introverted excavator

The Sugarcubes

2009-09-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

From one of my favorite albums, Life's Too Good (1988), in honor of my cousin Lisa's Bjork sighting in NY this week.

My friends in high school teased me mercilessly about my musical taste after the Sugarcubes played on SNL. I was only 14, but I didn't back down, I knew I was right! HA!

Two Suns

2009-08-30T19:32:00.000-07:00

Bat for Lashes w/ Other Lives
8/15/09

My niece, Keighlyn, and I heard the celestial Bat for Lashes, aka British musician Natasha Khan, and her stellar, instrument-swapping band a few weeks ago in DC at the 9:30 Club. Khan and co. were on a month-long US tour to promote "Two Suns," their Mercury-prize nominated second album.

While the album is primarily a requiem for a lost relationship (as in "we're two suns spinning at two different speeds" from the show's opener 'Glass'), the two suns also refer to earth-goddess Khan, and her blond, vixen alter-ego, Pearl. (Or perhaps to two similarly doe-eyed, self-possessed young women... Was it just coincidence that we spent the afternoon before the show at the Air and Space Museum?!) Natasha sang and played piano, guitar, and autoharp, and was joined by musicians Ben Christophers, Charlotte Hatherley, and Sarah Jones on percussion, bass, piano, autoharp, and backing vocals.

The coolest band from Oklahoma, Other Lives, opened the show with a great set of folk-rock, including a mean rendition of 'The Partisan' (a WWII-era song often played by Leonard Cohen).

Other Lives' Cellist Jenny Hsu

Jesse Tabish

Bat for Lashes' Natasha Khan

Like many of the musicians I've embraced lately, Ms. Khan is a child of the 70s. In some ways I think that's why her music resonates with me--we grew up with the same cultural references, listening to the same things. From the opening lines of 'Glass' I can imagine her singing 'If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places.' Besides that angelic yet fiery voice, with Kate Bush she also shares a mystical quality, and one that doesn't come across as pretense or corny. At one point during the show, we all even howled like wolves, but it totally works.

In addition to "Two Suns," the two hour show featured songs from their 2007 debut album, "Fur and Gold" (also a Mercury prize nominee). Of the albums' opener, 'Horse and I,' Radiohead's Thom Yorke (with whom she toured in 2008) said "natasha khan of bat for lashes ain't scared. i love the harpsichord and the sexual ghost voices and bowed saws. this song seems to come from the world of grimm's fairytales, and i feel like a wolf."

Although Khan's voice is often compared to Kate Bush or Bjork, there are hints of Polly Jean, especially in songs like 'Trophy' with it's lower register chorus of "heaven is a feeling I get in your arms." One of my favorite songs of the night was 'Siren Song,' with Natasha alone at the piano singing a beautiful song about ambivalence.

Ben Christophers (a bit of a Thom Yorke vibe, eh?)

Two Chucks (but mine are 20+ years old!)

The show's closer, the crowd pleasing 'Daniel', is a song about Mr. Miyagi's apprentice. Seriously.

Back home in Baltimore at the world's best record store...

Set List:
Glass
Sleep Alone
Horse and I
Travelling Woman
Siren Song
Wizard
Trophy
Tahiti
What’s a Girl to Do
Pearl’s Dream

Encore:
Prescilla
Good Love
Moon and Moon
Two Planets
Daniel

She's clearly a child of the 80s-look at that outfit!

And just for fun..

My new favorite musician...

2009-07-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

http://www.batforlashes.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bat_for_Lashes

The spark in your eyes belies the apocalypse inside you.

2009-06-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

TV On the Radio
9:30 Club, DC
June 8, 2009

Polly & John

2009-06-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Is it narcissism that my god is a tiny, dark-haired woman, reserved, yet full of fire?

PJ Harvey & John Parish
June 5, 2009
Warner Theatre, DC

With Eric Drew Feldman, Giovanni Ferrario, and Jean Marc Butty.

Set: (not necessarily in order!)
Black Hearted Love
Sixteen, Fifteen, Fourteen
Rope Bridge Crossing
Urn with Dead Flowers in a Drained Pool
Civil War Correspondent
The Soldier
Taut
Un Cercle Autour du Soleil
The Chair
Leaving California
A Woman A Man Walked By/The Crow Knows Where All the Little Children Go
Passionless, Pointless
Pig Will Not
Cracks in the Canvas
Encore:
False Fire (John on vocals)
April

You don't know me I am an introvert, an excavator...

2009-06-01T00:40:00.000-07:00

Santigold w/Amanda Blank and Trouble Andrew
Ram's Head Live, Baltimore
5/31/09

The innovator herself, Ms. Santi White (AKA Santigold-- previously Santogold before she was nearly sued by an infomercial star!), played to an appreciative but under capacity crowd at Ram's Head last night. (Her show at 9:30 Club next week is sold out--what up Baltimore?) She's quite the performer and perfectly adorable-- those Gap ads don't do her justice. (Like Karen O, she often dresses like it's the late 80s, so her loveliness goes unnoticed.) All I can say is that I danced like I was in my living room with the shades drawn. I even hit the stationary woman next to me (I apologized!), and got beer spilled down the back of my pants, but it was well worth it.

She played most of the songs from "Santogold" plus a fab tune from her days heading the Philadelphia-based band Stiffed. She was joined onstage twice by her two openers, Amanda Blank (whose set we missed), and Trouble Andrew, who was quite entertaining himself. During the show she was flanked by 2 back-up singers/dancers, who were as cool as members of the British guard, and who Santi described as "badass bitches." When she brought members of the audience onstage for one of the encores, she cautioned them to stay away from these humorless ladies. They were dressed like they stepped out of a bad 80s sitcom, but they pulled off their moves with aplomb.

It's challenging describing Santigold's sound to others. City Paper described it as "the Pixies fronted by MIA. " A friend said he imagined that's how Beck would sound if he took female hormones. While even Santi herself understands the MIA comparison, I do not. They're both women of color playing genre-bending music, but for me that's where the similarity ends. The Beck comparison is probably more accurate (who could dispute his genre-bending?). However, to me she sounds like Siouxsie Sioux if she was born in Philly instead of London. Sure, her self-titled debut album contains some rapping, but she's not rap or hip-hop. In an interview with the NME she famously called being labeled hip-hop racist. She's got a point. Like another Brooklyn band I love, TV on the Radio, she's an African-American woman playing indie rock. I'm not sure why that's confusing to music writers or music fans, especially considering that African-Americans invented rock 'n roll. The evolutionary mechanism that's given us humans the ability to make quick categorizations is becoming quite a liability, especially given the increasingly global nature of the world. It's no longer safe or good to fit everything into a little box. Ms. White certainly doesn't fit in one.

I think that's why her music resonates with me. Even though it's an innovative blending of styles, it's somewhat familiar as well. Perhaps it's also because we're contemporaries (like TV on the Radio, or the Yeah Yeah Yeah's, or Beck) and we grew up listening to the same kinds of music. (It's cool to have been born in the 70s!!!)

So if you haven't heard her, check her out!

Trouble Andrew's "mascot, " complete with skeleton mask (?) ! He didn't play an instrument or sing, but occasionally honked an ear-piercing bull horn and scattered dollar bills in front of a fan... I could have done without the shtick, especially since they had a decent sound. They warrant further examination, I think.

Cool chicks, Crystal and Miriam, check out a door to nowhere.

Well you're a liar and your cues are all wrong, but I can't count all the ways you woo me...

