A while back, I found myself wondering why is there a "street" a couple miles from our house that's barely a street at all?
In addition to opening my query to any Milwaukee-area Flickristas who might have a clue, I wrote to local alt-weekly Shepherd Express's "History Guy" columnist, Christopher Miller...and lo! he has responded.
The name of the street is "East Brunks Lane," and it turns out (as my doppelgänger, Czeltic Girl, also reported) to have been named after one William Brunk. Not "Brunks" - so at one point, one presumes it was actually "Brunk's Lane."
One day, all the disappeared apostrophes will rise up, and on that day, words will be broken up mercilessly, with no one able to possess their contraction into sheerest babble.
6.29.2007
and another thing...
Regarding the nursery rhyme: is there some reason anyone wishing to reconstruct an egg would, as a first choice, summon a team of horses? Are horses known for their uncanny egg-putting-back-together skillz? Am I missing something here?
Here's a curiosity (thank you, Wikipedia, for your heroic contribution to Avoiding Work):
Little man of little man, waits for himself, does not swallow
Little man of little man, by degrees of stuttering madwomen
Anal two that knots bears, anal two that leads
Strike from a louse small volume any watchman with a fish
This is a translation, from French, of phrases which, in French, sound very like "Humpty Dumpty":
Homme petit d'homme petit, s'attend, n'avale
Homme petit d'homme petit, à degrés de bègues folles
Anal deux qui noeuds ours, anal deux qui noeuds s'y mènent
Coup d'un poux tome petit tout guetteur à gaine
The English sounds like Nostradamus gone surrealist. Still, I don't think the renowned X-rated gay circus act, The Anal Two That Knots Bears, would be any better at egg reassembly.
Here's a curiosity (thank you, Wikipedia, for your heroic contribution to Avoiding Work):
Little man of little man, waits for himself, does not swallow
Little man of little man, by degrees of stuttering madwomen
Anal two that knots bears, anal two that leads
Strike from a louse small volume any watchman with a fish
This is a translation, from French, of phrases which, in French, sound very like "Humpty Dumpty":
Homme petit d'homme petit, s'attend, n'avale
Homme petit d'homme petit, à degrés de bègues folles
Anal deux qui noeuds ours, anal deux qui noeuds s'y mènent
Coup d'un poux tome petit tout guetteur à gaine
The English sounds like Nostradamus gone surrealist. Still, I don't think the renowned X-rated gay circus act, The Anal Two That Knots Bears, would be any better at egg reassembly.
6.28.2007
fortune cookie deconstruction
Went out for Chinese tonight - the fortune I received after the meal said "The wise person takes advice rather than gives it."
Okay - but if that's true, who's giving the advice? Clearly, not wise people.
So how wise is it to take advice from dummies?
Okay - but if that's true, who's giving the advice? Clearly, not wise people.
So how wise is it to take advice from dummies?
6.27.2007
a fuzzy texture in the background
A couple of weeks ago, Rose and I went to local contemporary music ensemble Present Music's final concert of the season, which featured Amy X Neuburg, both as composer performing four or five of her own pieces and as guest vocalist. We both enjoyed her music immensely, and Rose was particularly impressed...to the extent that she bought one of Neuburg's CDs on sale in the lobby. Now that doesn't sound all that impressive...until you realize that, living with me and my far-too-many-thousand-disc collection (not to mention all the mp3s, as well as various twentieth-century music-storage formats), Rose hasn't bought a CD in probably twenty years.
While we were looking over the selection of CDs, I remembered the other reason Neuburg's name rang a bell (the main one being that our friend Sue had blogged about her show a few months back): years ago, when I was reviewing CDs for the late Milk magazine, one of Neuburg's earlier recordings had found its way to my inbox (actually, had found its way into a large plastic bag full of CDs that Josh, the editor, figured would most annoy me and drive me insane). It was billed to Amy X Neuburg & Men, was called Sports! Chips! Booty!, and featured what I dearly hope was intentionally awful cover art and design. It therefore fell victim to my generally quite reliable cover-art triage method - but even though I can't recall a note of it any more, I remember being quite unimpressed. (Which is why I didn't review it: my policy was not to bother writing utter slams unless the artist was publicity-bloated and such slams would constitute reader service. What's the point of slamming an album by a musician your readers have never heard of? And if the CD really sucks, ignoring it does it more damage than slamming it anyway. See? I wasn't being a kind, sensitive critic...I was being even more evil but in a subtler way.)
I'd completely forgotten that CD - and it's just as well, since I therefore came to the concert without preconceptions. And either my ears have changed since that CD, or Neuburg's music has - because I found her current material far more interesting, challenging, witty, and engaging than I would have guessed, if I'd remembered my earlier encounter with her music. She uses a loop-based system that allows her to layer her voice, along with the occasional sample, in real time. As she notes, it would be technologically simpler to prerecord those loops, or hire a band, but the fact that she builds and triggers the loops and samples in real time has two key effects on her performance and music: one, it keeps things interesting for the audience, in that the structure of what they hear isn't tucked away on a laptop (which eliminates the notion that all that's going on is button-pushing), and two, probably more importantly, the limitations of the set-up impose a compositional discipline upon Neuburg that gives her music a distinctive character. Loops can be turned on and off, altered, and edited on the fly - but the restriction of essentially doing this in real time creates a choreography out of the otherwise-mundane act of pressing keys and buttons.
As for the content filling out that structure, let's get one thing out of the way quickly: Laurie Anderson. Yes, there are off-kilter narratives, altered voices, deadpan juxtapositions, etc....but Neuburg is also a classically trained vocalist, and therefore relies less upon electronic alteration of her vocal texture and more upon her own abilities - abilities which are quite chameleonic: she switches from speech to pop-singing to classical singing instantaneously, and she's very canny about the uses and connotations of the various voices she uses. (And sadly, Anderson herself hasn't seemed to recognize her strengths since the mid-eighties. She decided to become a singer - but she's not that good a vocalist. She decided to write songs - but she lacks the songwriter's sense both of melody and structure. And rather than the bizarre and intriguing textures of her earlier work - a few weeks back, Little Hits posted "Walk the Dog," the b-side of "O Superman," if you want an example - she relied increasingly on generic late-eighties synth sounds.) In other words, Neuburg is anything but a Laurie clone: I'd argue that insofar as Anderson's an influence, Neuburg has surpassed her in nearly every way by this point.
Some examples: "My God" adapts a Renaissance motet as backdrop to one of Neuburg's wordplay-laden monologues - which (and I'm warning you in case you're listening in headphones and have turned it up earlier) is interrupted by a metallic blast about a minute and a half in. What's interesting is the way that motet - initially calming and beautifully mysterious in the way Renaissance polyphony often is, moving in slightly unexpected ways - becomes, in its repetition and elaboration, increasingly frustrating. Something more ought to happen to it, you think; why does it proceed blissfully unaware of its surroundings? And, right about then, Neuburg switches things up on you - just at the point you were thinking you knew exactly how this piece goes.
"My Fuzzy Muse" begins with another appropriation, of sorts: this time, a sort of country-western-as-played-on-a-Toys-R-Us-organ sound. The chorus, however (if we can call it that), manages to be amusing, catchy, irritating, and vaguely threatening (given the rest of the lyric).
The two pieces only begin to suggest the variety of moods and sounds that figure into Residue's songs. In many places Neuburg manages the neat trick of transmuting her songs' silliness, mundanity, cleverness, and by-now-expected postmodern referentiality into unexpected emotional heft. Not that she's gonna get all serious on you, but this also isn't just blank parody either. It almost makes me wish I still had that copy of her old CD, just to see if I missed anything.
Amy X Neuburg "My God" (Residue, 2004)
Amy X Neuburg "My Fuzzy Muse" (Residue, 2004)
While we were looking over the selection of CDs, I remembered the other reason Neuburg's name rang a bell (the main one being that our friend Sue had blogged about her show a few months back): years ago, when I was reviewing CDs for the late Milk magazine, one of Neuburg's earlier recordings had found its way to my inbox (actually, had found its way into a large plastic bag full of CDs that Josh, the editor, figured would most annoy me and drive me insane). It was billed to Amy X Neuburg & Men, was called Sports! Chips! Booty!, and featured what I dearly hope was intentionally awful cover art and design. It therefore fell victim to my generally quite reliable cover-art triage method - but even though I can't recall a note of it any more, I remember being quite unimpressed. (Which is why I didn't review it: my policy was not to bother writing utter slams unless the artist was publicity-bloated and such slams would constitute reader service. What's the point of slamming an album by a musician your readers have never heard of? And if the CD really sucks, ignoring it does it more damage than slamming it anyway. See? I wasn't being a kind, sensitive critic...I was being even more evil but in a subtler way.)
