Just a note to say that my 2nd contribution to Ryeberg, the curated video-essay site, is now online.
Previously it was Dennis Bergkamp and the World Cup of '98. Now it is the bossa nova spell cast by Elis Regina, and the classic song Águas de Março.
As a writer, even though I am not part of any sort of literati, I am still plugged into the lit scene. You need to be if you want to understand the general to-and-fro of any industry you are interested in becoming a part of (same goes for TV, music, theatre, etc..). That said, I must make an admission. I am making this admission because I think there are a lot of people like me out there who feel the same but are reticent to admit it.
Here goes: I don't take any particular interest in the life of the artist outside of his or her art.
When I read a book, I don't care if an author comes from the East Coast and studied journalism, had a drug problem and now lives in a shed with a mastiff. It's not that I don't care about this author personally, it's that these facts shouldn't have anything to do with the book that I am about to read. I should be able to pick up the book, knowing nothing about said author, and be able to read it, enjoy it, be fully affected by it, without substantially missing something due to a lack of familiarity with the author's biography.
And yet, when you are culturally plugged-in (and by this I mean, you check out industry blogs, trade mags, etc.) there is so much white noise about the artists themselves that it seems divergent from what it is they are supposed to be doing: their work. We can talk about Picasso's passions, but 100 years from now there will probably only be discussion of his work - your work is the only thing left after you and everyone who knew you has died. And if people are still talking more about you than your work after this point, then I would think the quality of your work was overstated.
Would knowing that Stephen King battled drug addiction offer an insight into some of his writing? Yes. But, my point is that if that insight is necessary in order to fully appreciate a piece of work then there is a problem. The work doesn't work if you need a biographical cheat sheet to inject context into the material.
I think Bryan Ferry is an fantastic vocalist - and I don't want to know anything more than that. Nor the details outside a director's films, nor what inspired the playwright to write her play. I've got my own shit going on, thanks very much.
Ephemera is for journalists, fanzines, and those working on their Ph.D. The general public should not feel inadequate if they pick a DVD or book off a shelf, sit down in a theatre, or load a song without being prepared with supplemental information not contained within the medium which contains the work. The work inevitably has to stand up for itself. I write this for two reasons: first, with the likes of the AV Club and traditional print/TV media clamouring to add as much web-based context as possible to every article, there's a growing sense that - for the everyman - if you aren't savvy to the smallest details of each artist's passings and goings, you are nothing but a tourist. Secondly, embracing social media to a claustrophobic degree, we can now read endless commentating on authors reading their work for a live audience!...something no one really asked for outside the publishing companies themselves and perhaps the authors' parents. Let's face it: most authors can't read aloud to save their lives - it's not their specialty.
There are reasons for digging deeper, but that's up to the individual. It was interesting to learn more about HP Lovecraft when I reviewed Michel Houellebecq's quasi-biography of him and his work. What's funny, however - using that same example - is that when I proceeded to read the two works by Lovecraft contained in that same book, I don't recall thinking to myself "Ahh - this is where his uncomfortable relationship with women takes shape!". That's because the stories were two of his masterpieces, and when you witness a masterpiece, peripheral biographical information is going to gunk-up your enjoyment.
The medium may be the message, but the work contains the words. Outside of this we are left with cultural "bonus features". Nice to have, but not necessary.
I like jazz music, even though I am not an authority on the genre. Heck, I like all genres of music. I may not have a lot of pure country & western on my shelf but without C&W a lot of the music I love (and do have on the shelf) would not exist. Period. Music, if it's possible to talk about it in such broad terms, is a wide-spanning ecosystem where every genre and sub-genre makes an eventual impact on the whole [insert pebble/ocean analogy here].
There is a jazz radio station in Toronto that I listen to (that is, when I want to listen to jazz), named Jazz.FM91 - or, less formally, JazzFM. They have some great programming (The Big Band Show with Glen Woodcock is a fave) and some great hosts (Heather Bambrick, Walter Venafro). I even like the guy who reads the news in the morning (Tim Keele, with that old-school newsman voice). Aside from a couple of annoyances, there wasn't much to dislike.