And I like sometimes to wave it high, up where everyone can see...

Sincerely, L. Cohen

2009-05-12T04:54:00.000-07:00

Leonard Cohen
May 11, 2009
Merriweather Post Pavilion
7:30-11:00 PM

I need to see you naked in your body and your thought
-Aint No Cure for Love

I'm good at love, I'm good at hate, it's in between I freeze
-A Thousand Kisses Deep

All I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
-Hallelujah

Leonard Cohen played with Sharon Robinson and the Webb Sisters (vocals), Roscoe Beck (bass, vocals), Neil Larsen (keyboards & Hammond B3 accordion), Bob Metzger (electric, acoustic & pedal steel guitar), Javier Mas (bandurria, laud, archilaud, 12 string acoustic guitar), Rafael Gayol (drums, percussion), and Dino Soldo (sax, clarinet, dobro, keys).

Cutie pie sound guys in fedoras

Jack and Evelyn before the show

Another fedora

Mr. Cohen on his knees

Sharon Robinson

Whither Thou Goest

Setlist:
Dance Me to the End of Love
The Future
Aint No Cure for Love
Bird on a Wire
Everybody Knows
In My Secret Life
Who By Fire
Chelsea Hotel No. 2
Waiting for the Miracle
Anthem
("We're so privileged to be here with you when the world is plunged in chaos...we'll be back for the second half of the show")
Tower of Song
Suzanne (Leonard on guitar)
The Gypsy's Wife
The Partisan
Boogie Street
Hallelujah
I'm Your Man
A Thousand Kisses Deep (spoken word)
Take this Waltz
I'm Your Man ("And if you want another kind of love, I'll wear this old man's mask for you.")
Encore 1: So Long, Marianne
First We Take Manhattan
Encore 2: Famous Blue Raincoat
Encore 3: If It Be Your Will (spoken word)
Democracy
Encore 4: I Tried to Leave You
Whither Thou Goest

Stop Falling In Love With Everything That Lets You Down

2009-05-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

Tommy Keene - 5/2/2009
The Talking Head, Baltimore

Twenty-some years after hearing the Replacements 'Alex Chilton' for the first time on my sister's college radio show, and a good 10 years after hearing the man himself play with a reunited Box Tops on Public Square in downtown Wilkes-Barre, PA, I've finally gotten around to really discovering the music of Alex Chilton and Big Star. Aside from knowing that he influenced everyone from the Replacements to Counting Crows ("I wanna be Big Star") I never knew much about him, save that he was trapped during Hurricane Katrina. Thanks to my friend Tom, who knows more about music than anyone I know, I discovered the melodic melancholy of Mr. Chilton and company. Elliott Smith, who'd covered several Big Star songs (notably Thirteen and Nighttime), and certainly no stranger to beautiful pain himself, was in many ways a musical heir of Chilton and Big Star. Another musical heir, who I had the pleasure of seeing/hearing in Baltimore last night, is Tommy Keene.

Tommy Keene, a Maryland native who has been playing/recording since the early 80s, is someone I'd never even heard of until about a month ago. This is surprising, given his long career and musical collaborations (notably playing as the Keene Brothers with Robert Pollard of Guided By Voices fame, another band I discovered thanks to college radio--I put 'Surgical Focus' on many a mix tape for some undeserving boy). Perhaps it's incorrect to call Keene an heir to Chilton--at 51 he's not even a decade younger--because while the music has a similar sensibility, Keene is clearly his own musician. The word 'power pop' gets thrown around a lot, but I don't really know what that means. Defining a musical genre based on affection for the Beatles and intelligently written pop tunes is limiting, since, like any label, it doesn't really tell you anything meaningful. (Interestingly, wikipedia's definition of 'power pop' would also fit Kurt Cobain, who, despite appearances to the contrary, was totally a melody junkie.) Tom's disclaimer (knowing my musical taste) when giving me the first Keene mix was that Tommy Keene isn't Radiohead. Maybe not, but he's a stellar performer/lyricist/guitar player who writes thoughtful, well-crafted songs.

Keene played at the Talking Head, a venue more intimate than anywhere I've seen a show (it's probably the size of my apartment), and my new favorite place to hear a band. (According to Rolling Stone's 2008 "Best Of" issue which rated Baltimore as having "the best music scene," the Talking Head is named for native son David Byrne, but I haven't been able to corroborate that). The 2 dimwitted door attendants at Sonar had never even heard of the Talking Head, even though it's housed within Sonar's walls ("What?--the Talking Heads aren't playing tonight, it's Sum 41, you got the wrong night babe..") You can imagine how much I appreciated being patronized by some stoned chick in smeared eye makeup who was younger than me. But it was fortuitous timing. As we stopped to talk to a friend of Tom's in the small alley leading to the club, Tommy Keene, his band, and what looked like his family, came around the corner behind us, and graciously greeted their fans on their way inside.

Now, I have only recently discovered Tommy Keene's music. However, the small crowd gathered at Talking Head knew his catalogue inside and out. I kinda felt like I did when I saw the Watchmen on opening night at the Uptown in DC and the mostly male audience cheered for every special effect. It's always super interesting, and a privilege for sure, to intimately observe a subculture of devoted fans. And man, were they devoted. There was a burly guy in a Ravens jersey with both arms and fists in the air during most of the show. The guy in front of me did an exaggerated head-bang to seemingly every drum beat. Out of the corner of my eye I spied the guy next to me playing air guitar. Seriously.

But I have to say, Tommy rocked. He may have only been playing for 30 people, but he played like he was playing for 300. It was the last night on their tour, and he was clearly enjoying himself and the attention from his adoring and extremely well-informed fans who knew everything he played, from his 80s material to his latest, In the Late Bright. His voice is reminiscient of Chilton's, but deeper and rougher, the perfect marriage of Paul Westerberg and Elvis Costello. Physically, he looked to me like a cross between a young Jimmy Stewart and Mel Gibson (circa Lethal Weapon). He has this everyman countenance, with a touch of madness in those intense blue eyes. And his playing matches him--it's pleasing, but is not sugar coated pop--and he's such a skilled musician that it doesn't even occur to you to be wowed by it. He makes it all seem easy. Flawless.

Why, then, hasn't he been on my radar? It's a mystery to me that every true music fan I know knows Chilton, but doesn't know Keene. It must be frustrating for Mr. Keene to be playing this tiny club for less than 50 people, while Sum 41 played to a packed house next door. And it frustrates me as a music fan. After the show, Keene mingled with fans--signing CDs, posing for pictures-- and graciously answered a new fan's lyric question, saying "I'm not sure, email me" (and I totally will-- it's a shame he's gay!)

For the last encore, Keene announced a surprise guest on drums, his 14 year old nephew, Hunter Keene, for their amazing cover of Lou Reed's 'Kill Your Sons.' The doe-eyed Hunter, a dead ringer for Atreyu from the Neverending Story, didn't appear to have any difficulty keeping up. In fact, he totally upstaged the rest of the band with his fierce playing. In a few years he'll be in some huge rock band. Perhaps mainstream success won't elude him like it has his uncle.

For more info on Tommy Keene, check out Tom's blog posting and Keene's recent NPR interview.