I'd completely forgotten that CD - and it's just as well, since I therefore came to the concert without preconceptions. And either my ears have changed since that CD, or Neuburg's music has - because I found her current material far more interesting, challenging, witty, and engaging than I would have guessed, if I'd remembered my earlier encounter with her music. She uses a loop-based system that allows her to layer her voice, along with the occasional sample, in real time. As she notes, it would be technologically simpler to prerecord those loops, or hire a band, but the fact that she builds and triggers the loops and samples in real time has two key effects on her performance and music: one, it keeps things interesting for the audience, in that the structure of what they hear isn't tucked away on a laptop (which eliminates the notion that all that's going on is button-pushing), and two, probably more importantly, the limitations of the set-up impose a compositional discipline upon Neuburg that gives her music a distinctive character. Loops can be turned on and off, altered, and edited on the fly - but the restriction of essentially doing this in real time creates a choreography out of the otherwise-mundane act of pressing keys and buttons.
As for the content filling out that structure, let's get one thing out of the way quickly: Laurie Anderson. Yes, there are off-kilter narratives, altered voices, deadpan juxtapositions, etc....but Neuburg is also a classically trained vocalist, and therefore relies less upon electronic alteration of her vocal texture and more upon her own abilities - abilities which are quite chameleonic: she switches from speech to pop-singing to classical singing instantaneously, and she's very canny about the uses and connotations of the various voices she uses. (And sadly, Anderson herself hasn't seemed to recognize her strengths since the mid-eighties. She decided to become a singer - but she's not that good a vocalist. She decided to write songs - but she lacks the songwriter's sense both of melody and structure. And rather than the bizarre and intriguing textures of her earlier work - a few weeks back, Little Hits posted "Walk the Dog," the b-side of "O Superman," if you want an example - she relied increasingly on generic late-eighties synth sounds.) In other words, Neuburg is anything but a Laurie clone: I'd argue that insofar as Anderson's an influence, Neuburg has surpassed her in nearly every way by this point.
Some examples: "My God" adapts a Renaissance motet as backdrop to one of Neuburg's wordplay-laden monologues - which (and I'm warning you in case you're listening in headphones and have turned it up earlier) is interrupted by a metallic blast about a minute and a half in. What's interesting is the way that motet - initially calming and beautifully mysterious in the way Renaissance polyphony often is, moving in slightly unexpected ways - becomes, in its repetition and elaboration, increasingly frustrating. Something more ought to happen to it, you think; why does it proceed blissfully unaware of its surroundings? And, right about then, Neuburg switches things up on you - just at the point you were thinking you knew exactly how this piece goes.
"My Fuzzy Muse" begins with another appropriation, of sorts: this time, a sort of country-western-as-played-on-a-Toys-R-Us-organ sound. The chorus, however (if we can call it that), manages to be amusing, catchy, irritating, and vaguely threatening (given the rest of the lyric).
The two pieces only begin to suggest the variety of moods and sounds that figure into Residue's songs. In many places Neuburg manages the neat trick of transmuting her songs' silliness, mundanity, cleverness, and by-now-expected postmodern referentiality into unexpected emotional heft. Not that she's gonna get all serious on you, but this also isn't just blank parody either. It almost makes me wish I still had that copy of her old CD, just to see if I missed anything.
Amy X Neuburg "My God" (Residue, 2004)
Amy X Neuburg "My Fuzzy Muse" (Residue, 2004)
6.26.2007
new cross-marketing concept
Hummer-brand condoms! Available in Small, Extra-Small, and Napoleonic. $1,000/dz.
suitably, that other shoe should drop from a very great height
A scenario, absolutely and entirely hypothetical and bearing only the most coincidental potential resemblance to any recent news story:
Let us imagine that you hold a respected legal position. One day, you drop off, say, a pair of shoes to the local cobbler shop to be repaired. Returning the next day, you discover the shoes have been misplaced and cannot be returned to you. What do you do?
Obviously, you sue the cobbler's shop for, oh, tens of millions of dollars. You can cite some absurdly specious reading of a state law concerning consumers, along the lines of, you know, the sign said "we will strive to make you happy" and, since what would really have made you happy was the attractive young woman behind the counter taking you into a storage closet and [censoring] your [deleted], which didn't happen, each day it doesn't happen is worth another grand or so.
You pursue this case through the courts for years, refusing to settle, costing the cobbler shop (which, of course, was never worth anything near the millions of dollars you sued for) thousands in legal fees.
I am trying to imagine the vindictiveness, the bloody-mindedness, the sheer turbocharged assholery of character it would take to pursue this case. I mean, what did this shop ever do to you (other than temporarily lose one half of your pair of multimillion dollar shoes)? Did the owners sodomize your puppy with a cobbler's last while forcing you to watch? Did they put rubber glue in your baby daughter's talcum powder?
One might argue, in fact, that insofar as you apparently had no idea that your actions were at all wrong - given that you pursued them, publicly and persistently - even though they clearly interfered severely with the cobbler shop's business and imperiled it financially, as well as caused great anguish, distress, and probably humiliation for its owners, your actions indicate a severely diminished capacity to distinguish right from wrong - to the extent that if the shop were to countersue you for damages, you should plead insanity. Certainly, if your legal position involves, say, evaluating people's actions and entering judgment upon them, you have pretty clearly disqualified yourself from such a position - if only because anyone subject to your judgment in such a situation could point to this very lawsuit and suggest that you're not fit to judge a cowflop-tossing contest, much less a legal decision.
I'm only glad we live in a world were such an absurd scenario remains only hypothetical.
Let us imagine that you hold a respected legal position. One day, you drop off, say, a pair of shoes to the local cobbler shop to be repaired. Returning the next day, you discover the shoes have been misplaced and cannot be returned to you. What do you do?
Obviously, you sue the cobbler's shop for, oh, tens of millions of dollars. You can cite some absurdly specious reading of a state law concerning consumers, along the lines of, you know, the sign said "we will strive to make you happy" and, since what would really have made you happy was the attractive young woman behind the counter taking you into a storage closet and [censoring] your [deleted], which didn't happen, each day it doesn't happen is worth another grand or so.
You pursue this case through the courts for years, refusing to settle, costing the cobbler shop (which, of course, was never worth anything near the millions of dollars you sued for) thousands in legal fees.
I am trying to imagine the vindictiveness, the bloody-mindedness, the sheer turbocharged assholery of character it would take to pursue this case. I mean, what did this shop ever do to you (other than temporarily lose one half of your pair of multimillion dollar shoes)? Did the owners sodomize your puppy with a cobbler's last while forcing you to watch? Did they put rubber glue in your baby daughter's talcum powder?
One might argue, in fact, that insofar as you apparently had no idea that your actions were at all wrong - given that you pursued them, publicly and persistently - even though they clearly interfered severely with the cobbler shop's business and imperiled it financially, as well as caused great anguish, distress, and probably humiliation for its owners, your actions indicate a severely diminished capacity to distinguish right from wrong - to the extent that if the shop were to countersue you for damages, you should plead insanity. Certainly, if your legal position involves, say, evaluating people's actions and entering judgment upon them, you have pretty clearly disqualified yourself from such a position - if only because anyone subject to your judgment in such a situation could point to this very lawsuit and suggest that you're not fit to judge a cowflop-tossing contest, much less a legal decision.
I'm only glad we live in a world were such an absurd scenario remains only hypothetical.
6.24.2007
fade into blossoming dawn
Totally by chance, the other night we ran into our friends Michelle and Mike at an Indian restaurant, and because it turned out to be Michelle's birthday, for a while discussion ran on birthdays and similar anniversaries, such as wedding anniversaries, and from there the notion that particular anniversaries have particular types of gifts associated with them. Except for the more significant anniversaries of particular longevity, I can't imagine many people pay attention to those gifts, really.
But if you want to, here's a list, both of "traditional" and "modern" anniversary gifts. What strikes me about the lists is how much less evocative, how much more boring and mundane, the "modern" list is - particularly read off in order as a sort of found poetry. (Although the combination of items from the traditional and modern lists does sometimes lead to a sort of as-is surrealism: for the first anniversary, buy your partner a paper clock!) For example: the traditional fourth anniversary lists a gift of fruit or flowers; the modern list says "appliances." Appliances...wow, that's exciting, and romantic, too. What sort of appliances? An electric pencil sharpener, perhaps? (Amusingly, the first item that comes up when you click on the link the site provides for "appliances" leads to the Drink-O-Matic Soda Machine: that's right, now your spouse can guzzle Dr. Pepper to his/her heart's content, all without leaving the comfort of home!) Leather has received an upgrade: formerly the third anniversary gift, it is now suggested as the ninth anniversary gift. (Yes, yes, I know: some of you are chomping at the bit to make a joke here. I suggest that bit be tightened.) What does leather replace as a ninth anniversary gift? This page says "Pottery/Willow." (Sorrow, guys: I don't think Allyson Hannigan is available.) Willow! While it may not be practical, there's a hell of lot more poetry, romance, and intrigue in the notion of a gift made from willow than "appliances" or "desk sets" (seventh anniversary, modern).
Eccentric musician, cartoonist, and "amateur" Peter Blegvad is, I think, onto something with his concept of "numinosity." Blegvad writes that "A numinous object is one in which matter, form and situation combine to 'haunt' or otherwise fascinate the imagination." While I'm pretty sure Blegvad's tongue is lodged firmly in his cheek for parts of this essay, taken from certain angles (as a poetics, for example), he quite clearly is correct. The objects he describes (real and hypothetical) fascinate in a way that other objects do not. Why does the notion that the eleventh anniversary gift should be "steel" intrigue more than that it should be "fashion jewelry" (why not just name a jeweler - hell, provide a link to its URL and a fill-in box for your credit card number and be done with it)? And why does the heart fail utterly to leap to any discernible degree at the thought of a gift of "textiles" (modern thirteenth - although admittedly, the juxtaposition of "textiles and furs" improves it dramatically)? Those juxtapositions - gathered, one presumes, from alternate lists or traditions - are themselves among the more interesting aspects of this list: wool and copper (the seventh) or, my favorite, candy and iron (the sixth). Candy and iron!