The problem is, similar to what plagues public broadcasters, in trying to appeal to a wide audience (and it should be noted that JazzFM is supported by donations) they end up playing a lot of crap which makes me lunge for the remote to change the channel: Joni Mitchell doing jazz, jazz musicians covering Joni Mitchell, Elvis Costello doing "swing" versions of his own songs. Overall, an overdependence on middle-of-the-road lyrical jazz of the sort that elevator manufacturers would consider too ironic to use as background music.
It used to be easy to avoid the bad programming: namely, Ralph Benmurgui's morning show (the man insists on sucking all the oxygen out of the control room...seriously, if someone mentioned that a 737 hit a dog on a runway in Mexico, Benmurgui would instantly quip: "You know, I was in this great airport in Puerto Vallarta last winter where they served this wonderful coffee! And let me just say to our Mexican listeners: ¡Le deseamos el mejor!") and their choice of the syndicated Sunday morning program, Radio Deluxe (where hosts John Pizzarelli and Jessica Molaskey play an assortment of jazz classics performed almost soley by - wait for it - John Pizzarelli and Jessica Molaskey! Here's a lesson to all you starving artists: if those royalty cheques aren't coming in fast enough, just start a show where you can program your own work).
However, lately, outside of these distractions I've had to lunge for the remote more and more. JazzFM is becoming synonymous with all the clichés that keep people under the age of 55 from listening (or considering listening) to jazz: the first, that "jazz" is a never-ending series of earnestly pedantic covers of songs such as "I Can See Clearly Now" and "Aguas de Marco". The second, that everything you need to program a jazz-based radio station is contained in the Blue Note CD box set (seriously: I pulled this out last year and began listening to all 5 CDs, and I had to stop because I realized this was practically half of JazzFM's playlist).
In the end, I fear JazzFM is becoming just another Top-40/Oldies radio station. This is great news for Michael Bublé and Diana Krall - can anyone name an original composition either of them has written? But what of people who've never experienced anything but the mention of Oscar Peterson's name? Did Miles Davis stop creating music after 1960? In case anyone from the station is reading this (or not), I'm not asking for the Jolly Roger to be flown over the JazzFM building - what I'm asking is whether the middle of the road (which is where they seem to be sitting) needs to be so damned narrow.
My friend, Charles Spearin, has released an innovative CD he calls "The Happiness Project". The gist of it is that he began to interview his neighbours and recorded their conversations. Attuned to the tonality of how people expressed themselves he got the idea to replace the voices of his interviewee's with musical instruments which mimicked each person's voice pattern. The result is a unique (and very approachable) experiment which weaves voice, instrumentation, and environmental background sounds (birds, etc..). You may know Charles' other projects, namely Broken Social Scene or Do Make Say Think. If you're interested, please check out the site for "The Happiness Project" and see what he's up to.
Yes...the improv-rock band, of which I am a member, returns. We play the mighty Press Club this Monday (July 28th). If you are in Toronto or plan to visit, check us out.
Without going into great detail, my friend Simon got me hooked on a list-making exercise. The task: list your favourite albums (favoured for various personal or technical reasons) for every year you've been alive.
This posed many problems, as anyone who loves music would discover. Firstly, how does one pick only *one* album from, let's say 2004 when there were so many great releases ("Louden Up Now" by !!! being a notable casualty). What about albums that - while not "great" - represent a moment in time for the listener which can never be replaced (I'm thinking "Pod" by The Breeders).
As Simon later shared with me, after we'd posted our lists, there are Sophie's Choice moments: which albums do you choose to include and which do you decide to cast away? Heart-breaking, really. And then, of course, there are those years which for the individual are barren (mid-80s, mid-90s) of truly wonderful music...choosing between two or more great releases is one thing; at least you can make a choice. What do you do when there's nothing particularly good? (Hint: you hold your nose and spin the wheel.)
