This is the food tumblr of the person of the blog. Bagels and Heidegger or somesuch -
http://beingandbagels.tumblr.com/

Hashtag me, Keith Richards!

Give Thanks 2012

i remember when the storm hit and there were leaves everywhere and my friends were drinking tea in my apartment, imagining what was going on in manhattan.

1. It's different this week, yes? Didn't quite have the same equilibrium.

Yeah. I felt that. Maybe it's cos I don't know this tune as well.

It's hard. I mean, what do you do with that melody? But I love it.

2. He came up to me while i was smoking and literally just sat in my lap.

3. Adam! You're actually home!

Uh, yeah. I'm on hiatus from being dead. You should try it sometime, it's quite relaxing...

4. When I was 23 I was in New York City looking for my body.

5. -someone died. There are bars of light on the pavement beside Washington Square.

6. Mummy, what's philosophy?

7. I dreamed of music that was of the body/that neither commoditised soul nor technique/Lived its melodies as the unceasing dance of bodies/I dreamed of music that carved out of the rain a cave to sleep in and be warm.

8. I sank below the street, dripped onto a subway track and kept going. Soon, warm rock and then lava. Amid the strains of guitar music there was a cluster of souls.

A soul looks like a long, white string. Most people's souls dangle far beneath them into the mantle, where their concentric movements cause them to knot and tangle in the heat.

This causes problems.

9. Judith Butler thinks my penis is a fiction. I hope it's a good one.

10. Makeup is a prison for your face.

11. I am in love with the tubist in the NY philharmonic.

There was one time I was sitting second circle and my head was full of cotton and every breath I took was a mute contortion of my lungs into new shapes of pain and the sounds of people, their ticking and fidgeting and the noise their hair makes but FWOOOM some ritual FWOOM it was fall but we were longing for spring FWOOOOOOOM spinning and nose hurts from tears sprouting in the frost FWWWOOOOM freefall, the arc of birds, blood in the morning, when my body was with the air and free, free, free, free, free.

12. this is a good place we found. For you and me and kim and yuki and ricky and leo and all of our crazy friends and all of our crazy things.

13. you can look at the traffic forever. I never get bored.
Neither do I.

Russell:

Grace tells me you were probably not conscious. It seems a peripheral matter to me. Even inanimate objects collect the detritus of the human worlds in their orbit, and so you did, gelatinously being the locus of friendship and togetherness. So perhaps in one way to grieve would be illogical : in another way this transition would be incomplete without grief. Either way, I feel the need to mark that the seasons have changed, and acknowledge that things are irrevocably different, as it is with the passing of all things and all people who bear the burden of our loneliness.

For John Votta

I did not know this man. Therefore I feel qualified to eulogize. We are constituted he and I, from the cold air on particular autumn mornings. I saw him on the street corner; he would holler the time, and I would say nothing in reply, maybe a grunt of unassented thanks, but trustless. Perhaps he was an artifact of the village, the Village, where the knots of the square-block city congregated in parades of funny hats.

I am struggling. I knew not the man but the voice as passing strangeness on a certain autumn morning, which drove me to uncomfortable hand-rubbing in the toilet cubicles beside the park. He spoke to the alien worm in my stomach that burrows and calls weirdness from the sky. It says: those clouds are the billowy shapes of your fears, and these veins and scabs are the exhaustive circumscription of your little existence; and it calls back inarticulate through the groans of half-wakers.

As I enter the park, the man is behind me but I build him in my imagination. He walks down to the corner in the burgeoning daylight. Death and struggle collide in his head. Not struggle – the village struggle, always a matter of height, always the 'I Am' in the face of the tall heroic, the infantesque colic, bones broken and feet bound, endlessly walking/negotiating the intersections of height and queer subject formation in the sun-barred back streets. Every morning from the sticky unlatching of eyelids he rebuilds himself, an unsellable story of liver spots and shortness of breath.

Breath is unacknowledged father of performativity. Prior to gendered subject formation, lungs expand and respond to the edges of the air. Perhaps he practices. Non sequitur, the time (the time) and the momentless passing of cars, the imperative Hey, the imperative subject formation directed at one but addressing the other, in a bathroom crucible addressing the passing of the centuries: Hey. Watch the fuck out. Five minutes.