You'll note that the gifts remain largely unchanged from the twenty-fifth anniversary onward...except for poor coral, replaced with the louder and quasi-exotic jade, and "pearl," replaced with an initial instance of "diamond" (now both thirtieth and sixtieth. "Pearl," by the way, is in fact wholly different from "pearls": the latter is a set of objects, the former is a material.}. I'm not sure why this is, or why the older gifts were replaced for the earlier anniversaries...probably because the newer items are almost entirely things you'd buy at major department stores (which probably don't do much business in willow or candy).
We're well past the more interesting, earlier-year gifts on the old list - but I almost wish we'd used them, just to see what sorts of things we might have come up with. And maybe that's why the newer list utterly fails to involve me: it is, essentially, a shopping list, assigning a gift-value to your relationship, demonstrating your ability to consume as a well-adjusted cog in the great capitalist machinery. It looks, for the most part, like a listing of some items on an unimaginative wealthy person's estate sale.
But if you want to, here's a list, both of "traditional" and "modern" anniversary gifts. What strikes me about the lists is how much less evocative, how much more boring and mundane, the "modern" list is - particularly read off in order as a sort of found poetry. (Although the combination of items from the traditional and modern lists does sometimes lead to a sort of as-is surrealism: for the first anniversary, buy your partner a paper clock!) For example: the traditional fourth anniversary lists a gift of fruit or flowers; the modern list says "appliances." Appliances...wow, that's exciting, and romantic, too. What sort of appliances? An electric pencil sharpener, perhaps? (Amusingly, the first item that comes up when you click on the link the site provides for "appliances" leads to the Drink-O-Matic Soda Machine: that's right, now your spouse can guzzle Dr. Pepper to his/her heart's content, all without leaving the comfort of home!) Leather has received an upgrade: formerly the third anniversary gift, it is now suggested as the ninth anniversary gift. (Yes, yes, I know: some of you are chomping at the bit to make a joke here. I suggest that bit be tightened.) What does leather replace as a ninth anniversary gift? This page says "Pottery/Willow." (Sorrow, guys: I don't think Allyson Hannigan is available.) Willow! While it may not be practical, there's a hell of lot more poetry, romance, and intrigue in the notion of a gift made from willow than "appliances" or "desk sets" (seventh anniversary, modern).
Eccentric musician, cartoonist, and "amateur" Peter Blegvad is, I think, onto something with his concept of "numinosity." Blegvad writes that "A numinous object is one in which matter, form and situation combine to 'haunt' or otherwise fascinate the imagination." While I'm pretty sure Blegvad's tongue is lodged firmly in his cheek for parts of this essay, taken from certain angles (as a poetics, for example), he quite clearly is correct. The objects he describes (real and hypothetical) fascinate in a way that other objects do not. Why does the notion that the eleventh anniversary gift should be "steel" intrigue more than that it should be "fashion jewelry" (why not just name a jeweler - hell, provide a link to its URL and a fill-in box for your credit card number and be done with it)? And why does the heart fail utterly to leap to any discernible degree at the thought of a gift of "textiles" (modern thirteenth - although admittedly, the juxtaposition of "textiles and furs" improves it dramatically)? Those juxtapositions - gathered, one presumes, from alternate lists or traditions - are themselves among the more interesting aspects of this list: wool and copper (the seventh) or, my favorite, candy and iron (the sixth). Candy and iron!
You'll note that the gifts remain largely unchanged from the twenty-fifth anniversary onward...except for poor coral, replaced with the louder and quasi-exotic jade, and "pearl," replaced with an initial instance of "diamond" (now both thirtieth and sixtieth. "Pearl," by the way, is in fact wholly different from "pearls": the latter is a set of objects, the former is a material.}. I'm not sure why this is, or why the older gifts were replaced for the earlier anniversaries...probably because the newer items are almost entirely things you'd buy at major department stores (which probably don't do much business in willow or candy).
We're well past the more interesting, earlier-year gifts on the old list - but I almost wish we'd used them, just to see what sorts of things we might have come up with. And maybe that's why the newer list utterly fails to involve me: it is, essentially, a shopping list, assigning a gift-value to your relationship, demonstrating your ability to consume as a well-adjusted cog in the great capitalist machinery. It looks, for the most part, like a listing of some items on an unimaginative wealthy person's estate sale.
6.23.2007
evidence sought
For some reason, I was just reminded of one of my favorite pieces of contemporary art...but I'm not entirely sure I'm remembering it correctly. (Anyone know? Let me know...)
A few years back, one of the art displays in the old, utterly smoke-ridden Comet featured photographs of an installation (or series of installations), I believe by Brent Budsberg, that was created as follows:
1. Take a map and mount it on a wall.
2. Throw darts at the map.
3. Build enormous "darts," about fifteen feet tall, and install them at the actual locations designated by the darts on the map. (Clearly, some locations would be more amenable to this than others...)
There were a couple of photos of these enormous darts projecting from the ground - I'm pretty sure the darts were actually built and installed, and this was not just an elaborate Photoshop exercise.
The best thing would be, of course, if you were able to install the darts in the middle of the night - so passersby would come upon them suddenly and unexpectedly. Documenting those reactions would be wonderful in itself.
A few years back, one of the art displays in the old, utterly smoke-ridden Comet featured photographs of an installation (or series of installations), I believe by Brent Budsberg, that was created as follows:
1. Take a map and mount it on a wall.
2. Throw darts at the map.
3. Build enormous "darts," about fifteen feet tall, and install them at the actual locations designated by the darts on the map. (Clearly, some locations would be more amenable to this than others...)
There were a couple of photos of these enormous darts projecting from the ground - I'm pretty sure the darts were actually built and installed, and this was not just an elaborate Photoshop exercise.
The best thing would be, of course, if you were able to install the darts in the middle of the night - so passersby would come upon them suddenly and unexpectedly. Documenting those reactions would be wonderful in itself.
6.22.2007
another Texan, but it's okay this time!
Please welcome Lanam Nicholas Pilliod, born June 16, 2007 (a Bloomsday baby!) to my friends Tonia Bricker and Cason Pilliod, their first child.
Tonia reports that his first name comes from a family name on Cason's side and his middle name from a variation on her own middle name, and that "it's quite musical: Lanam Nicholas Pilliod, tra-la!" Aptly, since Tonia's a professional violist. (There are too such things!)
Please extend your best wishes, and try to make this a better world for Lanam to grow up in, okay?
Tonia reports that his first name comes from a family name on Cason's side and his middle name from a variation on her own middle name, and that "it's quite musical: Lanam Nicholas Pilliod, tra-la!" Aptly, since Tonia's a professional violist. (There are too such things!)Please extend your best wishes, and try to make this a better world for Lanam to grow up in, okay?
6.21.2007
I can has komic histry?
Sheer brilliance. The artwork should remind you of George Herriman's immortal "Krazy Kat," and a close look at some details might suggest that the cartoonist is also a fan of John K. Hodgman.
(The slideshow is the most fun.)
(The slideshow is the most fun.)
6.20.2007
sunshine and rainbows!
If you look at your calendar tomorrow (as I write), it will probably say something like "first day of Summer."
To which I reply, balderdash.
What tomorrow is (in the northern hemisphere) is the summer solstice; that is, the day when the sun is at its peak height in the sky (due to Earth's being tilted about 23 degrees relative to the sun). Logically, if "summer" is the season defined by the sun being at its height, then "summer" should be the quarter of the year surrounding the solstice. That is, summer began about 45 days ago. June 21 is the peak of summer - its midpoint - not the beginning of summer. (This is, obviously, a northern-hemisphere -centric view. In the southern hemisphere, we're talking about winter, and the sun's lowest high point in the sky.) I'm not entirely sure how June 21 (the solstice) got to be the "official" beginning of summer (and what "office" is it that decrees such things?), but it makes no sense.
Some will argue: yeah, but the warm weather's just starting now, and really, it goes on for another couple-three months, until autumn begins in September. Here, maybe: typical temperatures are obviously going to vary according to location. If we're to have any consistency in terms of what season it is, local weather variations can't have much to do with it. It makes far more sense to note that, astronomically, "summer" is defined by the sun's highest point in the sky, while the warmest times of the year will vary according to location, geography, etc. (And of course, even in the northern hemisphere, not all places experience their warmest weather in June, July, or August.)