Setlist:
1. Late Bright (from IN THE LATE BRIGHT, 2009)
2. Secret Life of Stories (from IN THE LATE BRIGHT 2009)
3. Highwire Days (from BASED ON HAPPY TIMES, 1989)
4. Down, Down, Down (from SLEEPING ON A ROLLERCOASTER EP, 1992)
5. Nothing Can Change You (from BASED ON HAPPY TIMES, 1989)
6. Paper Words and Lies (from SONGS FROM THE FILM, 1986; CD reissued with RUN NOW EP in 1998)
7. Save This Harmony (from IN THE LATE BRIGHT, 2009)
8. Goodbye Jane (from IN THE LATE BRIGHT, 2009)
9. Black & White New York (from CRASHING THE ETHER, 2006)
10. Turning On Blue (from TEN YEARS AFTER, 1996)
11. Underworld (from SONGS FROM THE FILM, 1986)
12. Realize You're Mine (from IN THE LATE BRIGHT, 2009)
13. When Our Vows Break (T. Keene-J. Shears) (from BASED ON HAPPY TIMES, 1989)
14. Back To Zero (his "signature song," first real single, from PLACES THAT ARE GONE EP, Dolphin Records, 1984)
15. Compromise (from TEN YEARS AFTER, 1996)
16. Long Time Missing (from ISOLATION PARTY, 1998)
Encores:
17. Places That Are Gone (from PLACES THAT ARE GONE EP, 1984 - original version on the CD compilation THE REAL UNDERGROUND; a later, rerecorded, version appears on SONGS FROM THE FILM, 1986)
18. Kill Your Sons (Lou Reed)
(from SONGS FROM THE FILM, 1986, also appears as a live version on RUN NOW EP, 1986)

Send Me Home Damaged

2009-04-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

A Woman A Man Walked By
PJ Harvey & John Parish
March 2009

Years ago, a male, heterosexual friend confided that he would do Morrissey if given the opportunity--he loved his music that much. Courtney Love, on the other hand, once said that while her girl friends were lusting over male rockers, she, instead, wanted to be them. My feelings about PJ Harvey are a combination of the two (though mostly the latter). There is no other musician, not even my beloved Thom Yorke, that gets to me like Polly Jean. She is a true original--her voice, her music, her lyrics. Nick Cave sang about her: "With a crooked smile and a heart-shaped face, comes from the West Country where the birds sing bass, she's got a house-big heart where we all live, and plead and counsel and forgive."

But for me there's always been something else about Polly Jean. Poet Audre Lorde wrote "My fullest concentration of energy is available to me only when I integrate all the parts of who I am, openly, allowing power from particular sources of my living to flow back and forth freely through all my different selves, without the restrictions of externally imposed definition." How difficult it is to truly be who we really are--to bring all of our seemingly contradictory selves to the surface. Polly's music has always captured the complexity of human nature beautifully. On a more personal level, from the time I was barely out of my teens her music helped me acknowledge those parts of myself and resist any perceived constraints.

Almost every interview describes her as a "slip of a girl," painfully shy, soft-spoken, and polite. Yet her music is raw power-- her voice deep and resonant, her playing fierce. Despite her diminutive frame, she is no delicate flower. But it isn't simply that she's this small woman who plays powerful music. She plays real music. And despite her ever changing persona (the combat-booted riot girl of the early 90s, the fake-eyelashed vamp of To Bring You My Love, the Victorian-era pianist of White Chalk), there's an authenticity to her music because she's never fit into any box.

She's the author of '50 Foot Queenie,' a song with more bravado than anything written by Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, or any rapper ("glory, glory, lay it all on me, 50 foot queenie, 50 and rising, you bend over, Cassanova, no sweat, I'm clean, nothing can touch me") but also the author of 'It's You' ("when I was younger I spent my days wondering to whom I was supposed to pray--it's you.") And neither sounds like a put-on. You surely believe her when she sings "can't you see my pocket knife, you can't make me be your wife" as well as "could you be my calling?" on the same album. She can pull off the line "lick my legs I'm on fire," as well as "I envy to murderous envy your lover." She is the victim, the perpetrator, the innocent bystander. She is in love with love, and she is a woman scorned. She is tender and sweet, melancholy and mournful. She is bruised and broken, she is cold and withholding. She is in complete control of her sexuality. She is waiting for her savior on a horse. She blows the dichotomy of virgin/whore, good/evil, weak/strong out of the water. She, and her music, and all of us, are all of these things. She may be a mere human, but she masquerades as a goddess.

It is in this context that I listened to A Woman A Man Walked By, her 11th musical offering (if you include 4-track demos and the brilliant Peel sessions) and her second full-length collaboration with her friend John Parish (following 1996's Dance Hall at Louse Point). Admittedly, I have high expectations whenever Polly releases an album (perhaps expecting Polly to express the innermost workings of my soul is a bit much). But I'm rarely disappointed. I don't need to LOVE everything she does, I just want to feel something different. Polly's music can be challenging, and AWAMWB is challenging for sure. But, more importantly, she always appears to be challenging herself, whether it be her voice (as on the album White Chalk--which initially made my skin crawl), or by writing more formulaic pop/rock tunes (Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea--one of her most acclaimed/commercially successful records, although not my favorite. I'd take the dead lovers/broken characters of Is This Desire, Uh Huh Her, or To Bring You My Love over Stories any day.)

With Polly's own music, her sweet melodies often belie acidic lyrics or vice-versa. However, her collaborations with John Parish are like a dysfunctional relationship where each partner brings the other further down. They seem to feed off of each other to create even more ominous or distorted moods. In an interview with LA Weekly about their latest collaboration, Polly concurred "What I always try to do vocally with what John presents to me musically is to match the environment that that piece of music is inhabiting, and strengthen it more. So I just absorb the feeling of the music that is given me...What I do vocally always has to be absolutely together with the music in that they were made for each other and you cannot separate one from the other. "

She's made the creepiest and most inaccessible music of her career with John, but it totally works. This is not safe musical territory. However, I'm hesitant to use the word "dark." I mean, of course it's dark (that's sort of redundant with Polly), but the darkness isn't literal (not even the murderous lover of Black Hearted Love), it's purely visceral. It's about conveying these very personal emotions. This is not an album of out of tune keening that's been labeled 'art rock' and lauded by pretentious music critics to boost their indie cred. For me it's all about how the music makes me feel.

I have nothing against a well-crafted pop song, on the contrary, and I especially love a good lyric. However, when it comes to music that "owns my soul," as my niece Keighlyn would say, I need a fair dose of dissonance, and perhaps even a little pain, with my melody. Maybe it's because I live a well-ordered life, and masquerade as calm, cool, and collected (all those who know me well can roll your eyes now--I swear, people really think that!), but I find the chaos of Polly and John cathartic. It's more authentic than, I don't know, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand."

The album opener, 'Black Hearted Love,' is vintage PJ Harvey, with loud guitars and her voice back to her own deep register, not the bastardized sweetness of her previous album. It's one of the most violent songs about being underestimated that I've ever heard: "When you call out my name in rapture, I volunteer my soul for murder." It's one of my favorite tracks on the album, but also one of the most familiar. An ominous game of hide and seek dominates 'Sixteen, Fifteen, Fourteen.' It's as if 'Dance Hall at Louse Point' was being played in Appalachia or rural Ireland. The garden (as in "there is no laughter in the garden") is a recurring theme in her lyrics across albums. There is, in fact, a photo in the liner notes of Polly play-shrieking at John handing her an apple.

'Leaving California' finds Polly back to her falsetto, but it's the perfect complement to John's funeral dirge. 'The Chair,' about a dead child, another recurring theme, is probably my least favorite, but it's only Wed (and the album came out yesterday!) There's something very jazzy and Radiohead Kid A/Amnesiac about it.