And of course, after you make these choices, you inevitably bolt out of your sleep in the middle of the night, screaming "Why didn't I pick The The? Nooo!". Oh, the horror. In any case, these are what I picked. Try it some day - it's hard, but sorta fun at the same time (he says).
The list:
1970 - Cosmo's Factory, Creedence Clearwater Revival
1971 - Pearl, Janis Joplin
1972 - Exile on Main Street, The Rolling Stones
1973 - Stranded, Roxy Music
1974 - 1969: Velvet Underground Live, The Velvet Underground *
1975 - Physical Graffiti, Led Zeppelin
1976 - Fly Like An Eagle, Steve Miller Band
1977 - Marquee Moon, Television
1978 - Street Hassle, Lou Reed
1979 - The Wall, Pink Floyd
1980 - Scary Monsters, David Bowie
1981 - Tattoo You, The Rolling Stones
1982 - Shoot Out The Lights, Richard and Linda Thompson
1983 - Rock 'n Soul, Pt. 1, Hall & Oates
1984 - Couldn't Stand The Weather, Stevie Ray Vaughan
1985 - This Nation's Saving Grace, The Fall
1986 - The Colour of Spring, Talk Talk
1987 - The Joshua Tree, U2 ***
1988 - If I Should Fall From Grace With God, The Pogues
1989 - tie: Girls Girls Girls, Elvis Costello **
1989 - tie: Doolittle, Pixies
1990 - Passages, Ravi Shankar and Philip Glass
1991 - Symphony No. 3, Op. 36, Henryk Gorecki
1992 - Whale Music, The Rheostatics
1993 - The Sound of Speed, The Jesus and Mary Chain**
1994 - Bee Thousand, Guided By Voices
1995 - Alien Lanes, Guided By Voices
1996 - Murder Ballads, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds ***
1997 - September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill, Various
1998 - The Italian Flag, Prolapse
1999 - Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada, Godspeed You Black Emperor! ****
2000 - Kid A, Radiohead
2001 - Born Into Trouble As The Sparks Fly Upward, The Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band
2002 - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco
2003 - tie:Winter Hymn Country Hymn Secret Hymn, Do Make Say Think
2003 - tie: Fever To Tell, Yeah Yeah Yeahs
2004 - N'Ecoutez Pas, Fly Pan Am
2005 - No Wow, The Kills ***
2006 - Glissandro 70, Glissandro 70
2007 - Tromatic Reflexxions, Von Südenfed
2008 - Au Contraire, Pas Chic Chic
* (technically, it came out in '74 even though it was recorded in '69)
** (compilations, but I say it's fair)
*** (arguably terrible years for albums, music, and mankind)
**** (of all the years, there was simply nothing I could slot in here that I was really happy with)
I must make an admission.
Even though I'm a writer, even though I work in film and television, even though I take pretty photos with pretty cameras, there is nothing that seeps faster through my skin, as someone who feels for art, as wholly as music. For me it is the ethyl alcohol of expression.
All it takes is a well-played scale in the right key, on the right day, in the right mood, and I'm sold. Here I am, cash in hand! What band is that? Who is that? Some songs attack me unawares with their brilliance, ignobly leaking out of someone's cheap computer speaker from some streaming internet radio station. It's like one of Homer's Sirens, and me without wax to plug my ears or spare hands on the ship's deck to strap me down.
I remember music with succinct precision and stalk it down, if only for information to complete the missing pieces of the what/who/when puzzle I carry with me. I remember being sixteen and regularly hounding the employees at a large record store in Edmonton, asking if they knew of the existence to the soundtrack for the film Brazil (and each time my enthusiasm was met with a resounding "no". It wasn't released until over a decade later, by which time - while thankful for its eventual existence, for sake of people to experience - I was over it, like a scorned lover).
Sometimes there's nothing worse than falling in love only to be separated without details of who or what it was that caught your passion. In the case of music, it's doubly hard because you don't even have the luxury of a face etched in your memory; you are left with something frustratingly abstract: what it sounds like, which by comparison makes paleontology seem straightforward. It's the rootsy, gypsy-sounding piece with the theremin!