While I'm at it: how many colors in a rainbow? You'll probably recall from your junior-high science classes that the answer is seven, and that the colors are, in order, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. You can remember that via the useful acronym "Roy G. Biv" (kind of a lousy acronym, actually, dependent as it is upon a naked initial in the middle). But really, the reason people need that acronym is that the "official" (one of the most abused words in the language) list of colors in the spectrum is a bit off. Here's an experiment: outside the context of rainbows or spectra, ask people to name colors. They'll almost certainly name red, green, and blue, maybe yellow (if they're graphic artists they might say "cyan" and "magenta" instead: such people are extremely dangerous, and they should be shunned vigorously). They might say "orange." It's remotely possible they'll say "violet." But it's almost a dead-certain bet they will not say "indigo." Other than for fans of a folk-singing Atlanta-based lesbian duo, "indigo" is just plain not a common term. And of course, the rainbow does not neatly divide into seven colors, or any set number: it's a continuous spectrum.
So why "Roy G. Biv"? Basically, because Isaac Newton was a mystical nutbar, in addition to his scientific brilliance. There needed to be seven colors, you see, because there were seven days of creation, yadda yadda yadda. If not for Isaac's Bible jones, we probably wouldn't even mention "indigo." And those Georgia singers would be "The Purple Girls" or something.
The Rolling Stones "She's a Rainbow" (Their Satanic Majesties Request, 1967)
Todd Rundgren's Utopia "The Seven Rays" (Another Live, 1975)
Camper Van Beethoven "June" (Key Lime Pie, 1989)
To which I reply, balderdash.
What tomorrow is (in the northern hemisphere) is the summer solstice; that is, the day when the sun is at its peak height in the sky (due to Earth's being tilted about 23 degrees relative to the sun). Logically, if "summer" is the season defined by the sun being at its height, then "summer" should be the quarter of the year surrounding the solstice. That is, summer began about 45 days ago. June 21 is the peak of summer - its midpoint - not the beginning of summer. (This is, obviously, a northern-hemisphere -centric view. In the southern hemisphere, we're talking about winter, and the sun's lowest high point in the sky.) I'm not entirely sure how June 21 (the solstice) got to be the "official" beginning of summer (and what "office" is it that decrees such things?), but it makes no sense.
Some will argue: yeah, but the warm weather's just starting now, and really, it goes on for another couple-three months, until autumn begins in September. Here, maybe: typical temperatures are obviously going to vary according to location. If we're to have any consistency in terms of what season it is, local weather variations can't have much to do with it. It makes far more sense to note that, astronomically, "summer" is defined by the sun's highest point in the sky, while the warmest times of the year will vary according to location, geography, etc. (And of course, even in the northern hemisphere, not all places experience their warmest weather in June, July, or August.)
While I'm at it: how many colors in a rainbow? You'll probably recall from your junior-high science classes that the answer is seven, and that the colors are, in order, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. You can remember that via the useful acronym "Roy G. Biv" (kind of a lousy acronym, actually, dependent as it is upon a naked initial in the middle). But really, the reason people need that acronym is that the "official" (one of the most abused words in the language) list of colors in the spectrum is a bit off. Here's an experiment: outside the context of rainbows or spectra, ask people to name colors. They'll almost certainly name red, green, and blue, maybe yellow (if they're graphic artists they might say "cyan" and "magenta" instead: such people are extremely dangerous, and they should be shunned vigorously). They might say "orange." It's remotely possible they'll say "violet." But it's almost a dead-certain bet they will not say "indigo." Other than for fans of a folk-singing Atlanta-based lesbian duo, "indigo" is just plain not a common term. And of course, the rainbow does not neatly divide into seven colors, or any set number: it's a continuous spectrum.
So why "Roy G. Biv"? Basically, because Isaac Newton was a mystical nutbar, in addition to his scientific brilliance. There needed to be seven colors, you see, because there were seven days of creation, yadda yadda yadda. If not for Isaac's Bible jones, we probably wouldn't even mention "indigo." And those Georgia singers would be "The Purple Girls" or something.
The Rolling Stones "She's a Rainbow" (Their Satanic Majesties Request, 1967)
Todd Rundgren's Utopia "The Seven Rays" (Another Live, 1975)
Camper Van Beethoven "June" (Key Lime Pie, 1989)
6.19.2007
6.18.2007
PSA...with guitar
A writer criticizes a political figure more powerful than himself. The political figure sues the writer (for a small amount, small enough to land the suit in small-claims court, where it's exempt from anti- legal-harassment laws), and wins the lawsuit. The writer is given no information as to exactly what his offense was, or what he should do differently in the future. Oh, and it would appear that the material he was being sued over was not even his own.
Unfortunately, this is America, now (California, specifically), and not one of those other bad-guy countries we hear about.
Here's the blogger's description of the issues of the lawsuit, and here's his essay on the principles involved.
You can donate to the blogger's legal defense fund here:
Unfortunately, this is America, now (California, specifically), and not one of those other bad-guy countries we hear about.
Here's the blogger's description of the issues of the lawsuit, and here's his essay on the principles involved.
You can donate to the blogger's legal defense fund here:
Bowie addendum
What's unusual about this image, which was the original US Mercury Records cover of The Man Who Sold the World?
It is, so far as I can tell, the only cover of an officially released Bowie album that does not feature an image of David Bowie.
The history of this image is detailed on this page (scroll down a bit). Apparently this was also used as the European cover, at least for a time (as indicated by the catalog numbers near the top).
(I used to have this very LP. The difference between me and a collector is that I buy stuff for the music...which meant that when I bought this album on CD (the Rykodisc version), I sold this one to a used record store. I have no idea whether it was rare then, or now for that matter - but it probably wasn't worth much anyway, since it wasn't in the best condition. Oh by jingo!)
It is, so far as I can tell, the only cover of an officially released Bowie album that does not feature an image of David Bowie.
The history of this image is detailed on this page (scroll down a bit). Apparently this was also used as the European cover, at least for a time (as indicated by the catalog numbers near the top).
(I used to have this very LP. The difference between me and a collector is that I buy stuff for the music...which meant that when I bought this album on CD (the Rykodisc version), I sold this one to a used record store. I have no idea whether it was rare then, or now for that matter - but it probably wasn't worth much anyway, since it wasn't in the best condition. Oh by jingo!)
6.16.2007
dust and roses
A few stray bits and pieces to complete Bowie Week.
Since his heart attack on the Reality tour in 2004, Bowie's made only a handful of appearances, most notably with Arcade Fire in 2005 (which resulted in a 3-track EP on iTunes). He's expressed frequent admiration for the music of TV on the Radio and added guest vocals to their song "Province" from their 2006 Return to Cookie Mountain.
That Bowie would enjoy TV on the Radio is unsurprising; I think you can hear large chunks of that band's sound in Bowie's "Big Brother," to the extent that I think a TV on the Radio cover of that track would work quite well. We have the murky masses of sax, the sampled backdrop (of course, the Bowie song being recorded before the availability of modern digital samplers, its "samples" are in the form of analog tape (the strings and choirs from the Chamberlin) and synthesizer (the "trumpet" part). The vocal mix, including the octave-doubling technique Bowie nearly invented, is another similarity to TV on the Radio's sound.
While putting together this batch of entries, I ran into an acoustic version of "Dead Man Walking," broadcast on an Atlanta radio station in 1997. I was surprised to hear that the opening guitar chords are exactly the same as those in the BBC version of "The Supermen" (the studio version obscures the guitar track, if it's even there, beneath other parts), although the rhythm of the part is different. Score another one for Bowie the recycler!
David Bowie "Big Brother" (Diamond Dogs, 1974)
TV on the Radio "Province" (Return to Cookie Mountain, 2006)
David Bowie "Dead Man Walking" (1997 acoustic radio performance)
David Bowie "The Supermen" (rec'd 1971; Bowie at the Beeb: The Best of the BBC Radio Sessions 68-72)
Since his heart attack on the Reality tour in 2004, Bowie's made only a handful of appearances, most notably with Arcade Fire in 2005 (which resulted in a 3-track EP on iTunes). He's expressed frequent admiration for the music of TV on the Radio and added guest vocals to their song "Province" from their 2006 Return to Cookie Mountain.
That Bowie would enjoy TV on the Radio is unsurprising; I think you can hear large chunks of that band's sound in Bowie's "Big Brother," to the extent that I think a TV on the Radio cover of that track would work quite well. We have the murky masses of sax, the sampled backdrop (of course, the Bowie song being recorded before the availability of modern digital samplers, its "samples" are in the form of analog tape (the strings and choirs from the Chamberlin) and synthesizer (the "trumpet" part). The vocal mix, including the octave-doubling technique Bowie nearly invented, is another similarity to TV on the Radio's sound.
While putting together this batch of entries, I ran into an acoustic version of "Dead Man Walking," broadcast on an Atlanta radio station in 1997. I was surprised to hear that the opening guitar chords are exactly the same as those in the BBC version of "The Supermen" (the studio version obscures the guitar track, if it's even there, beneath other parts), although the rhythm of the part is different. Score another one for Bowie the recycler!
David Bowie "Big Brother" (Diamond Dogs, 1974)
TV on the Radio "Province" (Return to Cookie Mountain, 2006)
David Bowie "Dead Man Walking" (1997 acoustic radio performance)
David Bowie "The Supermen" (rec'd 1971; Bowie at the Beeb: The Best of the BBC Radio Sessions 68-72)
6.15.2007
Braver than Dad
Throughout his career, Bowie has occasionally collaborated with various other musicians. Some of those musicians have been quite high-profile, others, rather less so.