'April' finds her playing with that voice-- initially a cross between a croak and a keen (I picture Snow White's evil step-mother in her disguise as the old woman with the apple). "April I feel you leaving, I don't know what silence means, it could mean anything." Then she unleashes that voice: "April, April, that I'm walking that I'm watching, your rain overcomes me." It's utterly perfect.

The music of the titular 'A Woman A Man Walked By' definitely matches the lyrics : "He had chicken liver balls, he had chicken liver spleen, he had chicken liver heart, made of chicken liver parts, lily livered little parts....but I wanted to explore the damp alleyways of his soul." Then, in a most terrifying growl (think Regan from the Exorcist), "I want his fuckin' ass." These two minutes of musical and lyrical brutality are followed by the frenetic instrumental 'The Crow Knows Where All The Little Children Go' which evokes Tom Waits in a boxcar.

'The Soldier,' a lovely, lilting ballad, begins "I imagine I'm a soldier walking on the faces of dead women." (And it's another banjo tune to boot.) 'Pig Will Not' starts with a howl that turns into a chorus of "I WILL NOT!" Phrases like "that rubbish inside your rotting mind" are punctuated by Polly barking like a dog. (I almost fell asleep on my second listen last night until I came to this song!)

'Passionless, Pointless' is an understated, unsentimental, yet devastating portrayal of a disintegrating relationship ("you slept facing the wall and you wanted less than I wanted.")
The album's closer, the spoken word 'Cracks in the Canvas,' comes too soon, after only 36 minutes. Polly sings "Dear God, you better not let me down this time."

And no, she hasn't.

Musical Pharmacology

2009-03-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

The New York Times

March 29, 2009
By Matthew Gurewitsch

Composing Concertos in the Key of Rx

REMEMBER the Mozart Effect? As propounded by the news media, the message was that listening to Mozart made children smarter. The science was full of holes, but the notion appealed, and a growing body of research has since suggested that music, classical music in particular, is somehow good for us. The field is still short on evidence, but it has started a lively conversation between scientists and other experts.

“Listening to finer music and attending concerts on a consistent basis makes your real age about four years younger,” Dr. Michael F. Roizen — the chief wellness officer of the Wellness Institute at the Cleveland Clinic, said recently. “Whether that’s due to stress relief or other properties, we see decreases in all-cause mortality, reflecting slower aging of arteries as well as cancer-related and environmental factors. Attending sports events like soccer or football offers none of these benefits.”

That music touches the core of our being is a discovery as old as human consciousness. Plato grappled with the powers of music in “The Laws” and other dialogues, and he was hardly the first to do so. Shakespeare in several of his most poignant scenes dramatized music’s soothing effect on troubled spirits.

Healers of many sorts try to harness music for therapeutic purposes, if only as an adjunct to crystals, perfumes and green tea. But could music ever take its place as medicine?

One expert who is betting that it will is Vera Brandes, the director of the research program in music and medicine at the Paracelsus Private Medical University in Salzburg, Austria. “I am the first musical pharmacologist,” Ms. Brandes said last fall in Vienna. In that capacity she is developing medication in the form of music, dispensed as a prescription. To market the product line, she helped found Sanoson (sanoson.at), a company that also designs custom music systems for medical facilities.

“We are preparing for the launch of our therapies in Germany and Austria in the fall of 2009,” she said, “and are anticipating the U.S. launch in 2010.”

Here is how the treatment works. Once the doctor has established a diagnosis, the patient is sent home with a listening protocol and music loaded onto a player much like an iPod. Timing is critical.

“Calming music heard at an ascending point in your circadian cycle wouldn’t calm you,” Ms. Brandes said. “It may even annoy you.” The technology — which includes special headsets and formatting as protection against piracy — is proprietary. A patent application has been filed with the United States Patent and Trademark Office.

The music is proprietary too. To avoid the interference of personal associations, the tracks consist entirely of original material. “In our research,” Ms. Brandes said, “we have found that when people are listening to music they know, their reactions are entirely different.”

Dr. Roizen and Ms. Brandes crossed paths last August at a symposium entitled “Music and the Brain,” presented by the Cleveland Clinic and the Cleveland Orchestra during the orchestra’s residency at the Salzburg Festival. Dr. Roizen, who is an author (with Mehmet C. Oz) of “You: The Owner’s Manual” and its numerous best-selling sequels, delivered solid substance with a showman’s flair in his talk “The Beneficial Effects of Music on Your Health.” Ms. Brandes, who was working on the program for Mozart & Science 2008, an international congress in Vienna last November, was in attendance and found that she shared with Dr. Roizen a passion for quantifying health effects that many have long taken on faith.

Since Plato and Shakespeare, natural scientists, many of them musicians themselves, have been looking at music with an ever more analytical eye. In the utilitarian 20th century, Muzak built an empire (now in Chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings) on the premise that background music in the workplace could boost productivity. Dr. Oliver Sacks, that inveterate explorer of uncharted regions of neurology, devoted his latest best-seller, “Musicophilia,” to freakish effects of music on the brain. And as anyone who owns an iPod knows, personal playlists can work small wonders on mood and well-being.

But how?

Like apothecaries of old, who distilled extracts from nature’s store of herbs and plants, Ms. Brandes and her associates analyze music of all kinds to tease out its “active ingredients,” which are then blended and balanced into medicinal compounds. Though they steer clear of gross pathologies or infectious diseases, they claim their methods have broad application in psychosomatic disorders, pain management and what Ms. Brandes calls “diseases of civilization”: anxiety, depression, insomnia and certain types of arrhythmia. The pharmacopeia stands at about 55 tracks of medicinal music, with more in the pipeline.

In a pilot study, which in 2008 received a citation at the annual scientific meeting of the American Psychosomatic Society in Baltimore, Ms. Brandes and international associates investigated the effects of music on patients suffering from hypertension for which no organic cause can be found.

“Conventionally hypertensive patients are treated with beta blockers, which suppress their symptoms,” Ms. Brandes said. “Music can address the psychosomatic root causes.”

According to her study, listening to a specially designed music program for 30 minutes a day, five days a week, for four weeks, patients experienced clinically significant improvements in heart-rate variability, a major indicator of autonomous nervous function. In her next study Ms. Brandes will subject these findings to a full-fledged clinical trial.

Formerly a producer of musical events and recordings, Ms. Brandes, 52, masterminded the international breakthrough of the harp phenomenon Andreas Vollenweider and staged Keith Jarrett’s legendary concert in Cologne, Germany, to name just two highlights of an impressive résumé. But a near-fatal car crash in 1995 caused her to begin contemplating a change of career.

“I broke Vertebrae 11 and 12, missing the spinal cord by a millimeter,” Ms. Brandes said. “The doctor said, ‘I can’t do much for you for a while, but you can sing if you like.’ ” The medical team expected to keep her immobilized for 10 to 14 weeks.

As it happened, Ms. Brandes was sharing her room with a Buddhist, whose friends came and chanted daily. After just two weeks in the hospital, an M.R.I. showed that her spine was completely healed. “Everyone said it was a miracle,” Ms. Brandes said. “They sent me home. It got me thinking.”

Three years later, even more decisive for the work that was to follow, Ms. Brandes spent three months at the bedside of her mother, who was in a coma with a rare blood cancer.