Five minutes snuck up on me with my coffee and leather shoes. I stood, became a walking subject, sloped the ninety-eight steps from bench to staircase, and whisked by the man who had by now addressed his interpellations to other sun-struck denizens of weirdspace. They do not recognize him. I do not recognize him except as an urge to pick at scabs, to bleed imperceptibly. Who the fuck knew?  

Delores

A candle and a table spoon
delores in the living room
she's forgetting all the fables soon

but look at what they bought her

She tried to go out for awhile
and show the morning fog a smile
but fathers never reconcile
the darkness of the daughter

she made a penny of her rage
and inky menses dot her page
but calligraphics never caged
the warning winds of slaughter

But pay a thought to those before us
who never saw what you, Delores
saw within the rib of horrors
Death: you never sought her.

Meriden

just a little thing i wrote sometime last year that i dug up recently and thought I'd share.

I

The suburbs of Meriden. I spent a few days there, looking among roaches and empty bottles, cruising the hilly housing district with Duba and Chris Ward and moustache Dan (who had had a facial hair crisis) and Mary Jane. The hanging hills of Meriden. This is not my world. I am a grandchild of immigrants. I am a native of south-east Asia, and the reticence of those people is in my blood. And these people with a tendency toward substances and rock and roll are as removed a people from me as anybody in the world. Alien habitats - rows of wood-walled houses and green lawn, the great expanse of ambition.

The hanging hills of Meriden. I spent two years serving in the Singaporean army, mostly against my will, hacking through jungles. I encompassed the unfamiliar, the wide streets and cold forests that were everything except my crowded high-rise country. I was compelled to leave by the sharp corners of the unfamiliar. So this is my world, and these are my people. The poetry of Dylan and Garcia, Hendrix, the itinerants of the evergreen nation.

We spent St. Patrick's day making music. We sang songs that we had written. We drank and played an Italian card game and passed out and threw up in the sink. I spent the night in someone else's bed. What are we looking for. Nobody is looking for anything. We will wake up in the morning and laugh at the excesses of the night and take the train back home to New York City, where we live beside a church and a bank. The eternal pilgrims, hawking their trade by lamplight and jesus by sunlight and cutting down trees.

There is a ringing in my soul. I am tongue-tied outside the world of my childhood, as if words sprouted from the stones of an old home and were ripped from my throat as I tore through the upper atmosphere, headed west. Frankfurt, JFK: The slow progression of the soul. The sprouting of the soul. I am also hesitant to be sentimental but something inside me calls out to the trees - I want, more than anything, to be at home, to breathe the air of home, to be held and to be whispered to that everything will be alright. Too much strangeness in this country, too much freedom.

To wake up and laugh the night off. That is my desire. The warm air of Singapore. The embrace of trees. The short, brightly-lit highways. The smell of hawker food. The great expanse of ambition. To wake up in America and scrape the paint off the walls with my eyes, looking for the spirit in the mortar. The smell of cigarettes. The frantic clutching for meaning. To wake up in Singapore. I am composed of the streets of my homeland.

Perhaps there is nothing here - all was left in England by the Puritans. I have only come, then, to look for something that is not something. I have perused bonfires and leafed through the arches of New York City in the night time. I am the son of Aristotle. Perhaps the sight of moonlight on a lake through clouds of smoke is only the reflection of an alien yearning. We took the train home, smiling to each other. The pilgrims came for the New World, but they soon discovered that no world is forever new unless you are forever lonely.

II

1. Nicholas : I don’t know what’s up with Adam. We gave him some of the sweet leaf and he’s been sitting in the car all this while just staring ahead at the back of Chris’s seat. I asked him if he was alright and he just nodded and continued staring. I think he’s just far too high, the poor bird, he never took a hit for twenty years while he was in South-East Asia.

We’ve been driving for about an hour now, working through the last of that quarter ounce we got from the Doctor. I hope Adam comes out of that stoner coma, he’s usually pretty fun, but he listens to some weird music.