A recent example is the not-so-recent film Kafka, by Steven Soderbergh. As a film, it's vivid and engaging, though it suffers from Soderbergh's serial emotionlessness. It was the soundtrack, however, which caught me off-guard. A beautiful piece of work by Cliff Martinez which incorporated Eastern European (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say Western-interpreted flavours of Eastern European) motifs performed on a hammered dulcimer. As soon as I heard that instrument, in that evocative score, my attention was rapped. Done. Thank you. Unfortunately, and not unusually, there was no soundtrack issued (when you consider the type of film it was, released by a major Hollywood studio, and how miserably it must've performed in theatres, one can only imagine how the question of "Should we release a soundtrack?" was greeted). On this note, I feel bad for a lot of film and TV composers, or at least the ones whose work transcends the need to only be experienced whilst married to picture and sound effects. If you see a composer on the street, hug him or her. Then ask why the hell they're not in their studios, holding up the mix, working as they should. I digress...
Yesterday I chanced to search for the Kafka soundtrack again, and to my surprise, on Cliff Martinez' website, he has released his music cues for various soundtracks which were never commercially available before (for free, albeit with the proviso that they not be used professionally). I couldn't believe it. I found myself downloading his cues for Kafka in a single Zip file (just under 60 megabytes), and within no time, I'd transferred them to my "portable digital music player".
I ask what more fulfillment you need when you have a hammered dulcimer, its soft yet briskly percussive tones, reminiscent of a harp, in your headphones on the streetcar.
Bliss.
For anyone in Toronto who didn't check out Pas Chic Chic back in April, they are playing tomorrow (May 3rd) as part of Over The Top Fest 2008 (note: there isn't a week in Toronto where there isn't some sort of film/music festival happening). They're at the WhipperSnapper Gallery (587a College St. 8PM. $8 @ the door).
Although I'm not likely to make it this time out due to other commitments, I enjoyed their previous show at The Drake, even though it was barely publicized. Mind you, neither is this one. I don't know what the issue is, and where the finger should be pointed, but for some reason the only publicity Pas Chic Chic gets is from fans, which is unfortunate as you'd think their label (or someone) would have a vested interest in getting the word out.
By the way, I managed to pick up their CD, Au Contraire - it's very good. I'm hoping (hint to anyone out there visiting who knows the band) they decide to share the lyrics with us someday soon, as my French isn't good enough to understand what's being sung half the time.
[May 8: Pas Chic Chic's label has provided feedback in the Comments to this post. Looks like the culprit is more complex than I'd guessed. Thanks for responding, guys!]
I was walking to the bank today, toting my "portable digital music player" [note: I'm not putting that in quotes to be trite, it's just that I neither want to use the ubiquitous i-word, nor do I want to suggest that the mp3 format is the best as regards quality], listening to the song "Shoot Out The Lights" from Richard and Linda Thompson's same-titled album. Critically hailed when it came out in '82, it has since faded into obscurity, not helped by the fact that they divorced shortly after its release. I remember seeing it listed in a Rolling Stone magazine (again with the magazines, Cahill, you hypocrite), in a Best Albums of All Time issue in the mid-to-late-80's. I'd never heard of them, but for some reason, when I see something I've never heard of before listed so plainly amongst the likes of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, I just have to take notice.
When I got around to picking it up on a whim - about 20 years later - I liked it, though the production on it is terribly dated [note: I can't hold this against them or their producer since it was done on a shoe-string budget in a decade of much more heinously, shittily produced albums. And yes, "shittily" is a word I'm making up on the spot. I'm prepared to stand my ground on its use.]. The stand-out of the album is the previously mentioned title-track. It has a pair of guitar solos that remind me of what guitar solos were meant to do: attach themselves to the spirit of the song as an extension of the musician's soul. The song and the solo are one; the solo extends the reach of the song, articulating something akin to a dialogue with the larger body of the piece.