“I gave her a headset, and I played music for her,” Ms. Brandes said. “Because I knew her so well, I could tell from the subtlest changes in her hands and face what she liked and what she didn’t like. My mother was my first case study.”

Initially the dying woman responded best to the classical Spanish guitar music she had always enjoyed: Andrés Segovia, Narciso Yepes. But as her condition worsened, those old favorites seemed to distress her, and gentle Minimalism — “nothing complex,” Ms. Brandes said — proved more beneficial.

As suggestive and as personally meaningful as this experience must have been, Ms. Brandes, who holds no advanced degree in medicine or science, knew that her nascent theories would never gain acceptance without clinical trials by the book. “From the first,” she said, “I was determined to satisfy the strictest Western scientific criteria.”

Subjects in the studies wear smart watches that monitor seven physiological values, including heart rate and electrical muscular activity. (The placebos in her work are nature sounds.)

In general what has power to heal has potential to harm. In the case of music, the truism appears not to apply. Allegations of adverse reactions, addiction or overdoses, to cite some of the most serious dangers, are rare, and those that might be cited seem either flatly incredible or specious in the extreme. In Wagner’s time some predicted that “Tristan und Isolde” would drive people insane, but where were the mental cases? And in our time we hear of military interrogators administering music nonstop at deafening volume as a form of torture lite. But surely the torture lies in sleep deprivation, repetition and trauma to the inner ear, not in exposure to the music as such.

In the fall, over several days in Vienna, I was able to sample Sanoson’s music at appropriate times of day. A wake-up program after a half-hour nap began with nature sounds, developed a soft-rock rhythm, added a voice singing wordlessly and ended on a more chugging beat, sending me off in fine form for whatever the rest of my day might hold. A soothing evening program sounded like a snatch of mock Minimalism, unembellished by the variations and surprises that make concert music by Terry Riley, Philip Glass and John Adams a lot more interesting.

But the objective of Sanoson composers (Ms. Brandes herself and two others, their anonymity guarded religiously) is not to write concert music of independent aesthetic merit, any more than an apothecary is out to concoct choice cordials. It is to deliver specific stimuli — dosages of rhythm, harmony or dissonance and timbre — at the appropriate time and in an effective sequence.

Similar principles, applied to more nebulous ends, underlie the Internet-based beta site Sourcetone Interactive Radio (sourcetone.com). Billed as “the world’s premiere music health service,” Sourcetone streams music in a dozen genres, choosing tracks according to the user’s mood as indicated on a graphic Emotion Wheel. Company literature says that “the service is designed to promote health through the power of music by delivering playlists that promote desired emotional states such as relaxation, invigoration, stimulation and happiness.”

A glorified jukebox? Interviewed in New York in February, the psychologist Jeff Berger, a founder and executive vice president of Sourcetone, bristled at that description, even as he backed off from any specific medical claims. Yet he expressed hope that Sourcetone would in time prove valuable — in the treatment of brain injuries, for instance — in ways he declined to elaborate.

Though that would seem a stretch, Sourcetone uses research conducted jointly with the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston and Harvard Medical School, where the neurologist Gottfried Schlaug studies the effects of musical activity on brain function and plasticity. Dr. Schlaug (who at one time seriously considered a career as an organist and choir director) said recently that his work with Sourcetone has essentially consisted of quantifying subjective personal responses to specific pieces of music in an objective way.

Of far deeper medical interest, he added, are his efforts to provide a “neurobiological substrate” for existing forms of music therapy already in wide use: to prove that they work and how they work. An example would be melodic-intonation therapy, which uses singing to help stroke patients relearn language.

“I think it’s important to engage and make music,” Dr. Schlaug said, “not just to listen.”

Stefan Koelsch, a senior research fellow in neurocognition of music and language at the University of Sussex in Brighton, England, agrees, and is working on participatory musical treatments for depression. But in the long term, he sees broader possibilities.

“Physiologically, it’s perfectly plausible that music would affect not only psychiatric conditions but also endocrine, autonomic and autoimmune disorders,” he said. “I can’t say music is a pill to abolish these diseases. But my vision is that we can come up with things to help. This work is so important. So many pills have horrible side effects, both physiological and psychological. Music has no side effects, or no harmful ones.”

As Ms. Brandes sees it, some things down the road may be very different, but others should not change. “Say a patient comes in suffering from depression,” she said. “The first step is always to see the physician. But then there will be the choice of treatment options: the shrink, Prozac or music.”

Max

2009-03-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

Children are not always escaping from the mundane, but from the horrific--from all kinds of strong, frightening feelings they have; they don't really mind a little anxiety and heart failure, so long as they know it will end all right. -Maurice Sendak

One of the most frightening, loveliest books will finally make it to the big screen this fall. (Thank you, Alisa, for sending me the trailer.)

From Maurice Sendak's 1964 acceptance speech for the Caldecott Medal:

Certainly we want to protect our children from new and painful experiences that are beyond their emotional comprehension and that intensify anxiety; and to a point we can prevent premature exposure to such experiences. But what is just as obvious--and what is too often overlooked--is the fact that from their earliest years children live on familiar terms with disrupting emotions, that fear and anxiety are an intrinsic part of their everyday lives, that they continually cope with frustrations as best they can. And it is through fantasy that children achieve catharsis. It is the best means they have for taming Wild Things. It is my involvement with this inescapable fact of childhood--the awful vulnerability of children and their struggle to make themselves King of all Wild Things--that gives my work whatever truth and passion it may have.

I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled...

2009-03-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

I feel like I’ve just been born, even though I’m getting on.

-PJ Harvey (‘Pocket Knife’)

You can dye your hair but it's the one thing you can't change
Can't run away from yourself.

-Pulp (‘Help the Aged’)

Behold this bevy of brunette babes born on March 25^th:

Flannery O'Connor

Machiko Kyo

Gloria Steinem

Aretha Franklin

'Tis Herself (looking exactly the same as in the '70s!)

I wish I was special, but today I'm number one, second to no one, no sweat, I'm clean, nothing can touch me...

..and a great horoscope to boot!
Free Will Astrology
ARIES
Don't you think it's time you toned down your manic aspirations? Aren't you curious about the sweet, sensitive success that could be yours if only you got really calm and peaceful? Wouldn't it be interesting to explore the more manageable opportunities that might become available by accepting your limitations with humble equanimity? APRIL FOOL! Don't you dare do any of those things, Aries. Your spiritual duty for the foreseeable future is to be a brave initiator of ingenious experiments . . . a high-powered self-starter who competes primarily with yourself . . . a pioneering warrior who's in quest of transcendent exploits that make it unnecessary to go to war.

Kíla

2009-03-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

My favorite Irish band.

Ireland’s Tough Peace

2009-03-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

The New York Times

March 16, 2009

Op-Ed Contributor

By DAVID PARK

Belfast, Northern Ireland

IN Northern Ireland the squalid and brutal murders of two unarmed, off-duty soldiers taking delivery of pizzas, followed by the execution of a police officer who was responding to a call for help, achieved what all acts of terrorism intend — the release into the body politic of the poisonous spores of fear.

In this case, the fear was all the more potent because it infected the psyche of all those who had lived through the Troubles, regenerating the memories of the darkness. The stigmata of those partly repressed memories were suddenly uncovered and they seemed as vivid as when we first encountered them. There was that almost forgotten surge of fear, then the uncontrolled free fall of emotions rushing through sorrow to anger before stalling in a sense of helplessness.