2. Dan : I’m glad they let me drive. I hate sitting in the back. It’s nice to be doing things when you’re baked. Just gotta remember that left turn before Chris’s… Every time Adam says something I jump a little because I keep forgetting he’s there, except he seems to have a cold perpetually and he keeps sniffling. But he doesn’t say anything, I wonder what he’s thinking about. Maybe he’s just really high.
3. ‘Hey, Dan. Put on the, uh, put on some Wolfmother. No, the first album, before the line-up changed. Man, they rocked the shit out back then, I don’t think I like them as much now. Put on ‘Woman’. Remember when we covered that at the first session last year? We rocked that shit. Pity the singer’s such a cunt. I heard he took all the rights and fired his bandmates claiming that he wrote all the songs. Well, yeah, he wrote the words, but most of those songs is the rest of the band. It’s the fucking rock and roll. Hey, Adam, now that you’re playing bass we should try ‘Woman’ again. Do you like this song?’

4. ‘So what happened to the moustache?’

‘Oh, that thing I had in New York? Shaved it off, man. The girlfriend didn’t like it.’

‘Jesus. I barely recognized you.’

‘Which one is Andrew’s car?’

‘A blue Hyundai. That’s what he said.’

‘Blue Hyundai… he’ll be up in a few seconds.’

‘Is that him?’

‘No… wait, there he is. Roll down the window.’

‘ANDREW - Get in.’

5. Andrew : It is so crowded in here. I’m so confused right now. But everybody seems nice… yeah. Everybody seems alright. I didn’t think Adam would come all the way here from the city - he’s usually just alone. I thought he didn’t like us very much… but maybe they’re just all that way back in Singapore. He seems pretty good right now though. Hey, brother, been smokin’ some of that reefer, man? Yeah man, it’s pretty groovy. It’s REALLY groovy, in fact. Right on, brother. Peace. I should put on the Dead. I think he’d like that, maybe ‘I know you rider’. Jerry Garcia, man. Really really fucking groovy.
6. I know you, rider, gonna miss me when I’m gone. I know you, rider; gonna miss me when I’m gone. Gonna miss your baby, from rolling in your arms. Laid down last night, lord, I could not take my rest. Laid down last night, lord. I could not take my rest. My mind was wandering like the wild geese in the west.
   
   
   III

We were all pretty high, so the reporting of events may be a little compressed in time or a little confused. Nonetheless, I’m fairly certain that all of this actually happened. Eric called – he was in town. We drove for forty-five minutes to his house, another twenty to the dealer’s, who dropped us a few dimebags’ worth from his second-floor window. Then we were in a basement for some time.

Somebody said, ‘Hey, it’s pretty late – why don’t we go down to the lake? Is there a road there, Eric?’

Eric said ‘Yeah, there’s a road, it’s like five minutes away.’

Then we were on a dismantled bridge that spanned halfway across the lake, now more of a pier than anything. There was a huge backhoe abandoned amidst the broken concrete and mud; we clambered over the treads and stood on the cab, looking at the moonlight coming off the water. We were quiet for a few minutes. Somebody asked if anybody wanted the rest of the blunt. I think nobody said anything – we just kept looking. It was so still. There was a cold wind blowing. I hadn’t spoken much in the last three hours, anyway – there wasn’t much to say. I was so far away from anything I knew how to talk about. But this moonlight, this lake – yeah, I was pretty baked, but so what? It was nice. Not a lot of nice things happen these days.

The best games I've ever played

I suppose I could use an outlet for my Diablo 3 - induced nerdrage. Seriously, Blizzard, way to drop the ball. But to prove, perhaps to myself, that there is in fact an objective standard for fun or whatever it is gets people hard for video games, here are some of the ones I've enjoyed the most.

1. Portal
The perfect one. Not even Portal 2 could top its simple formula of mechanics that are fun and a plot that I'm capable of giving a shit about. It turns out that the combination of a serious, thoughtfully written script and a little bit of deadpan neurotic humour was enough to convince me that the developers had made an experience worth having.

2. Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri.
Oh, SMAC. not s'mac, the food chain that fetishizes mac and cheese, but the bastard cousin of the Civ series. It dropped between Civ II and III but I think tops all of them any time, because it has a plot. In a free form strategy game. That happens as you progress without ridiculous scripted events and cutscenes. I won't be the first to say it, but game design has taken several leaps backward since the 90s.