One such collaboration - which probably is better known in England than in the US, since it produced a top-ten single - features pop singer and film star Lulu covering two Bowie songs, "The Man Who Sold the World" and "Watch That Man." Bowie and his then-current band - Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, and Woody Woodmansee a/k/a The Spiders from Mars - provide the music. "The Man Who Sold the World" is reconfigured into a sort of reggae rhythm, with Bowie providing a new tag on saxophone. The b-side, "Watch That Man," is closer to the arrangement of the original, but its elements feel a little more integrated. This one benefits from the power of Lulu's voice, particularly on the chorus, where she allows her voice to crack on the phrase "oh honey, watch that man."
In between the two Tin Machine albums (see yesterday's post), Bowie collaborated with his former guitarist Adrian Belew on Belew's Young Lions album. The first collaboration on that album, "Pretty Pink Rose," is written solely by Bowie and was released as a single. Bowie and Belew alternate lead vocal lines and, perhaps unsurprisingly (given certain similarities in Belew's and Reeves Gabrels' approaches to guitar), I could pretty readily imagine Tin Machine playing this one. Maybe it's having listened to both of that band's CDs over the last day or so, but "Gunman" to me sounds even more like a Tin Machine song (another way of putting it is that even though Belew receives a co-writing credit, this song sounds less like a Belew song than "Pretty Pink Rose" does). Perhaps there's something in the rhythm and riff (and the fact that the title's a two-syllable word ending in "-man" - like "Batman"), but I hear it as a sort of theme song for some hypothetical dystopian TV series. (The other TV-show theme song without a TV show, in my little musical world? The Soft Boys' "You'll Have to Go Sideways." That one's for a science-fiction series.) Belew's solos are unmistakably his, of course, and his rhythm guitar track echoes his playing in the eighties version of King Crimson both structurally and in that candy-chorus sound.
Lulu "The Man Who Sold the World" (single, 1974)
Lulu "Watch That Man" (single, 1974)
Adrian Belew (ft. David Bowie) "Pretty Pink Rose" (Young Lions, 1990)
Adrian Belew (ft. David Bowie) "Gunman" (Young Lions, 1990)
(Tomorrow ends Bowie week - tricky URL hackers already know what's coming!)
One such collaboration - which probably is better known in England than in the US, since it produced a top-ten single - features pop singer and film star Lulu covering two Bowie songs, "The Man Who Sold the World" and "Watch That Man." Bowie and his then-current band - Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, and Woody Woodmansee a/k/a The Spiders from Mars - provide the music. "The Man Who Sold the World" is reconfigured into a sort of reggae rhythm, with Bowie providing a new tag on saxophone. The b-side, "Watch That Man," is closer to the arrangement of the original, but its elements feel a little more integrated. This one benefits from the power of Lulu's voice, particularly on the chorus, where she allows her voice to crack on the phrase "oh honey, watch that man."
In between the two Tin Machine albums (see yesterday's post), Bowie collaborated with his former guitarist Adrian Belew on Belew's Young Lions album. The first collaboration on that album, "Pretty Pink Rose," is written solely by Bowie and was released as a single. Bowie and Belew alternate lead vocal lines and, perhaps unsurprisingly (given certain similarities in Belew's and Reeves Gabrels' approaches to guitar), I could pretty readily imagine Tin Machine playing this one. Maybe it's having listened to both of that band's CDs over the last day or so, but "Gunman" to me sounds even more like a Tin Machine song (another way of putting it is that even though Belew receives a co-writing credit, this song sounds less like a Belew song than "Pretty Pink Rose" does). Perhaps there's something in the rhythm and riff (and the fact that the title's a two-syllable word ending in "-man" - like "Batman"), but I hear it as a sort of theme song for some hypothetical dystopian TV series. (The other TV-show theme song without a TV show, in my little musical world? The Soft Boys' "You'll Have to Go Sideways." That one's for a science-fiction series.) Belew's solos are unmistakably his, of course, and his rhythm guitar track echoes his playing in the eighties version of King Crimson both structurally and in that candy-chorus sound.
Lulu "The Man Who Sold the World" (single, 1974)
Lulu "Watch That Man" (single, 1974)
Adrian Belew (ft. David Bowie) "Pretty Pink Rose" (Young Lions, 1990)
Adrian Belew (ft. David Bowie) "Gunman" (Young Lions, 1990)
(Tomorrow ends Bowie week - tricky URL hackers already know what's coming!)
6.14.2007
confession!
Nigel Moulding, 29, a laborer with a London-based design agency, confesses that he is responsible for damages to the new logo for the 2012 Olympics, to be held in London.
"I'm afraid it rather fell right off the lorry, it did. Then it bounced across the floor of the multi-storey carpak a bit, and flew right out the window, falling fifty meters to the concrete embankment below."
Moulding says he was told to just clean the logo off a bit, and polish a few corners, and just not say anything about the incident. "We'll take care of it," management informed him.
"I thought it was bloody done for, all mashed up like that," Moulding commented. "I guess they decided they still liked it."
"I'm afraid it rather fell right off the lorry, it did. Then it bounced across the floor of the multi-storey carpak a bit, and flew right out the window, falling fifty meters to the concrete embankment below."
Moulding says he was told to just clean the logo off a bit, and polish a few corners, and just not say anything about the incident. "We'll take care of it," management informed him.
"I thought it was bloody done for, all mashed up like that," Moulding commented. "I guess they decided they still liked it."
money goes to money heaven
Tin Machine.
There. I've said it.
Bowie's Tin Machine project has a foul reputation - but it's by no means entirely deserved. It helps to remember that at the end of the '80s, Bowie had tailed off, rather directionless, recording an album even he rather regrets (Never Let Me Down), after having been accused of selling out utterly. That latter charge was, I think, unfair: first, while Let's Dance indeed brought him enormous sales, it was never a simple dance-pop CD. Even the title track features, in addition to its stomping dance beat, jazzy chord voicings, and it leads off an album that, in retrospect, is a pretty fine collection of songs. Let's Dance's follow-up, Tonight, is a far weaker CD, larded with forgettable covers and Bowie's ongoing donations to the James Osterberg Charitable Foundation. Still, "Loving the Alien" and "Blue Jean" were fine songs. Never Let Me Down, however, is almost completely forgettable. (As in: I've forgotten how any song on that album goes.)
So when Bowie decided to form a band, designed to play live rock'n'roll music, a lot of people thought it was desperate: Bowie the chameleon no longer starting trends but tagging along after them. That's too bad, because at its best the tension between guitarist Reeves Gabrels' rangy, feedback-laden guitar experiments (Adrian Belew plays with Sonic Youth) and Bowie's more elegant compositional strategies produced some fine songs. The Sales brothers rhythm section was energetic (if a bit too noisily recorded, in a bit of an '80s hangover) and enthusiastic, even if the "band democracy" thing allowing the occasional lead vocal and songwriting contribution weren't the best ideas. So even though a couple of tracks on the first Tin Machine album seem more like the fruits of a rehearsal jam than actual songs, a handful of tracks are quite good. My favorites are "Prisoner of Love" and "I Can't Read." I'm particularly fond of the skirling, bagpipe-like backdrop in the lead-in to "Prisoner of Love"'s chorus. "I Can't Read" laments a nation of citizens so simple-minded, driving their modules isn't an option: they seem incapable even of finding the damned things. Everything about this song is falling apart: the chords stretch out at odd angles, the guitar tone fragments into rogue harmonics, the rhythm positively lurches into the chorus, and Bowie's vocal sounds as if it was recorded thirty seconds after he was awakened from a very heavy and unpleasant sleep. And I mean every word of that as a compliment.
The backlash against Tin Machine was so strong that the band's second album (and it was a band: Gabrels went on to collaborate with Bowie for his next few albums, and he co-wrote most the songs) never stood a chance. Too bad - because it's actually a better, more consistent album. The songs seem more developed; even though it slackens a bit toward the end (aside from its brilliant finale, "Goodbye Mr. Ed"), the songs still feel like songs. The band's energy seems a bit more focused here as well. "You Belong in Rock & Roll" (the title's always seemed like a putdown to me...) adds Bowie's distinctive sax work to the mix (even though no one will ever confuse Bowie as a sax player with Sonny Rollins, he has a very particular sound and style that instantly earmarks a song as Bowie's), and the lyric of "Goodbye Mr. Ed" is another example of Bowie's word salad. It's not exactly clear what he's saying specifically, yet the words are evocative of a particular mood or setting. There's a tone of resignation to his singing, some regret, but almost a sense of bemusement. (Bowie periodically dusts off some of these songs in an acoustic format, and in such a setting their compositional acuity shines through. I know he's done "I Can't Read" in this style, and "Goodbye Mr. Ed" would be a good candidate.)
Tin Machine:
"Prisoner of Love" (Tin Machine, 1989)
"I Can't Read" (Tin Machine, 1989)
"You Belong in Rock & Roll" (Tin Machine II, 1991)
"Goodbye Mr. Ed" (Tin Machine II, 1991)
There. I've said it.