We recognized and acknowledged, too, the rituals that accompany such deaths — the television pictures of swaths of flowers that transform murder spots into temporary shrines; the bewildered expressions of those who lay them; the white-suited forensic experts carrying plastic bags; the voices of politicians in competitive condemnation. The fear also infected our children, many of them asking their parents questions about history to which it was difficult to find coherent or explanatory answers. In schools some children — and not just the children of police officers — openly expressed an ominous apprehension about the future.

The spoken and unspoken question was whether we were about to see the return of the Troubles. There was an implicit fear that the period of political agreement had merely been a mirage, what Seamus Heaney in his poem “North” described as “exhaustions nominated peace” — a temporary and arbitrary pause for respite.

Certainly, the dissident Republicans who carried out these murders, whether they called themselves the Real I.R.A. or the Continuity I.R.A., must have exulted over what their bullets had achieved, and like all jihadists who believe that killing people is the blood-petaled path to glory, must too in those immediate hours after the killings have felt a gratifying sense of their newly claimed power.

But something quite remarkable has happened in this country as the hours have turned into days. It started with ordinary people interviewed on television and radio who invariably expressed an abhorrence of “returning” or “going back.” At first it was clearly the product of a deep-seated fear of regression towards the abyss, a fear that the peace process itself would crack asunder with the impact of violence, but then the fear turned to anger — an anger that a small group of fanatics with little or no popular support should seek to subvert the will of the people of Ireland.

Across towns and cities people of all traditions assembled to protest in dignified but powerful silence. There was a constant reiteration that what had been achieved could not now be lost, that a peace process, for all its problems, could not be usurped and subverted by the gun.

Something else remarkable happened. In a country where politicians can argue about which way the wind is blowing, they instead lined up shoulder to shoulder, so physically and rhetorically close there was not the tiniest chink or warp of divergence, and expressed their unity in uncharacteristically crystalline language. So we saw Martin McGuinness — once a senior commander in the I.R.A., now a deputy minister in the local government — standing alongside the province’s Protestant first minister and chief constable as he labeled the killers “traitors,” his anger palpable.

Indeed, it was a crossing-the-Rubicon moment for many nationalists as their leaders condemned the killings and urged their followers to pass on any information to the police. What only a decade earlier would have been denounced as “touting” now became the moral responsibility of every citizen.

And then there was Jackie McDonald, a hard-bitten leader of the Ulster Defense Association — a Protestant paramilitary organization that had engaged in many sectarian murders — among the thousands who turned up for the vigil at Belfast’s City Hall. There as a passionate advocate for peace, he praised Mr. McGuinness for his public statements.

There was soon evidence also that paramilitaries on both sides were in communication with their former enemies, offering assurances. So what we initially thought was a potentially dangerous attack on what has been achieved in Northern Ireland, and what we momentarily feared might be the beginning of disintegration, has in fact served only to demonstrate the strength of the process of reconciliation and the inviolable strength of a community that has made its political differences subservient to an overwhelming desire for peace.

So even now, while in brooding housing estates blighted by poverty and corrupted by the commerce and culture of drugs, young men made bitter by the scourge of history throw their bricks and bottles and stones and perhaps dream of more killings; or in some shed deep in South Armagh where a car bomb is painstakingly being assembled, the dissidents that remain must struggle to suppress the insistent truth that while they have the power to kill, each killing merely serves to strengthen what they wish to destroy.

And so the other night when my teenage daughter briefly turned her eyes away from “The Simpsons” to ask in a curiously tentative voice if the Troubles were coming back, I was able to say, “No, no they’re not.” And what I also know is that despite its painful human tragedies, the past week has not been about going back but about how far we’ve come.

David Park is the author of “The Truth Commissioner” and “Oranges From Spain.”

A Wreath Upon the Dead

2009-03-15T01:38:00.000-07:00

This Saint Patrick’s Day, I will not be drinking the requisite green beer, nor will I be drinking the offensively named ‘Irish car bombs’ (How would Americans like it if they went to Ireland and were offered a drink called ‘United Flight 93 death trap’ or ‘World Trade Center suicide jump’?), nor will I be doing shots of Bushmills whiskey (who discriminate against Irish Catholics in their hiring practices). I most likely won’t be drinking anything at all.

Why, you may ask? Well, for starters, I have no interest in celebrating a non-Irish saint who attempted to eliminate a rich, indigenous, Irish tradition, replacing it with the anti-female/anti-sexuality/anti-earth Hell-fire of Catholicism. Nor do I see how getting shit faced is a fitting tribute to my ancestors who left the poverty and political turmoil of Ireland for the discrimination and hardship in America (like “no Irish need apply” or dying in the anthracite coal mines like my great grandfather). I have about as much interest in commodified Irishness as I have in Brittany Spears.

At least Scranton- where my sister called me from today’s Saint Patrick’s Day parade- is a true hotbed of Irish republicanism. (Republican meaning desiring a united Ireland, not as in elephants and Rush Limbaugh). Scranton is not just the boyhood home of VP Joe Biden, or the setting for “The Office,” it also has one of the largest St. Paddy’s Day parades in the country. While the bars open at 6 AM and there are plenty of drunken, overgrown boys in rugby shirts, Scranton is also home to a very politically active Irish community. Sinn Fein leaders Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness came to Scranton, instead of NY or Boston, during the infancy of the Irish peace process during the Clinton years for this very reason. (Clinton, in fact, was the first US president to grant them visas to visit the US and invited them to the White House, much to the chagrin of the British government. In fact, Adams’ and McGuinness’ faces weren’t even allowed on British TV during those years because of their affiliation with the IRA. So much for freedom of the press.)

I’m disheartened by the recent killings of 2 young British soldiers in Antrim and a Catholic police officer in Belfast by republican splinter groups. (‘Had they but courage equal to desire?’) But am encouraged by the strong denouncements from republicans, including Martin McGuinness, the erstwhile leader of the IRA turned statesman. His comments show how far we’ve come in the past 10 years: Of the attackers, he said they are "traitors to the island of Ireland..."

They have betrayed the political desires, hopes and aspirations of all of the people who live on this island….I was a member of the IRA, but that war is over now. The people responsible for [Saturday night's] incident are clearly signaling that they want to resume or restart that war. Well, I deny their right to do that…I will stand for all democrats against their attempts to plunge us back into conflict; to see soldiers on the streets; to see more checkpoints; to see houses being raided and to see people being dragged back to interrogation centres….Those days are over. They can never come back again.

So this Tuesday, instead of singing Danny Boy, I'll be thinking of Derry and Belfast, and will continue to be hopeful about peace in Ireland. 800 years has been a long time to wait.

Tiocfaidh ár lá!

'T ain't no sin to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones.

2009-02-28T15:35:00.000-08:00

Los Farruco – The Legendary Gypsy Family Returns

Lisner Auditorium - George Washington University

Washington DC

I am not a dancer. I have never been particularly graceful, and am not particularly coordinated. I’ve also always been somewhat self-conscious about my, um, assets. (Even though, according to evolutionary biologists, it means I’m smarter than those waifs.) I feel about dancers the same way I feel about musicians, writers, or other artists— while I have great respect for them, I simply don’t understand them. They are aliens to me. My brain just does not work like theirs. Thursday’s performance only reinforced that awe. Human bodies are not meant to move that fast, or to create such raw, powerful sound. Such are the gifts of the first family of flamenco, Los Farruco.