3. Halo
This one's all about presentation. The ringworld-esque story might have smelled a tad regurgitated, but Bungie scored a bona fide hit by making environments I wanted to explore, enemies I wanted to shoot at, vehicles I wanted to drive, and missions I wanted to finish. The driving mission at the end is one of the finest moments in video game history.

4. System Shock 2
I didn't finish it. I'm not sure I even got halfway but goddamn. this is the scariest game I have ever played, and back then they had no recourse to fancy shaders, moody lighting, or realistic blood. Even so I had nightmares for weeks about zombies that pop out of nowhere and apologize to you while caving your skull in and eating your guts. Holy fucking jesus.

5. Starcraft
I hate to cry foul at corporate profiteering like some insufferable hipster. Indie games, like indie music, have just about as high a nonsense quotient as 'mainstream' games do. But Blizzard's post-WoW offerings have smelled too much of money-grabbing and committee design, jumping like bitches in heat on the gaming flavour-of-the-month design buzzword.

Here are some choice quotes from the first Starcraft, that I might remember the good old days of video game dialogue.

'Awaken my child, and embrace the glory that is your birthright. Know that I am the Overmind; the eternal will of the Swarm, and that you have been created to serve me.'

'You speak of knowledge, Judicator? You speak of experience? I have journeyed through the darkness between the most distant stars. I have beheld the births of negative-suns and borne witness to the entropy of entire realities... Unto my experience, Aldaris, all that you've built here on Aiur is but a fleeting dream. A dream from which your precious Conclave shall awaken, finding themselves drowned in a greater nightmare.'

'Jimmy, drop the knight-in-shining-armor routine. It suits you sometimes. Just not ... not now. I don't need to be rescued. I know what I'm doing. The Protoss are coming to destroy the entire planet, not just the Zerg. I know that because ... well I just know it. I am a Ghost, remember?'

I liked that they wrote characters who were interesting even when they weren't deep (The Overmind), and likable when they were (Raynor and Kerrigan). I liked that the plot managed to involve me. I was outraged when Kerrigan betrayed Fenix.

And then Blizzard took a giant shit on Jim Raynor in SC2. I can't even describe what they did coherently. It does sound to a lay person like myself that their post-WoW windfall managed to destroy what made them great designers in the first place: solid mechanics and workmanlike story telling, with characters who were normal enough to be real.

6. Diablo 2

Yes, it goes deeper. On the other side of the Blizzard spectrum we have D2, which lacked the solid writing and affable characterisation of Starcraft (Stay awhile, and listen!), but won the fucking lottery as far as mechanics go. I have probably spent more time playing diablo 2 than I have any other single activity in the world. It's very simple. You get rewarded for killing things by becoming incrementally better at killing things.  You derive satisfaction from killing things in large numbers, and also from becoming better at killing things in large numbers. Sometimes they explode when you kill them. The item system was well-designed, the random loot gave me a good reason to keep playing, the uniques were well-designed and thematically interesting, the bosses were tough, the enemies were varied and cool to look at (I'm thinking of Oblivion Knights here. Great balls of elemental death). The skills system was rigorous enough to demand attention, but loose enough to allow all kinds of ridiculous builds. Part of the fun was designing a build which worked in its own awkward, teetering way and finishing the bloody game with it. I remember staggering into act 2 hell with a kicksin, wearing a 6 socketed phase blade and a tiamat's revenge, kicking one thing to death and then getting mauled by everything else on screen. It was frustrating, but it was also good times.

The plot, while unspectacular, served well enough to guide you along from quest to quest and stayed out of the way while you were committing genocide on the Fallen. If nothing else, it had a pleasing symmetry to it. First 2 acts - the lesser evils. 3, 4 and 5 - the Prime Evils, each with their own unique flavour of horrible. It was an efficiently designed story.

So believe me when I say I know quite a bit about what I'm talking about when I say that Blizzard really boffed it with D3. There's no reward to the endless grind that is central to Diablo because none of the items are interesting beyond 'main stat plus damage' which is the only viable item build in the game, because all of your abilities scale off weapon damage. I loved D2 because I could design a workable character around hilarious items like Tiamat's Revenge (the triple elemental damage shield with no block and not enough defence) or the good ol 6-shael phase blade of ridiculous attack speed. Every item drop would unlock new possibilities for character building. While the skill system in D3 pays lip service to diversity, its monolithic weapon damage mechanic makes the item system irrelevant. Also, being able to change my skills at any point gives me no satisfaction for leveling up or building a character. 




