetry that references both the clinical emotional calculation of Kraftwerk, along with a certain menacing joy that totally reminds of early 80s New York sounds. The chords are lifted right from Pachelbel’s (in)famous Canon, but have a bouncy synth beat beneath them. And the words are just as moving, with an old-world weariness and youthful exuberance, combined with a rhythmic interplay with their synthesized accompaniments that makes you listen in just that much closer.
Here’s to digging up more good stuff as the summer progresses.
Today: 2pm hit and I made a face.
I don’t recognize this.
Then I remembered: Soundcheck ended. Well, not ended forever, but the celebrated afternoon music show on WNYC has taken a hiatus for the summer. It’s being re-imagined and re-tooled for its post-Labor Day return (in a new evening timeslot) and you can follow its progress online.
Friday’s final afternoon program was all about resolutions – specifically musical ones. John Schaefer’s call to listeners, asking them what musical promises they wanted to keep, got me thinking, and feeling more than a little guilty. I’ve been making audio commitments to myself now for ages: I’m going to listen to this new album. I’m going to check out that cool band. I’m going to get to more live shows.
And despite covering The Cult’s new album, getting into a great new DJ, and seeing Garbage live, I still feel like I’m not doing enough. With every new week comes a new onslaught of albums, bands, shows, all of which I feel I should be paying more attention to. Then there’s the backwards glance – and a glance is really all it’s been when it comes to my own, embarrassingly limited musical knowledge.
Raised as a classical music-playing child, I didn’t really find out about the work and influence Bob Dylan, David Bowie, or The Rolling Stones until well into adolescence. My house was filled with the sounds of Cash, Presley, and ABBA (to say nothing of Back, Beethoven, and Mozart) for many years. Later, with my very-own turntable in my bedroom, neither The Clash and nor Black Flag provided the soundtrack to teenaged rebellion; Aretha Franklin, Ronnie Spector, and Donna Summer did. I related to the strong, glamorous ladies whose music I could dance to. A big part of me still does.
The first time I heard Bob Dylan I was fifteen years old. The song was “Tangled Up In Blue” and it was played to me by a Dylan-loving friend of my mother’s. I’d never heard anything like it; the words dripped with angst, and anger, and a world-weariness I hadn’t quite known before. Somehow, it made the grunge explosion that followed in popular culture make more sense. A guest of Schaefer’s on Friday confessed she didn’t know enough about Dylan’s either, and that her musical resolution over the summer was to correct that oversight.
It was oddly comforting to hear that kind of confession in such a public forum. Admitting you don’t know the canons of such huge music monoliths in public is hard, and it was nice to see Soundcheck – a show I consider to be as much entertainment as education, and a major smarty-pants beacon of deep pop culture know-how -welcome such curiosity with open arms. It’s nice to not be afraid of judgment, or be worried about appearing uncool, of lacking taste, of being plain stupid, but to just be welcomed and accepted.
Perhaps that’s why the “ending” of Soundcheck hit me harder than I expected, and why today’s 2pm mix-up was a bit of a slug in the guts. Schaefer and the fantastic Soundcheck team have provided a wonderful forum for the musically curious masses (with whom I deeply identify) to learn, to ask questions, to branch out, to exercise our curious ear-muscles and maybe have a dance or two across our office/kitchen floors. Thusly inspired, this is what I’d like: to further my contemporary music-scene knowledge while deepening my appreciation of its past. Can it be done with any measure of success? I’ll let you know when Soundcheck’s back on the air in September. I’m starting here. Don’t judge.
Fourteen years ago this week my life changed. Frank Sinatra died.
I don’t remember the exact moment I became a Sinatra fan. I started listening to his work in the early 90s, inspired by more contemporary singers who looked up to him than by any sense of music-history know-how. Having been raised to an eclectic diet of opera, Elvis, Abba, Olivia, and country gold (Cash, Jennings, and Cline, mainly), there was something vaguely … dangerous about Francis Albert. I couldn’t put my finger on it but his voice, even at its sweetest, had a hint of something that both scared and delighted me. Only many years later did I understand that quality to be sex appeal -not the smooth, suave, safe sort, but the rough-and-tumble variety, where passion came before pronouncements.
Sinatra never had to be smutty to seduce through song; it could be a slight pause, a tiny added grace note, a lingering phrase. He deeply understood how tied up creative power was with sexual power (and vice-versa), and he used it, grandly, carefully, proudly and loudly, as he got behind the wheel of The Great American Songbook, flashing a smile, a dark stare, a cocked eyebrow, cruising by, leaving a wispy trail of cigarette smoke in his wake, and enough baritone reverb to echo through eons. Since his passing that Songbook has been reduced to a series of pieces that are mere vehicles for a bland, safe, PC-style seduction, souped up in a red hot convertible and tinkling horn. Sinatra would never be so obvious.
Though he had an undoubtedly operatic approach, and knew a thing or two about a romantic tune, Sinatra’s sound let in the darkness through time; his voice became full of shadow, of color, of subtlety and suffering and self-doubt. It reflected life experience, of course – and what a life it was. James Kaplan’s exhaustive 2010 biography of Sinatra’s early-to-middle years is a mighty tome that rivals Ulysses in sheer size and detail. Until Kaplan publishes the companion piece, we won’t know about Sinatra’s final years – but I have my own specific memories of today, involving comforting older women in a shoe store, whose lives, memories, and perhaps even passions, were so tied up with the man and his music.
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