Los Farruco performed as part of the DC Flamenco Festival (which apparently happens every year at GW). The family patriarch, El Farruco (Antonio Montoya Flores), died in 1997, but his daughters and grandsons carry on the family tradition. The company currently consists of La Farruca (Rosario Montoya Manzano), her younger sister La Faraona (Pilar Montoya Manzano), and their sons Farruco (Antonio Montoya Flores) and Barullo (Juan Fernandez Montoya). Farruco, or Farru, the 20-year-old leader of the company, has been dancing professionally since the age of 2, and created his own dance company at 10. His cousin, Barullo, is only 18. Farru’s older brother, Farruquito, was not part of this evening’s performance. (My friend Rocio, a gifted dancer herself, quipped that trying to keep the family members’ names straight is like reading a Gabriel García Márquez novel.)

Flamenco, apparently, does not refer to the dance, but to the music. The dance, I’ve learned, is there to complement the singers and musicians, not the other way around. From my perspective, all aspects of the performance were equally important: the dancing, singing, guitar playing, and clapping, or, more accurately, the human percussion. The musicians included Antonio Rey & El Tuto on guitar, and singers Antonio Zuniga, Pedro el Granaino, El Rubio de Pruna, and Mara Rey.

The interplay of visuals and sound—from the muted lighting to the dance itself, from the skilled guitar playing, to the thunderous clash of shoe against stage—created an almost smokey, transportive atmosphere, at times moody or somber, joyous or incendiary. The nearly 3 hour program (with no intermission) consisted of 6 pieces of music and dance.

Alegrias (Happiness) began with an unlit stage, and the fabulous, velvet crooning of the singers, accompanied by what I thought were drums, but turned out to be clapping. (I kept trying to spy the castanets, but there weren’t any. They simply created the sound with their palms). I have to agree with Rocio— there’s intense passion in the style of singing and guitar playing. I only wish I could’ve understood the Spanish lyrics. Farruco, Farruca, and Barullo danced a pas de trois—the young men with long flowing hair and suits, La Farruca in a dress that accentuated her curves—showcasing their incredible talents, making it appear effortless.

Tango de las Ninas (Tango of the Girls) was a mano-a-mano between the lovely, husky-throated singer, Ms. Rey, and La Faraona. La Faraona, who would never be called voluptuous, is a round woman, (zoftig, my mother would say), with sturdy, thick arms, and no discernable waist. This is not a put down, she is quite a large woman. Her appearance, however, belies her grace and skill. Both women were wearing brightly colored shawls (Ms. Rey’s a salmon color, and, in a bit of foreshadowing, La Faraona’s a fiery red). Although at first you think you know what the outcome will be, La Faraona finally lifts her dress, revealing her muscular, powerful legs, and lets the younger woman have it, handily defeating her.

Barullo (which translates as ‘racket’ according to Rocio) lived up to his name, as evidenced by shouts of “salvaje,” or wild, during his solo piece. His cousin, Farruco, danced to “Solea” (solitude or loneliness) and calls of “vamos guapo” (come on handsome) accompanied his bullfighter stance, as his jacket rounded his shoulders and then came off. Both men displayed remarkable athleticism, acrobatics even, and appeared super-human in their twists, turns, and stomps. But it wasn’t just their skill on display, they were beautiful to watch. I sat dumbfounded that humans were capable of such movements.

The star of the show, in my eyes, was La Farruca. She moved confidently in her glove fitting blue and black lace dress. Even more than the young men, she displayed an unselfconscious eroticism, encircling the singers and musicians, splaying her wrists, and caressing her hips.

I know very little about flamenco, but it was hard to watch the performance and not wonder about the historical context. The large crowd of zealous music lovers gave a standing ovation and enthusiastic hoots and hollers (in Spanish and English) to the performers. But I doubt flamenco has always been so well received. Like the Irish step-dancing of Riverdance, or the tap dancing of Savion Glover, I suspect flamenco has its roots in hardship and oppression. Gypsies the world over have faced and continue to face prejudice and discrimination. So what does that mean for a family of Gypsy performers and how has that influenced the way the dance/music has evolved?

I could be way off base, but I was struck by several things along those lines. First of all, you don’t need any instruments for flamenco, save one’s body. The guitar itself is secondary, since the majority of the music is created by hands, feet, and voice. It sounds silly to call it ‘clapping’ since that hardly captures how deafening the sound is, but it seems to me that the clapping is the basis for everything in flamenco. It’s like the Irish bodhrán—it sets the beat, tempo, mood. It really is drumming, just using one’s own skin as the drum. It’s harder to improvise a piano or a violin, but one’s body as a drum is cheap, portable, and undetectable.

According to Rocio, another hallmark of flamenco dancing is not moving your core. While the hands, arms, and legs are all moving, one’s torso and even hips are relatively motionless. Salsa it is not. Like Irish dancing, there seems to be a great discipline to flamenco. In Irish dance, the dancers keep their upper bodies motionless, not only the torso, but especially the arms. This appears to have been historically adaptive, a way to hide participating in an illegal, indigenous tradition from the British invaders.

The appeal of flamenco also lies in its power and passion. Even if you’re a poor Gypsy peasant, there’s a certain amount of bravado involved. And, like most dance across cultures, it’s not only a vehicle for creativity, but it’s a celebration of the body and a celebration of sexuality. Los Farruco showcased all of these things and more, and reminded me how exceptional and creative humans are.

It also made me re-evaluate the way I see myself in space—at the end of the evening, even I was dancing down the middle of the busy DC streets.

¡Olé!

Reckoner

2009-02-24T23:46:00.000-08:00

Does Barack Obama listen to Radiohead?

Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T12:12:00.000-08:00

I recently declined an invitation to an anti-Valentine's Day party. Whether you're anti-V day because of mass consumerism or a bad break-up, doesn't celebrating it anyway kind of defeat the purpose of being against it? Anyway, life is too tenuous to waste energy on being bitter or angry.

So today, celebrate this former pagan holiday by being happy in your own skin.

(And then listen to this great song from the best Brit-pop band of the 90s.) xo

Gorky Aguila, Cuban Punk Rocker

2009-02-11T19:29:00.000-08:00

No Commandante!

Ground Control to Major T(h)om

2009-02-09T18:14:00.000-08:00

Like Robert Plant, I feel "bewildered" after watching last night’s Grammy’s. It was the first time I’ve watched the Grammy’s in years, and it definitely lived up to my memories, ranging from the ridiculous (Katy Perry and, um, fruit) to the sublime (Thom, Jonny, and lots of brass and drums).

Some of the evenings highlights:
U2’s completely uninspired opening: “You don’t know how beautiful you are…” But Bono sure knows how beautiful HE is. It sounded like a recycled “City of Blinding Lights." Then, in the first of many bizarro TV moments, Whitney Houston received a standing ovation for walking out on stage to present the first award. Did I miss something? Or were they standing because she finally left Bobby Brown? Or because she’s not in rehab? In that case, they should have stood for Kid Rock. Shit, they should have stood for Jennifer Hudson. Now SHE’S talented and resilient, and delivered an awesome performance.

The members of Blink-182 announced the band was getting back together. Who knew (or cared) that they were ever apart?

And what’s with me that I never before noticed what Nicole Kidman and half the women on this planet have known— Keith Urban es très adorable.

Morgan Freeman introduced his “good friend” Kenny Chesney (really?), and I found out that super cool Charlie Haden is Jack Black’s father-in-law (REALLY!)

The “Hip Hop Summit” was decidedly NOT earth shattering. I would’ve much preferred the VERY pregnant Ms. Arulpragasam to sing “Paper Planes” alone.