EDIT: Honorable mentions. Some of these are just as good as the ones above, but didn't seem as relevant in a discussion of what makes games good.


Half-Life 2
Halo 2
Baldur's Gate 2
Angband
Diablo
Star Wars : KotOR
LoL
Fallout 3
Warcraft 3
Pokemon Gold and Silver
Portal 2

the experience of nicotine withdrawal

listen up,

on the 3rd day the shaking starts and it goes away when you finally wheeze out, fifty years later.

and in between then and then,

who can say what happens? the great auroric transition from boy to corpse,

punctuated with

palpitations and long aching dreams of short cigarette breaks

Give Thanks, 2011

1. Juliana is half a head shorter than me. In the rain I'm looking down anyway to keep it out of my face; she says something like 'that's why socialism is international, because one country can be socialist but it's gonna get screwed by other countries that want its resources.' The rain continues to pour, but in the clear plastic awning of the Tribeca Tavern we are sheltered from the brutal gusts of wind that send droplets down my collar.

2. 'I'm sorry you were waiting out in the cold,' or something to that effect, says Jean-michel. I say 'look at the trees. The leaves are beautiful.' 'You are enjoying it? I'm sorry for taking so long, I didn't realise you were out here.' I say 'We don't have autumn in Singapore.' He says 'Come in.'

3. Steve steps over to us, he might have said something but my ears are ringing and Chris and I share a look that says 'what just happened? Why did we stop playing' until I notice one of the strings on Nick's guitar is dangling, flapping about like a broken limb. Oh. Nick says that the new string isn't gonna stay in tune through a song like 'Power of Soul.' I say 'Nick, you wanna rap?'

4. In Singapore, I'm in a taxi crying my brains out. I thought you'd be better at this. What have you been doing? If you say that, it's never coming together. I will practice harder. I don't ever want to be a musician, it's too hard I've given it everything and here I am curled up like a stillborn foetus, covered in tears and afterbirth.

5. I am behind the cargo containers in the center of Taiwan. I can't remember my name, or what just happened; I know I failed in some way and that I shouldn't care but the rain and the gravel press into my feet and hands and nothing is escapable.

6. Can we do just one more quick one? Stella by starlight, around here (Gilbert counts it off fast)

hey man, I'm glad you came by--Sorry about the amp--Yeah man, Ray Brown is such a boss--I think that's pretty swingin'--Do you wanna learn this Ron Carter blues I've been working on--Sound good guys, that's just like the record. Are you reading from scores or something?

7. 'I think music is an inherently political act. That's why Darlene Clark Hine talks about 'sexual politics' when she discusses the blues singers. I mean - yeah, it's not political music as in it's not really a social critique, but just by, um, putting your experiences out there... I mean, what I'm saying is, it really kind of affirms that you're a human being, with real concerns and real experiences and I think once people accept that through music then there's the possibility for social change.'

8. 'So what I've really been meaning to tell you--and I only say this because you're my friend and I feel like I can trust you with this information--is that I'm basically Jesus.' 'Oh yeah, I think I've known for awhile, I mean we suspected that was the case.' 'Yeah. it's not really all that. People bitch a lot about stupid things. Am I walking too fast?' 'Yeah, I'm still getting the hang of these...' 'I'm sorry you broke your feet. I made those, you know.'

9. 山 is my friend. She has red hair and she’s a little bit less tall than I am. Usually she floats about five to ten centimetres over the ground, though, so we’re at eye level. She says my right profile is more flattering and refuses to walk on the other side of me. I say, ‘山, god fucking damn it.’ She says, glowing a little, ‘yeah. It’s shit. But look at the trees!’

10. The lights had been turned out and there was the feeling of hands and faces and teeth and some shared laughter, and some shared apologies. I say some things, I was drunk at the time, but I remember the words ‘yeah, it’s alright. Freely given, you know? And freely received.’