When I listen to the likes of Link Wray, Tom Verlaine, and other great guitarists, I'm reminded that - as opposed to what took root in the 80's, which was the Top40-EZ-Radio-Softcore-Metal wankfest we still have today - guitar solos weren't necessarily about razzle dazzle. Yes, since the 
Classical period when soloing took root, one of the reasons for a solo was to display the technical proficiency of the player - this cannot be denied. However, technical proficiency and artistic discipline are not mutually inclusive - one does not necessarily carry both traits by developing one.
I suppose I'm writing this because North American mass media is only interested in easily-digestible razzle dazzle. This is why a band such as Green Day was successful; they're entirely about "lite punk" attitude, the inoffensive appearance of rebellion. Soul is neither required nor condoned. Neither is subtlety. This is why even the "classic rock" radio stations clip off the best parts of songs such as Television's "Marquee Moon" - it's simply too long for them. They'll take shitty and short, thank you very much.
This is not to say that, musically speaking, I'm living in the 70's, or that I'm some sort of acetic. I honestly don't have a favourite genre of music - picking one has always seemed futile. I just like what I like. But one thing is clear: with few exceptions, my playlist contains musicians, groups, and styles that will never see the light of day on current FM radio. I was raised in rural areas where, waaaay pre-internet, the radio was the only escape for a confused kid. All I know is that I feel sorry for kids exposed to most of the crap currently out there, and I only hope that the proliferation of independently controlled internet radio stations succeed. For sake of variety. For sake of exposure.
Right. I was just tipped-off to a concert happening this Thursday (April 10) @ The Drake Hotel. It's a band called Pas Chic Chic. What excites me, other than listening to clips of their songs on Facebook, is that it's a collaboration of members from Montreal's Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Fly Pan Am, Et Sans, Silver Mt. Zion, and Cobra Noir.
In other words, I'm going.
I'm not going to go into a whole "fan" thing, but...well...I'm prepared to be a big fan of this band. Just saying.
By the clips I listened to, I'm hoping for a revival of the sound that Fly Pan Am abruptly left us with before breaking up (on their seminal album N'Ecoutez Pas) - a sort of sonic, 60's psychedelic, prog synth, rock-out sorta thing.
More info here
An eclectic stew for you today, the reader.
Last night's show at Mitzi's Sister (see previous entry) went very well. The band was tight, though I found myself slightly disappointed overall in the experience. Part of it has to do with the fact that, when you step onto a stage to perform (whether it be reading, acting, or drumming), particularly when you don't have the opportunity to very often, time passes like a buttered bullet. You find yourself walking off the stage, seemingly five minutes after you got up there when in fact it's been more like forty. As the glare of the stage lights leave your eyes and you join the ranks of the audience, ending your turn as it were, you feel as if you could've done more - either in your performance or in your enjoyment of the experience.
The last time we played (same place, nearly the same date), the situation was reversed. I had a blast and thought we did a great job (also the crowd was bigger and they defied the typical "Toronto audience" behaviour, with one or two actually dancing), but when I talked to the band they were less than thrilled.
Methinks this disconnectedness is a drummer-thing. Or a writer-posing-as-drummer-thing. Someday I'll know what I want to do when I grow up.
- - -
Yesterday there was school shooting in Illinois at a university. Five dead and fifteen wounded. While this left me numbed - what really can I or anyone else do about it after the fact? - what I found staggering was that this was the fourth shooting at a U.S. school in the last week.
In the (normally poisonous) comment section on the Globe & Mail, someone noted how this phenomena (of which we are certainly not immune in Canada) seems to be applicable only to wealthier Western societies. In other words, for no apparent logical reason, given the superficial socio-economic circumstances of the communities in which these acts occur.
Earlier this week, my wife and I finally got around to watching Gus Van Sant's Elephant. I'd avoided seeing it because, although I was sure it was going to be well done, I didn't want to see something that articulated such a heavy-hitting subject - the Columbine massacre of April 1999. The film surprised me, in that rather than meditating on the after-effects (ie. 2 video-hours of grief), it dealt with the event as it happened, mostly in real-time, from the perspective of several characters who are students in the high school, including the two killers. Neither glorifying the horror nor practising intellectual avoidance, I thought the film was very strong, though ironically I thought it could've been more meditative in the end - perhaps a more hands-on narrative was necessary. This is not to say that it was Peckinpah via Linklater.