Bowie's Tin Machine project has a foul reputation - but it's by no means entirely deserved. It helps to remember that at the end of the '80s, Bowie had tailed off, rather directionless, recording an album even he rather regrets (Never Let Me Down), after having been accused of selling out utterly. That latter charge was, I think, unfair: first, while Let's Dance indeed brought him enormous sales, it was never a simple dance-pop CD. Even the title track features, in addition to its stomping dance beat, jazzy chord voicings, and it leads off an album that, in retrospect, is a pretty fine collection of songs. Let's Dance's follow-up, Tonight, is a far weaker CD, larded with forgettable covers and Bowie's ongoing donations to the James Osterberg Charitable Foundation. Still, "Loving the Alien" and "Blue Jean" were fine songs. Never Let Me Down, however, is almost completely forgettable. (As in: I've forgotten how any song on that album goes.)
So when Bowie decided to form a band, designed to play live rock'n'roll music, a lot of people thought it was desperate: Bowie the chameleon no longer starting trends but tagging along after them. That's too bad, because at its best the tension between guitarist Reeves Gabrels' rangy, feedback-laden guitar experiments (Adrian Belew plays with Sonic Youth) and Bowie's more elegant compositional strategies produced some fine songs. The Sales brothers rhythm section was energetic (if a bit too noisily recorded, in a bit of an '80s hangover) and enthusiastic, even if the "band democracy" thing allowing the occasional lead vocal and songwriting contribution weren't the best ideas. So even though a couple of tracks on the first Tin Machine album seem more like the fruits of a rehearsal jam than actual songs, a handful of tracks are quite good. My favorites are "Prisoner of Love" and "I Can't Read." I'm particularly fond of the skirling, bagpipe-like backdrop in the lead-in to "Prisoner of Love"'s chorus. "I Can't Read" laments a nation of citizens so simple-minded, driving their modules isn't an option: they seem incapable even of finding the damned things. Everything about this song is falling apart: the chords stretch out at odd angles, the guitar tone fragments into rogue harmonics, the rhythm positively lurches into the chorus, and Bowie's vocal sounds as if it was recorded thirty seconds after he was awakened from a very heavy and unpleasant sleep. And I mean every word of that as a compliment.
The backlash against Tin Machine was so strong that the band's second album (and it was a band: Gabrels went on to collaborate with Bowie for his next few albums, and he co-wrote most the songs) never stood a chance. Too bad - because it's actually a better, more consistent album. The songs seem more developed; even though it slackens a bit toward the end (aside from its brilliant finale, "Goodbye Mr. Ed"), the songs still feel like songs. The band's energy seems a bit more focused here as well. "You Belong in Rock & Roll" (the title's always seemed like a putdown to me...) adds Bowie's distinctive sax work to the mix (even though no one will ever confuse Bowie as a sax player with Sonny Rollins, he has a very particular sound and style that instantly earmarks a song as Bowie's), and the lyric of "Goodbye Mr. Ed" is another example of Bowie's word salad. It's not exactly clear what he's saying specifically, yet the words are evocative of a particular mood or setting. There's a tone of resignation to his singing, some regret, but almost a sense of bemusement. (Bowie periodically dusts off some of these songs in an acoustic format, and in such a setting their compositional acuity shines through. I know he's done "I Can't Read" in this style, and "Goodbye Mr. Ed" would be a good candidate.)
Tin Machine:
"Prisoner of Love" (Tin Machine, 1989)
"I Can't Read" (Tin Machine, 1989)
"You Belong in Rock & Roll" (Tin Machine II, 1991)
"Goodbye Mr. Ed" (Tin Machine II, 1991)
6.13.2007
counting windows in the sky
Bowie's last three albums (Hours..., Heathen, Reality) have found him in a burst of creativity, firing off b-sides and remixes like a crazy monkey. (He was creative in other ways as well: I'm hoping his musical silence since Reality is largely accounted for by the fact that he and wife Iman had a child, Alexandria, who's about five years old by now.) Here are a handful of those b-sides.
"Safe" (alternately known as "(Safe In This) Sky Life") has a tangled history (according to the Illustrated DB Discography). It was apparently recorded initially in '98 for inclusion in the Rugrats soundtrack but not used, it eventually appeared in 2002, initially as a BowieNet download, and then as the b-side of "Everyone Says 'Hi'" and as a bonus track on the Heathen SACD. The track displays Bowie's usual talent for artfully deploying somewhat unusual harmonic sequences and melody lines, particularly in the lead-in to the chorus.
"No One Calls": It might be instructive to imagine this is a sort of cyber-reggae - in fact, as a sort of mutant dub version of "Safe" (they're in the same key, more or less, and the main melodies of the two songs seem related). The tempo seems dipped in molasses; and it's hard to figure at first what that opening bass and the first stirrings of melody have to do with one another. Despite that intrigue, this one seems a bit underdeveloped: I'll admit that I really could have done with some sort of variation in the middle of this track. I suppose the pressing weight of sameness works well with the notion of no one calling - but form doesn't always have to follow function.
"Fly": This reminds me, for some reason, of an older song...but damned if I can figure out which one. A good example of the way Bowie can take in overt traits of various musical genres and (sometimes after a period of using them overtly) deploy them subtly in perhaps unexpected contexts. Here, for example, a fairly typical and straightforward rock song (including the phrase "dying for the weekend" yet) actually has quite a bit of abstract textural detail, though that detail initially comes across as more ornamental than essential. A thoroughly deconstructive remix (along the lines of what Brian Eno described in the interview I linked yesterday) might use only those moments, eliminating the parts that catch their flies with honey, to create a nicely aggressive and purely electronic track. A rather long and digressive bridge in this one, too.
David Bowie:
"Safe" (b-side of "Everyone Says 'Hi'", 2002)
"No One Calls" ("Thursday's Child" CD single, 1999)
"Fly" (Reality bonus CD, 2003)
"Safe" (alternately known as "(Safe In This) Sky Life") has a tangled history (according to the Illustrated DB Discography). It was apparently recorded initially in '98 for inclusion in the Rugrats soundtrack but not used, it eventually appeared in 2002, initially as a BowieNet download, and then as the b-side of "Everyone Says 'Hi'" and as a bonus track on the Heathen SACD. The track displays Bowie's usual talent for artfully deploying somewhat unusual harmonic sequences and melody lines, particularly in the lead-in to the chorus.
"No One Calls": It might be instructive to imagine this is a sort of cyber-reggae - in fact, as a sort of mutant dub version of "Safe" (they're in the same key, more or less, and the main melodies of the two songs seem related). The tempo seems dipped in molasses; and it's hard to figure at first what that opening bass and the first stirrings of melody have to do with one another. Despite that intrigue, this one seems a bit underdeveloped: I'll admit that I really could have done with some sort of variation in the middle of this track. I suppose the pressing weight of sameness works well with the notion of no one calling - but form doesn't always have to follow function.
"Fly": This reminds me, for some reason, of an older song...but damned if I can figure out which one. A good example of the way Bowie can take in overt traits of various musical genres and (sometimes after a period of using them overtly) deploy them subtly in perhaps unexpected contexts. Here, for example, a fairly typical and straightforward rock song (including the phrase "dying for the weekend" yet) actually has quite a bit of abstract textural detail, though that detail initially comes across as more ornamental than essential. A thoroughly deconstructive remix (along the lines of what Brian Eno described in the interview I linked yesterday) might use only those moments, eliminating the parts that catch their flies with honey, to create a nicely aggressive and purely electronic track. A rather long and digressive bridge in this one, too.
David Bowie:
"Safe" (b-side of "Everyone Says 'Hi'", 2002)
"No One Calls" ("Thursday's Child" CD single, 1999)
"Fly" (Reality bonus CD, 2003)
Yassassin (Turkish for: WTF?)
A brief break from the Bowie-istic goodness: for some reason, Blogger has decided today to display months in Turkish.
At least they are right now, on my computer (and no, my settings do not indicate that Turkish is my preferred language).
So, uh, happy Haziran.
Addendum: Now they're back to English. Follow in your books and repeat after me as we learn three new words in Turkish. "Towel"...
At least they are right now, on my computer (and no, my settings do not indicate that Turkish is my preferred language).
So, uh, happy Haziran.
Addendum: Now they're back to English. Follow in your books and repeat after me as we learn three new words in Turkish. "Towel"...
6.12.2007
how they drank from the jazz
Skipping right over David Bowie's commercial and critical peak years of the '70s and early '80s (and directing you to my earlier post about the creative resurgence I see building from Black Tie White Noise onwards - sorry, the songs are no longer up), I'll pick up with the nearly invisible album recorded in between BTWN and Outside: the Buddha of Suburbia soundtrack. For some reason, this release had trouble getting known, particularly in the US, where it was delayed for a year. It appears to have sunk nearly without trace. There are a couple of songs on the album, but as a soundtrack, it's primarily instrumental as you'd expect. One of the better ones is "South Horizon," which finds Bowie continuing to explore the sort of jazz influences that found him hiring trumpeter Lester Bowie (no, no relation) on BTWN. Here, multi-instrumentalist Erdal Kizilcay plays the trumpet, again in a sort of post-Miles fashion, over a drifting, ambient series of chords and Mike Garson's immediately recognizable piano. (He played on "Aladdin Sane." Yep, that kind of piano.) Coincidentally, Bowie's former creative co-conspirator Brian Eno (with whom Bowie would reunite on Outside) was also experimenting with a jazz-inflected sound around this time, with several tracks on 1992's Nerve Net working in a similar vein.