11. It was a disappointing sundown at the Hudson. I tramped four blocks there through the cold, I had Keith Jarrett or Grant Green or the Duke, something which I consider Proper Sunset Music on the headphones. It was too cloudy to see anything but the gradual fading of the day from orange-tinted grey to dark-blue-grey. The lights on the cliffs of New Jersey came on one by one.

12. Nick and Kim are a kind of conglomerate entity on the couch. I am on the armchair. I say 'Jesus the weather is fucking awful.' 'Yeah, it's been ridiculous.' It keeps raining, somewhat.

A few weeks later, it’s still raining and it’s going to be Thanksgiving in a few hours and the trees are dripping. Freely given and freely received. God fucking damn it, Christmas is coming. Jesus mother fucking Christ. I hate the weather.

13. Keith Jarrett is moaning. Jack is swirling like a blizzard and Gary is thundering like a tropical storm and Keith is moaning and screaming and playing and playing and playing.

Keith Jarrett, Jack DeJohnette, Gary Peacock

are some kind of celestial triumvirate. Listening their 'Standards Live' recording, little pockets of light push up between the spaces, illuminating everything they play in a weightless glow. On this record at least his achievement is not gravitas, but a kind of transcendent ease that is buoyant to the earth-bound.

The Old Religion

I have a bad habit, which is a kind of a Catholic retention, which happens when someone asks, or I ask what do I think about music, or what is my place in this as a south-east asian, as a guitar player, as an immigrant, as an American, what do I think about the great living tradition of African-American improvised music, or European classical music, and what is my place in them? And how am I a part of the contemporary society of professionals and journeymen who have dedicated themselves to this music, as a Chinese person, as an educated person, as an atheist, as a human being who loves human beings?

At this point all I can think of is to get down on my knees and say 'what kind of fucking question is that, I am incapable of asking let alone knowing. I am not worthy.' I shouldn't; professing not to know is as absurd as professing to know, like asking 'What are we?' where the what and the are and the we are equally incomprehensible. I have a kind of provisional answer consisting mostly of notes and sketches on manuscript paper. Music contains many elements of living, but only really answers the one question 'Are we?' The answer is yes.

budpowellbudpowellbudpowell

Today I re-read Kurt Vonnegut's 'a Man without a Country' and listened to Bud Powell play 'Cherokee' and my heart broke in two.

swimming in Monk covers

Kurt Rosenwinkel - Reflections, Ask Me Now

Bobby Broom - Rhythm-a-ning

Jean-Michel Pilc - I've Got it Bad and it Ain't Good, Solitude, Rhythm-a-ning

Couple of fantastic Monk covers here - just when I thought it couldn't be done. Rosenwinkel brings a special kind of poise to Reflections, and he channels the crazy in a way that appropriates no Monk-isms, yet is definitively loopy. Broom's Rhythm-a-ning in a guitar trio setting lets him cut loose with some crazy harmonies, and he gets to play the blues. It's the most straight-ahead of all the cuts mentioned here. Which brings me to Pilc. The first two of those aren't strictly Monk covers (they're Ellington tunes) but the way he plays them is so strongly reminiscent of the Monk Plays Ellington album - he even does that Monk 'cat running down the keyboard in suspiciously good time' lick once - that I consider these covers of Monk's versions. Pilc is actually insane, though. Sometimes I can't make head or tail of his music, but when it's good, it's really good, and he gets it right here.

swimming in Monk covers

Kurt Rosenwinkel - Reflections, Ask Me Now

Bobby Broom - Rhythm-a-ning

Jean-Michel Pilc - I've Got it Bad and it Ain't Good, Solitude, Rhythm-a-ning

Couple of fantastic Monk covers here - just when I thought it couldn't be done. Rosenwinkel brings a special kind of poise to Reflections, and he channels the crazy in a way that appropriates no Monk-isms, yet is definitively loopy. Broom's Rhythm-a-ning in a guitar trio setting lets him cut loose with some crazy harmonies, and he gets to play the blues. It's the most straight-ahead of all the cuts mentioned here. Which brings me to Pilc. The first two of those aren't strictly Monk covers (they're Ellington tunes) but the way he plays them is so strongly reminiscent of the Monk Plays Ellington album - he even does that Monk 'cat running down the keyboard in suspiciously good time' lick once. Pilc is actually insane, though. Sometimes I can't make head or tail of his music, but when it's good, it's really good, and he gets it right here.