Aside from the coincidental nature of seeing Elephant amidst a surge of related killings across the U.S., I cannot help but wonder what lies at the heart of this. I can tell you what doesn't, as far as I'm concerned: guns, videogames, and violent films. Each, in their own way, are massively influential on youths, but I refuse to believe that they are in any way a cause.
It's as if, more and more, there is a proportion of our society that acts as if it's had a frontal lobotomy, thus removing a moral imperative that, for most, would stop us from taking enjoyment from the random killing of others around us. I find myself looking for answers: is this a bio-medical condition (say, exposure to heavy metals), a psychological illness, or strictly speaking is this something that can be explained sociologically? All of the above?
But another part of me often wonders: when we removed Christianity from public spaces like schools (and I don't argue with the need to do so), did we replace it with anything substantial? I sometimes wonder if, in the removal of a code of behaviour (as corrupted, hypocritical, or out-of-touch as it may have been) are we thoughtful of what should be put in its place - something substantial and not generic, p0litically-correct lip service which ends up inspiring no one? Or, am I kidding myself, in that we are all really indiscriminate savages on the inside, holding on desperately to illusions of civilization?
- - -
I remember, as a kid and avid comic-reader at the time, reading a story called The Realists. A handsome high school hunk-type is lured by the "new girl", a beauty, back to her house after school one day. She tempts him with a special drink. When he drinks it, it's like he's under the influence of a drug - everyone around him is ugly and fat, food is rotten, he stares at his reflection in the mirror and sees that he's hideous. She tells him that what he drank is real water, and that what he and the rest of society consumes is laced with a drug which provides the illusion of a beautiful "normalcy". He runs out of her house, screaming, and as the "drug" wears off, he decides to treat the experience like a bad dream and forget the fact that what he thinks is reality is actually an engineered apparition.
- - -
These are fleeting thoughts, sufficiently scattered. Enjoy your weekend.
So, the band I'm in - Behind The Garage - have a gig this Thursday (Valentine's Day). We're playing at the venerable Mitzi's Sister (1554 Queen Street West, just west of Lansdowne). It would be a great thrill, boost, and gas to have one and all come out if available.
We don't play covers and we're pretty darn good (tm).
Just today, I was sitting in the kitchen of a post production audio house - my current temporary office - and found myself inexplicably tuning in to what was playing on the radio: Schubert's Symphony No.5. It's a dreadfully beautiful piece of music. I say dreadfully, because it's so evocative as to remove my mind from the mountain of very important things I have to tend to.
Thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the building who could either name what was being played, or who would allow themself to be affected (nay swoon). But it's not like I set out one day in my youth, predetermined to "learn" classical music. I don't think anyone does, regardless of what it is we end up liking. Often we come across these things circumstantially. If it hadn't been for my watching A Death in Venice on TV one night long ago, I probably wouldn't have sought Schubert's symphony, nor the original story by Thomas Mann. I should also thank the old Warner Brothers cartoons, in particular the Bugs Bunny classic The Rabbit of Seville (riffing brilliantly and faithfully on Rossini's Barber of Seville).
Jazz came to me later, introduced by my flipping around the radio, looking for something other than Top-40 pap. And like everything I love, once I get hooked I find myself wanting to know more, filling in the holes illuminated by the light of my curiosity. I'm prone to infatuation and, not entirely unlike the tragic protagonist of Mann's Venice, find myself obsessed to learn as much as possible about these things.
The problem is that both Classical and Jazz, while not dead, are held in a stasis by so-called Classical and Jazz "lovers" who seek, paternalistically, to coddle them like glass-boned children, halting their growth (intentionally or not) and - as a dire result - their acceptance to new generations.