Speaking of Eno, "The Mysteries" sounds like an updated, calmer version of some of the instrumental pieces Eno produced on Low and Heroes.
I'll post my favorite song from The Buddha of Suburbia, "Bleed Like a Craze, Dad," which sounds at first like just an improv on a riff, but closer listening reveals a lot of subtleties deeper in the mix (including the riff from "Red Money"/"Sister Midnight"...).
(Incidentally, Bowie's notes on this soundtrack project are quite fascinating. Why were they not included in the US release? Stop me before I rant about idiot record companies again!)
David Bowie:
"South Horizon" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
"The Mysteries" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
"Bleed Like a Craze, Dad" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
Speaking of Eno, "The Mysteries" sounds like an updated, calmer version of some of the instrumental pieces Eno produced on Low and Heroes.
I'll post my favorite song from The Buddha of Suburbia, "Bleed Like a Craze, Dad," which sounds at first like just an improv on a riff, but closer listening reveals a lot of subtleties deeper in the mix (including the riff from "Red Money"/"Sister Midnight"...).
(Incidentally, Bowie's notes on this soundtrack project are quite fascinating. Why were they not included in the US release? Stop me before I rant about idiot record companies again!)
David Bowie:
"South Horizon" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
"The Mysteries" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
"Bleed Like a Craze, Dad" (The Buddha of Suburbia, 1993)
6.11.2007
ashes to ashes...
Among other things, David Bowie's a champion recycler. Not only will he resurrect songs from his past to play live, years after he's last played them, he will reshape discarded musical material into new songs, sometimes years after the original material originated. (Ever noticed the way the octave-doubled piano lick in "Aladdin Sane" is rather similar to the closing piano bit in "Sweet Thing"? The two songs - or at least, parts of them - originated in the same track, a seven-minute piece known as "A Lad in Vain" which I'm not posting because it's less an instrumental than an unfinished song.) Here are three examples.
"The Ching-A-Ling Song" has, like many of Bowie's early recordings, a curious history, with several different versions circulating. The one that's on the CD version of The Deram Collection is shorter than this one, for example. This version was originally billed as being by "Feathers," a short-lived trio consisting of Bowie, Hermione Farthingale (yes, the "Hermione" addressed in "Letter to Hermione"), and John "Hutch" Hutchinson. The chords of that instrumental break sound a bit familiar, don't they? Next time it comes around, the vocal melody gives it away: this is the first appearance of a melody Bowie would use a year or two later in "Saviour Machine."
"Lover to the Dawn" is a rough draft of "Cygnet Committee," recorded in 1968 or 1969. Its source is, apparently, an acetate disc - so it's rather scratchy and muffled. The guitar lick, on acoustic 12-string, bears some resemblance to that of the Rolling Stones' "Lady Jane" - something far less apparent in the song's eventual evolution into "Cygnet Committee." The lyrics are different, and there's an entirely separate verse section.
Finally, "Tired of My Life" features a melody and chord sequence that were reworked, with relatively minimal changes, ten years later on as "It's No Game." The bridge (also salvaged as the bridge of "It's No Game") features some very unusual vocal harmonies... Some sources claim this is a version of the first song Bowie ever wrote; at any rate, it's fascinating to learn how long in coming "It's No Game" was.
Feathers "The Ching-A-Ling Song" (longer version, 1968)
David Bowie "Lover to the Dawn" (~1968)
David Bowie "Tired of My Life" (1970)
"The Ching-A-Ling Song" has, like many of Bowie's early recordings, a curious history, with several different versions circulating. The one that's on the CD version of The Deram Collection is shorter than this one, for example. This version was originally billed as being by "Feathers," a short-lived trio consisting of Bowie, Hermione Farthingale (yes, the "Hermione" addressed in "Letter to Hermione"), and John "Hutch" Hutchinson. The chords of that instrumental break sound a bit familiar, don't they? Next time it comes around, the vocal melody gives it away: this is the first appearance of a melody Bowie would use a year or two later in "Saviour Machine."
"Lover to the Dawn" is a rough draft of "Cygnet Committee," recorded in 1968 or 1969. Its source is, apparently, an acetate disc - so it's rather scratchy and muffled. The guitar lick, on acoustic 12-string, bears some resemblance to that of the Rolling Stones' "Lady Jane" - something far less apparent in the song's eventual evolution into "Cygnet Committee." The lyrics are different, and there's an entirely separate verse section.
Finally, "Tired of My Life" features a melody and chord sequence that were reworked, with relatively minimal changes, ten years later on as "It's No Game." The bridge (also salvaged as the bridge of "It's No Game") features some very unusual vocal harmonies... Some sources claim this is a version of the first song Bowie ever wrote; at any rate, it's fascinating to learn how long in coming "It's No Game" was.
Feathers "The Ching-A-Ling Song" (longer version, 1968)
David Bowie "Lover to the Dawn" (~1968)
David Bowie "Tired of My Life" (1970)
6.10.2007
the dust of youth
It's Bowie Week here, for no other reason than that I've found myself digging into his back catalog after having acquired a couple of recordings I'd missed the first time around. I don't think anything I plan on posting is terribly rare, but I'll aim for more out-of-the-way stuff: what would be the point of posting "Suffragette City"?
Anyway: to start with, Bowie's career had a couple of false starts, reaching all the way back to 1963, when he was still "Davy Jones" (no Monkee of that name to compete with yet) and various ensembles such as the King Bees, the Manish Boys, and the Lower Third. The first record released under the name "David Bowie" - and one of his first records that showed glimmers of the songwriter he was to become - is "Can't Help Thinking About Me," from 1966. While the opening chords are reminiscent of the Who, the chord sequence in the verse that follows is typically Bowie, wandering through some unexpected modulations and moving to a second, pre-chorus section that ups the perceived tempo, by means of the bass playing steady eighth notes.
Over the next couple of years, Bowie recorded several hours' worth of tracks in a variety of styles, moving beyond the R&B/Stones/Beatles/Who influences of his earliest tracks. While a lot of this material (released on The Deram Anthology 1966-1968) sounds rather gimmicky now - most notoriously, "The Laughing Gnome" - there are also some fine songs in this batch, including some that foreshadowed some of the directions Bowie would take on his "first" album on Philips/Mercury in 1969. (Do the Discographic Confusion: Bowie's Deram album was self-titled, as was this Philips/Mercury release in its initial configuration - although it was re-titled Man of Words/Man of Music for its initial US release. Eventually, it was re-titled Space Oddity, after its best-known track became a surprise single success three years after its release. Got it?) "Let Me Sleep Beside You" begins with a big fat riff (one that I swear early Captain Beefheart borrowed...am I hallucinating this?) and moves to a bass- and cello-heavy arrangement (a bit muddy in this mono mix) and lyrics which seem to borrow some ideas from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."
Then there's "We Are Hungry Men." Although presented in a somewhat farcical style, the song's lyrics are Bowie's first go at a sort of science-fictional setting, featuring one of his many dubious messiahs. Plus, thematically it beat The Buoys' "Timothy" by several years.
Perhaps the best of this early batch of songs is "Silly Boy Blue," presented here in an epic version (with 14-piece orchestra) from Bowie at the Beeb, the compilation of Bowie's BBC appearances. The song is apparently inspired by Bowie's experiences with his Buddhist teacher, Chimi Youngdoong Rinpoche (Bowie adds his name between a couple of the verses here), and the opening low-string drone, with tiny bells, reminds me of the sound of chanting Buddhist monks. (The version here includes a brief interview, primarily about the next track: bad track cueing info!)
David Bowie:
"Can't Help Thinking About Me" (1966)
"Let Me Sleep Beside You" (1967)
"We Are Hungry Men" (1967)
"Silly Boy Blue" (John Peel in Top Gear, recorded 5-13-68, broadcast 5-26-68)
Anyway: to start with, Bowie's career had a couple of false starts, reaching all the way back to 1963, when he was still "Davy Jones" (no Monkee of that name to compete with yet) and various ensembles such as the King Bees, the Manish Boys, and the Lower Third. The first record released under the name "David Bowie" - and one of his first records that showed glimmers of the songwriter he was to become - is "Can't Help Thinking About Me," from 1966. While the opening chords are reminiscent of the Who, the chord sequence in the verse that follows is typically Bowie, wandering through some unexpected modulations and moving to a second, pre-chorus section that ups the perceived tempo, by means of the bass playing steady eighth notes.
Over the next couple of years, Bowie recorded several hours' worth of tracks in a variety of styles, moving beyond the R&B/Stones/Beatles/Who influences of his earliest tracks. While a lot of this material (released on The Deram Anthology 1966-1968) sounds rather gimmicky now - most notoriously, "The Laughing Gnome" - there are also some fine songs in this batch, including some that foreshadowed some of the directions Bowie would take on his "first" album on Philips/Mercury in 1969. (Do the Discographic Confusion: Bowie's Deram album was self-titled, as was this Philips/Mercury release in its initial configuration - although it was re-titled Man of Words/Man of Music for its initial US release. Eventually, it was re-titled Space Oddity, after its best-known track became a surprise single success three years after its release. Got it?) "Let Me Sleep Beside You" begins with a big fat riff (one that I swear early Captain Beefheart borrowed...am I hallucinating this?) and moves to a bass- and cello-heavy arrangement (a bit muddy in this mono mix) and lyrics which seem to borrow some ideas from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."