Michael Ondaatje - The Cinnamon Peeler

If I were a cinnamon peeler

I would ride your bed

and leave the yellow bark dust

on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek

you could never walk through markets

without the profession of my fingers

floating over you. The blind would

stumble certain of whom they approached

though you might bathe

under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh

at this smooth pasture

neighbour to your hair

or the crease

that cuts your back. This ankle.

You will be known among strangers

as the cinammon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you

before marriage

never touch you

- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.

I burried my hands

in saffron, disguised them

over smoking tar,

helped the honey gatherers...

*

When we swam once

I touched you in water

and our bodies remained free,

you could hold me and be blind of smell.

You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women

the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it

to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in the act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched

your belly to my hands

in the dry air and said

I am the cinnamon

peeler's wife. Smell me.

good jazz

you feel in your feet - you need to move, to tap, even though bebop isn't particularly danceable; but it possesses an energy of the body.

Great jazz you feel in your hands because it washes down from the top of your head to fill your entire body; it fills you. That's the feeling I get when I hear Sonny Rollins's The Bridge, which you'll know that I've been listening heavily to this week.

The assuredness that characterises the playing on this album is hard to pin down but takes particular forms. Sonny's solos here are the mature culmination of his thematic explorations earlier on in his career, but they seem different in a way - compared to 1957's Night at the Village Vanguard or even Saxophone Colossus he plays less notes, more blues, and is unafraid of medium tempos and ballads. You could almost say this album is mellower in many ways than prior speed-fests, but that's a useless distinction. His gravitation toward the 'normal' or the 'mainstream' is not a mellowing-out of style but a movement downward toward the content of the music.

For example, the motivic solo that opens the album on 'Without a Song' is a paragon of grace. Of course to talk about the programmatic content of any jazz solo is complete garbage, but, as a way of understanding it, I could describe what he plays here as the return to self. Bird's freewheeling, catastrophic solos are slyly symbolic of the kamikaze consciousness of the 40s and 50s and concomitantly the terror and the exhilaration of life in the big city; it starts from a point then changes so rapidly as to become ecstatically mutilated. Sonny's solo is, on the other hand, a cry of understanding and acceptance, and a return to self. I enjoy listening to it for a different reason from Bird. Bird was crazy: Sonny Rollins is wise. There is a pleasure and a kind of hope in hearing that he had arrived at that place even in this place.

Psychological speculation aside, this is also music possessed of excellent technical mastery. The motif in the tenor solo is a simple repetition of the tonic note surrounded by the major pentatonic on the tonic (say that ten times). Sonny starts with pretty much just that, and then takes the line through the changes for awhile, but always with an incredibly detailed ear for when the line passes back through the tonic note. Every time he plays the Eb, even if it's buried in the midst of a line flying through the changes, it pops out at the listener and grounds even his wildest improvisations with the colour of the motif. I'm pretty sure that that particular musical awareness of the motif is part of the perception of assuredness that I get from this. It feels strong and stable.

I'd go on, but as it is I'm not being paid to come up with this shit. The rest of the album is more of the same; that is to say, powerful stuff. Hits : 'John S.' 'God Bless the Child' 'The Bridge' but everything's gravy, really. Highly recommended.

Bridges

I am assured by the gurus of social media that blogging at an irregular pace will cause me to lose all of my readers. That seems to contain some truth, but I dislike the notion that my readers will lose their erections if not repeatedly stroked at regular intervals. I'll blog whenever I damn well feel like. That said, please don't leave me. I'm all alone here.

I spent the last few weeks catching up with the developments in music of all sorts and trying to put my life back together. So: in that vein: Gogol Bordello. After the guy out on the street who shouted after a taxi cab 'What are you, fucking retahded?' they were probably the best thing that happened to me in Boston. I only wish I'd been down in the mosh pit instead of slowly developing a neckache from headbanging while turning my head to the right to try and follow Eugene Hutz's ridiculous stage antics. They are an an explosive band that has made their brand of gypsy punk-polka into a great party and an even greater philosophical triumph. Ask me again sometime how that happens - I'll figure it out eventually. I think that dancing like a fool is only enjoyable with the subtle realisation that it could be necessary for the health of the soul. Otherwise it's pointless and embarrassing. Or maybe I just don't know how to party. Anyway, Gogol Bordello tickled me well and good and at the end of the night I had a neckache, which is always a good indicator of fun being had. Those crazy immigrants.