To some, this statement is nothing short of heresy. In Reflections of a Siamese Twin, John Ralston Saul - writing about the aggressive protectionism of French language in Quebec - made two valuable insights which also reflect on the state of Classical and Jazz music. First, that culture is not something which society should attempt to create, control, or destroy to meet our fashionable needs - it's a living organism which follows its own path. Second, that the only languages which need protection are dead languages. That is to say, he was criticising those who strove to legally protect and manipulate something which didn't require it in the first place.
The problem isn't that most of us don't tune-in to Classical or Jazz radio. The problem is that most everything programmed on these stations (with varying degrees, depending upon where you're located) is safe, old, and terribly predictable. Say what you will about the soulless depths of corporate-run, computer-programmed Top 40 radio, but one thing you can't deny is that they play songs written during this century (already nearly 8 years old). Jazz and Classical radio suffers from a predilection: only play the standards. Their philosophy: who cares if you play three different interpretations of Lullaby of Birdland seven times a day - it's a standard. Who cares if the daily playlist is the same tired variation of Mozart, Brahms, and Beethoven - they're popular.
They're partially correct: Lullaby of Birdland is a standard, and those three dead white German guys are popular. For both genres, deservedly so. But, in a contemporary sense, it's only to the extent of pleasing people who have no desire to see either Classical or Jazz develop in different directions. When was the last time you heard anything from Miles Davis' Bitches Brew on the radio? That album was released almost 40 years ago - when was the last time you heard a single Classical composition written within this time?
We can't rely on movie soundtracks and cartoons to bring notice to the brilliance of older forms of music - if we do, they will always remain "older forms of music" rather than the living, breathing spirits which they are. We do both Classical and Jazz a disservice by sneering at contemporary innovation - I contend that it's the snobs who have done the most damage. We can't rely solely on the likes of Wynton Marsalis as appointed sentinels to tell us what is or what is not jazz music. We can't forsake contemporary composers, like Alexina Louie, to keep programming the same tiresome Mozart/Brahms/Beethoven lineup for our orchestras.
People should be freely exposed to different forms of music. Often. However, it should be neither prescriptive nor mandated. Assuming we are only as developed as the environment we are exposed to, it makes critical sense to see, hear, and experience as many things as possible. It is for this reason that protectionism makes no sense.
[author's note: when using the terms "Classical" and "Jazz", I'm using popular terminology. Technically, within both (admittedly very broad) genres, there are countless sub-categories (Baroque, Be-Bop, Fusion, Romantic...).]
(Yes...I know it's May. Don't take me so literally.)
One of the most captivating songs - a song that seems destined to have an everlasting power, despite a gaggle of jazz performers hanging their hat on it to fill out an album or hope upon hope for a Billboard spot - is a bossa nova piece, originally written by Antonio Carlos Jobim in 1972, called Waters of March (or Águas de Março in its native Portuguese). Remarkably, one of the definitive versions (although there are so many beautiful renditions) is captured on YouTube here, performed by Elis Regina. [sidenote: watch this side-by-side with the early 80's video for Every Breath You Take by The Police - the similarities in the look, style, direction, and editing are uncanny]
What I love about the song, ever since I first became aware of it long, long ago (and still, it took me years to find the name of the song - I was convinced that Astrud "The Girl From Ipanema" Gilberto had done it originally, which turned out to be a red herring...as so many things I'd naively attributed to her - but that's another story) is its flow and stream of consciousness; considering it was written during Rio de Janeiro's downpours in late March - the end of summer in the Southern Hemisphere - it's a stunning bit of onomatopoeia.
Though originally written in Portuguese - the language of Brazil, for all you junior ranchers out there - Jobim eventually re-worked the lyrics into an English translation which is actually longer (which was necessary to keep the feel/structure of the original). For more information on this song, please see this entry in Wikipedia.