Then there's "We Are Hungry Men." Although presented in a somewhat farcical style, the song's lyrics are Bowie's first go at a sort of science-fictional setting, featuring one of his many dubious messiahs. Plus, thematically it beat The Buoys' "Timothy" by several years.
Perhaps the best of this early batch of songs is "Silly Boy Blue," presented here in an epic version (with 14-piece orchestra) from Bowie at the Beeb, the compilation of Bowie's BBC appearances. The song is apparently inspired by Bowie's experiences with his Buddhist teacher, Chimi Youngdoong Rinpoche (Bowie adds his name between a couple of the verses here), and the opening low-string drone, with tiny bells, reminds me of the sound of chanting Buddhist monks. (The version here includes a brief interview, primarily about the next track: bad track cueing info!)
David Bowie:
"Can't Help Thinking About Me" (1966)
"Let Me Sleep Beside You" (1967)
"We Are Hungry Men" (1967)
"Silly Boy Blue" (John Peel in Top Gear, recorded 5-13-68, broadcast 5-26-68)
6.09.2007
shiver me timbers, blow me down, etc.
Here's a little item gleaned from the latest installment of "The Hater" by Amelie Gillette (who's my secret girlfriend): a chain of movie theaters plans on introducing a little device whereby viewers can summon an usher to shush blabbers for you. Anyway, apparently the device will come with buttons you can press for various annoyances, including one marked - no joke - "Piracy." (Insert obvious joke re using this at Pirates of the Caribbean.) I mean, really: theater owners expect there to be enough piracy that one of a handful of buttons is specifically dedicated to spotting it out? And that people in the theater are going to be oh so concerned - dearie me, that young fellow is recording this movie so people can see the same movie we paid nine bucks for on a teeny screen with crappy resolution, for free?
It reminds me of when our local Cable Bastards(tm) put up billboards on every corner, encouraging a vigilant citizenry to be on the lookout for those dangerous rogues who might be stealing cable service. Because, you know, if someone else is getting cable for free, that costs me a whole lot of money. Unlike, say, the cost of hundreds of pointless billboards trying to scare cable pirates.
It reminds me of when our local Cable Bastards(tm) put up billboards on every corner, encouraging a vigilant citizenry to be on the lookout for those dangerous rogues who might be stealing cable service. Because, you know, if someone else is getting cable for free, that costs me a whole lot of money. Unlike, say, the cost of hundreds of pointless billboards trying to scare cable pirates.
6.08.2007
reasons 6,372 & 6,373 why I'm not in marketing
* Greeting card companies seem to have nearly every conceivable situation and emotion covered (The Onion satirized this situation a few weeks back, in an article I'm too lazy to link to). But one I haven't seen is the very common situation whereby one party wishes to gloat to another party about his success, his rightness, his clearly earned justification in participating in I-told-you-so-ness. For this, I think a cute little cartoon character, called Gloaty the Goat (and looking suspiciously like this generically downloadable bit of clip art below), would work well.
* On a music mailing list I'm subscribed to, discussion of good (or bad) band names caused one person to mention Paul Revere & the Raiders - on the grounds that one guy in the band (the organist) actually was named "Paul Revere." Someone else pointed out that, technically, his name was "Paul Revere Dick." The theory was floated that perhaps he was Andy Dick's father...to which someone else speculated that, to be consistent with the whole "historical Americans" thing, the actor's given name should be "Andrew Jackson Dick."
This gave me an idea. I propose a set of action figures named after historical Americans: Benjamin Franklin Dick, George Washington Dick, Ulysses S. Grant Dick, John F. Kennedy Dick, and, of course, Dick Nixon Dick. The action figures are basically dildos dressed up in the appropriate historical garb and with the appropriate faces attached.
It'll make millions, I'm sure.
* On a music mailing list I'm subscribed to, discussion of good (or bad) band names caused one person to mention Paul Revere & the Raiders - on the grounds that one guy in the band (the organist) actually was named "Paul Revere." Someone else pointed out that, technically, his name was "Paul Revere Dick." The theory was floated that perhaps he was Andy Dick's father...to which someone else speculated that, to be consistent with the whole "historical Americans" thing, the actor's given name should be "Andrew Jackson Dick."
This gave me an idea. I propose a set of action figures named after historical Americans: Benjamin Franklin Dick, George Washington Dick, Ulysses S. Grant Dick, John F. Kennedy Dick, and, of course, Dick Nixon Dick. The action figures are basically dildos dressed up in the appropriate historical garb and with the appropriate faces attached.
It'll make millions, I'm sure.
6.06.2007
freelance patrol sounds the all-clear
Often, the word "postmodern" gets used as a high-grade substitution for the more mundane (and accurate) "new and (supposedly) different." You'll hear phrases like "postmodern folk" to describe what would more aptly be called simply "contemporary folk" (folk music that doesn't pretend it's the 19th century), except that "contemporary folk" just means "folk music pretending it's the 19th century but sung by not-dead people wearing cable knit sweaters and fetishizing acoustic instruments."
The Caribbean (which is a band - as their helpfully-URL'd website www.thecaribbeanisaband.com notes) actually does do something that might aptly be referred to as "postmodern folk." Characters in Caribbean songs describe their lives, their confusions, frustrations, minor triumphs and obsessions, often in nonlinear fashion, jargon-ridden with the lingo of office parks, low-level government workers, drugstore delivery drivers, and so on. The music seems simple, often built around voice and acoustic guitar (even if the chords are slightly jazz-influenced) - but structurally and melodically, the songs are nearly as fragmented as their lyrics can be. Subtle electronics both layer the arrangement and permeate the production (i.e., occasional loops, interruptions, and glitches). "The Go From Tactical", the first song issued from the band's upcoming September release Populations, is a fine example even down to the title, both of whose nouns are jargonistically repurposed from a verb and adjective respectively (yes, I'm a word geek: what of it?). There's a sense of loss, of being left behind somehow, or of the risk thereof - or maybe I'm just diffusing the clearest lines in the song ("you're going to have to stop crying at the choruses of your favorite Go-Betweens songs cuz they're gone") over the rest of the song. But that's the way things work, isn't it.
So it seems apt that the Caribbean is one of the bands represented on one of the initial releases of the West Main Development label (a project of band member Matthew Byars) - a document of songs played over the telephone and broadcast on a Boston radio station, called (inevitably) Phoning It In. Here's a version of their song "William of Orange," title track from their 2004 EP on Hometapes. There's something both intimate and distancing about a phone call, and that mixed affect strikes me as another frequent characteristic of Caribbean songs.
The Caribbean "The Go from Tactical" (Populations, forthcoming)
The Caribbean "William of Orange" (Phoning It In compilation, 2007)
The Caribbean (which is a band - as their helpfully-URL'd website www.thecaribbeanisaband.com notes) actually does do something that might aptly be referred to as "postmodern folk." Characters in Caribbean songs describe their lives, their confusions, frustrations, minor triumphs and obsessions, often in nonlinear fashion, jargon-ridden with the lingo of office parks, low-level government workers, drugstore delivery drivers, and so on. The music seems simple, often built around voice and acoustic guitar (even if the chords are slightly jazz-influenced) - but structurally and melodically, the songs are nearly as fragmented as their lyrics can be. Subtle electronics both layer the arrangement and permeate the production (i.e., occasional loops, interruptions, and glitches). "The Go From Tactical", the first song issued from the band's upcoming September release Populations, is a fine example even down to the title, both of whose nouns are jargonistically repurposed from a verb and adjective respectively (yes, I'm a word geek: what of it?). There's a sense of loss, of being left behind somehow, or of the risk thereof - or maybe I'm just diffusing the clearest lines in the song ("you're going to have to stop crying at the choruses of your favorite Go-Betweens songs cuz they're gone") over the rest of the song. But that's the way things work, isn't it.
So it seems apt that the Caribbean is one of the bands represented on one of the initial releases of the West Main Development label (a project of band member Matthew Byars) - a document of songs played over the telephone and broadcast on a Boston radio station, called (inevitably) Phoning It In. Here's a version of their song "William of Orange," title track from their 2004 EP on Hometapes. There's something both intimate and distancing about a phone call, and that mixed affect strikes me as another frequent characteristic of Caribbean songs.
The Caribbean "The Go from Tactical" (Populations, forthcoming)
The Caribbean "William of Orange" (Phoning It In compilation, 2007)
6.05.2007
Tyson protege?
The logistics of this one are hard to figure. (Also: apparently this took place within a few blocks of my house. I just hope this guy isn't just out randomly biting tongues.)
6.04.2007
6.03.2007
movies and escapism (hurr!)
Intriguing article...and don't you think it's a perfect source for...a movie treatment? (Then Wired can write a behind-the-scenes article on the movie, just to get more meta...)
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