On a different beat, I hit up Sonny Rollins and two albums from opposite sides of the Williamsburg Bridge - 'Saxophone Colossus' and the expertly named 'The Bridge'. Sometime in the middle of his career he stopped performing altogether and was often seen practicing alone on the Williamsburg bridge, the crazy hairy man. One expects strange things to have happened to his music after that hiatus - so it was confounding to most critics when 'The Bridge' came out and it seemed to sound pretty much like what he'd been doing all along, which is just gravy as far as I'm concerned because he's Sonny Rollins.

But anyway, what happened? He did swap out his pianist for guitarist Jim Hall, who as an accompanist is far stranger than anybody save Monk could have been - listen to the A sections of the title-track rhythm changes. The electric guitar changes up the soundscape, too. The pounding, effervescent swing of his earlier records is still there, but no more the grounding presence of a piano. Guitars play less notes at once, and with less range in terms of pitch, and Jim Hall as a particular guitarist is also very fond of counterpoint rather than continuo-style block chords. The result is an emptier, freer sounding record where the interplay between Hall's deadpan counterpoint and Rollin's bubbling energy often becomes delightful. I was a little depressed with the ballads, to be honest, where they both seem to become trapped in idioms that signify more than they deliver in terms of musical interest. I rarely like jazz ballads anyway, unless Coltrane's playing them. But those uptempo numbers! I couldn't tell you what he found up there on the Williamsburg bridge, but it must have been some kind of awesome.

In contrast to that album is the earlier Saxophone Colossus - a fairly universally well-regarded one. The piano's there, so the swing is a little more focused and hard-rocking. Which is not to say normal, Sonny's anything but, but he's a genius in a slightly more (to our accustomed ears) expected way. The calypso opener St. Thomas, now a well-deserved standard, set the precedent for his later calypso albums, in which he all but plays the same tune with a series of different titles (Don't Stop the Carnival, for example, with who I think is Bobby Broom on guitar). Me, I don't care. The careless happiness of the calypso underneath the colorful urgency of the saxophone is a winning move. And, as if to point out that they haven't gone completely native, he turns up the swing for a second solo.

For an interesting comparison, you might look up his later recordings of St. Thomas with Jim Hall, or Jim Hall's solo versions of that tune.

In America you get food to eat

won't have to run through the jungle and scuff up your feet

you just sing about Jesus and drink wine all day

it's great to be an American

Ain't no lion or tiger, ain't no mamba snake

just the sweet watermelon and the buckwheat cake

everybody is as happy as a man can be

climb aboard, little wog, sail away with me

sail away

sail away

we will cross the mighty ocean into charleston bay

sail away

sail away

we will cross the mighty ocean into charleston bay

in America every man is free

to take care of his home and his family

you'll be as happy as a monkey in a monkey tree

you're all gonna be an American

sail away

sail away

we will cross the mighty ocean into charleston bay

sail away

sail away

we will cross the mighty ocean into charleston bay

- randy newman

1988, the Pixies

Frank Black (or is it Black Francis in this year? I think it's Black Francis) is sweating. So is Kim Deal, who is the most beautiful person ever to grace the electric bass with her presence. She radiates a smile at the audience as she begins to play. 'And this I know...' the smile vanishes. She giggles out the bridge, tightropewalking between exuberance and incoherence. She's wearing a huge raggedy grey smock and black francis has a dark collar of soaked shirt and they're both nodding and singing and spit is flying everwhere.

Freeze the action for a sec -

we are at a juncture in history where lovering and santiago and francis and deal weave wide streams of logic around the heads of bewildered college students. They never coalesce. They are playing four different songs. And kim deal is almost crying with the labor of the moment - she is all lips and teeth and the relentless charging of six bass notes with centuries of womanhood

nodding and singing and spit is flying everwhere, and Lovering and Santiago are suddenly there as well, and it is transfigurative. Rock and roll shining on stage, emanating from the unwashed and sweat-soaked underwear.

HOW TO BE HAPPY

Lie.