Here are the Portuguese lyrics and their English re-working:
Águas de Março
"É pau, é pedra,
é o fim do caminho
É um resto de toco,
é um pouco sozinho
É um caco de vidro,
é a vida, é o sol
É a noite, é a morte,
é o laço, é o anzol
É peroba do campo,
é o nó da madeira
Caingá candeia,
é o matita-pereira
É madeira de vento,
tombo da ribanceira
É o mistério profundo,
é o queira ou não queira
É o vento ventando,
é o fim da ladeira
É a viga, é o vão,
festa da cumeeira
É a chuva chovendo,
é conversa ribeira
Das águas de março,
é o fim da canseira
É o pé, é o chão,
é a marcha estradeira
Passarinho na mão,
pedra de atiradeira
É uma ave no céu,
é uma ave no chão
É um regato, é uma fonte,
é um pedaço de pão
É o fundo do poço,
é o fim do caminho
No rosto o desgosto,
é um pouco sozinho
É um estrepe, é um prego,
é uma ponta, é um ponto
É um pingo pingando,
é uma conta, é um conto
É um peixe, é um gesto,
é uma prata brilhando
É a luz da manhã,
é o tijolo chegando
É a lenha, é o dia,
é o fim da picada
É a garrafa de cana,
o estilhaço na estrada
É o projeto da casa,
é o corpo na cama
É o carro enguiçado,
é a lama, é a lama
É um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um resto de mato,
na luz da manhã
São as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração
É uma cobra, é um pau,
é João, é José
É um espinho na mão,
é um corte no pé
São as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração
É pau, é pedra,
é o fim do caminho
É um resto de toco,
é um pouco sozinho
É um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um belo horizonte,
é uma febre terçã
São as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração"
Waters of March
A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush
The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart
The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone
A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow
The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale
A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night
A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud
Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart
A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone
A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe
A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road
A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run
And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.
This Saturday night, come out and see the band I'm in, Behind The Garage, when we play @ Mitzi's Sister (1554 Queen St. W.) with The Three Bears, Alain Gratton, and The People of Canada.
The fun starts @ 9pm. No cover.
No..really, you should come to this. And I'm told you should bring "single friends"; by this, I'm assuming they don't mean "a single individual friend", but rather friends who are not betrothed to another. Just saying.
So...I'm drumming again. In spades.
This Tuesday (April 17th) at The Cloak & Dagger (College & Bathurst) I'm appearing with a rag tag outfit of musicians for a jam night. My colleagues include Shannon Du Hasky (from the Z-Rays) on guitar, Graydon James on bass, and Nancy Brooks on French horn. If all goes well, it could spring into a regular fixture (!).
The last time I performed live (or even played on a drum kit for that matter) was over 12 years ago...in Thorold no less. It was the end of the band I'd been playing with for several years, a fin de siecle for that part of my life and it was a terrible (nay apocalyptic) gig. It was one of those nights where you grab your gear and run so that you don't have to remember anything about it. We never played again for various good reasons, although it was nice while it lasted 1.
Fast forward: not only am I part of the jam outfit, but I'm also part of a new band called Behind The Garage (appearing April 28th @ Mitzi's Sister).
Weird. But damned fun. Like life.
Come on out and enjoy the drink and songs - I couldn't imagine playing in a better environment with a better group of people. 2
Update: Okay...I looked up the band I used to be in (we were called Spin Tree. We hailed from Burlington.) and found our demo album listed on someone's Most Underrated Albums of All Time list. Wow. I sent him an email thanking him...it's a little overwhelming to see yourself on someone's list with such luminaries as Inspiral Carpets and Arcade Fire.
1. We were a goth band. I can say this now because at the time I hated when we were referred to as a goth band. Okay - we were a goth band with non-goth aspirations. We played with some well-known acts of the day, and got to play at such venues as The Opera House and The Drake (before it closed and became what it is now).
2. Until meeting and playing with Behind The Garage and the jam-band (if you have a band name, let me know - we're dying for one), I'd always equated playing music with friction. This, of course, was an emotional artifact from my early days where there was a lot more artistic conflict - much of it needless. It's 180 degrees different now - everyone I'm playing with is a *really nice person who also happens to be a really good musician*. Am I lucky or what?
Posts
All Comments