And is it just me, or has Sir Paul McCartney just gone downhill after that whole post-9/11 “Freedom” debacle? Instead of seeming like one of the key architects of one of the world’s greatest bands, he comes across as an arrogant prick with jail-bait dates.

After hearing Robert Plant and Alison Krauss I’m kind of sorry I didn’t hear them when they were in Baltimore last year. Hmm. Wonder if I could’ve requested “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You,” my favorite Zep song ever since I was a little kid (what the hell does that say about ME?!)

Ok, it’s just gotta be said. What is UP with Coldplay? I mean, do they have to wear those Sgt. Pepper uniforms all the time? I understand when they were first promoting the album and everything, but, really….! And I hate to be one of those Radiohead fans that has this thing against Coldplay. And I don’t, I really don’t. But I’ve always agreed with Jon Pareles’ assessment of them musically. The Case Against Coldplay - New York Times They are insufferable. But I feel bad about saying it. They seem like pleasant enough lads, and they sing pleasant enough songs. And poor lovely Gwyneth, giving that gushing introduction to Radiohead! Years ago she said in an interview something to the effect that if her husband gave her a free pass to bed any man it would be Radiohead drummer Phil Selway because she had so much respect for him… I mean, dudes, I understand that you look up to Radiohead, and you want them to like you back, but pimpin’ out your wife just isn’t cool….

But yes, it was a pleasure to see and hear Thom and Jonny— to watch Thom flail, to see Jonny smile (!!) --even though Thom looked quite unwell (he is, after all, still Thom). I much prefer the live percussion to the electronica of the record. Radiohead’s performance was definitely worth enduring some of the more interesting moments. And Cat Power singing Space Oddity to sell cars to boot.

About A Girl

2009-02-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

My niece, Keighlyn, turns 17 today. She is one of the coolest, most authentic human beings I know. I'm tired of reading sensationalist articles about how kids today are not prepared for the world, how their academic achievements are far lower than previous generations, how they are ill-equipped to do anything but play computer games. Clearly, those people who are intolerant of youth culture have never met young adults like her. Keighlyn has a more open and global perspective than many adults I know. She is the family's expert of Proposition 8. She's a voracious reader who loves the smell of libraries. She's a talented musician, dancer, actor. And despite her crazy busy schedule, she still has the time to be a teenager, captivated by a beloved band, or lost in a favorite book. I'm grateful that we've always been close, and she's always looked up to me, her "B," her dad's wife's sister. I'm looking forward to our continued friendship as we get older, and I'm excited to know the amazing adult she's becoming.
Happy Birthday, Keighlyn!

Feast Day of the Goddess Brigid - The Fiery Arrow

2009-02-01T08:01:00.001-08:00

irishtimes.com - From goddess to saint and back again - Sat, Jan 31, 2009

2009-01-31T12:16:00.000-08:00

There are two kinds of music. Good music and the other kind.
-Duke Ellington

I first heard Shostakovich about 5 years ago when I went to hear Christopher O’Riley perform. O’Riley, of course, is the classical pianist turned Radiohead enthusiast who recorded two albums of their songs for piano. O’Riley was enamored with Radiohead, and in interviews used the word “obsession.” Rumor has it he even met his wife on the message boards of a Radiohead fan site. He played Shostakovich’s Piano Preludes and Fugues; this music blew me away more than the Radiohead covers I’d gone to hear. It was a surprising evening, not only for the Shostakovich discovery, but because here was a classically trained pianist playing songs by Radiohead and another beloved musician, Elliott Smith (whom O’Riley called “the greatest American songwriter since Cole Porter.”) The natural blue hairs in the audience appeared to enjoy this contemporary stuff, while the blue-haired hipsters appeared to really dig the classical stuff.

I’d always thought myself quite an open-minded music lover, but it wasn’t until I came to Baltimore that I realized what a genre devotee (AKA snob) I truly was. I liked my type of music, and was pretty dismissive of everything else. (To be fair, much of today’s music really DOES suck.) Didn’t like country, didn’t like rap (except for old school political stuff like PE), didn’t like anything on the radio, certainly didn’t enjoy classical. But lucky for me, three factors converged which transformed my relationship to music. Firstly, I moved to a great neighborhood within walking distance of the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall. Secondly, the BSO had just received a sizable grant and all tickets for season subscribers would be $25 a show. And lastly, but most importantly, I made a great friend in my colleague, Adrianna (writer, photographer, and musician herself), who introduced me to the world of classical music.

It was when I first heard Juanjo Mena’s conducting of Ravel (Bolero) and Danielpour (a great anti-war piece whose name escapes me) that I first made the connection between classical music and rock ‘n roll. I had a friend (he loved death metal) who insisted that Slayer had more in common with classical music than any other genre. Interesting theory, but I never thought much about it. And while Ravel thankfully isn’t Slayer, the comparison to most of the contemporary music I like is undeniable. I felt exhausted, like I’d just returned from standing neck and neck for hours waiting and listening to a favorite band playing in some smoky club. It was my musical epiphany. Music is music. It doesn’t matter if the composers are alive or dead, or if the musicians are wearing only tube socks or wearing tails. It doesn’t matter what instruments are being played, or if they’re “real” instruments at all. It doesn’t matter if it’s melodic or dissonant or soulful or twangy. All that matters is that it moves you in some way.

That opinion of music has been reinforced time and time again by BSO concerts I’ve attended over the past few years, from Tan Dun and Philip Glass to Copland and John Adams, from Vivaldi and Piazzolla to Tchaikovsky and Beethoven. It’s been reinforced by the music I’ve heard all around Baltimore, whether it be the coolest klezmer band in the world I heard at the Creative Alliance, or the intense but strangely melodic sounds from the High Zero fest, or the even more intense Messiaen organ compositions I heard in a gothic cathedral. The Economist (of all places) had an article a few months back about the evolutionary utility of music. Human evolution and music | Why music? | The Economist Theories focus on the relationship between music and sex, social bonding, and a lovely accident--the interplay between biology and culture. But it only touches briefly on the emotional impact of music. Whether we’re hard wired for it or not, music DOES something to us. Perhaps that’s why after a breakup a few years back I totally avoided music. Completely. For months. Music makes you feel- whether it’s joy, anger, or pain. Music is transportive, taking you out of yourself.

I heard Shostakovich again this week. The BSO played with an intense boy-conductor, the phenomenal Vasily Petrenko, and pianist Stephen Hough. Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 was amazing, and Mr. Hough was stellar, but nothing on the evening’s program was as powerful as Shostakovich’s 8^th Symphony. I told my friend who plays with the orchestra that it was bra throwing music. Although he was pleased and amused with that sentiment, I almost regretted it, feeling that it belittled or trivialized this most remarkable of performances. The music was pure fire. I actually had finger prints on my wrist from holding my arm so tightly for the entire 60-minute piece. As I stood and shouted “WOOHOO” at the show’s conclusion (‘Bravo’ would’ve been too much of an understatement), I marveled at the erstwhile incongruity of it all: me, standing there surrounded by blue hairs in long furs coats, acting like I was at a rock show.

Besotted With Hope

2009-01-28T04:23:00.000-08:00

President Obama's Inauguration
January 20, 2009

Still can't quite process the experience-- the day we accomplished 2 very different but significant things: swearing in Barack Obama as president, and finally getting rid of Bush.
Noel, Lisa, Kate and I will be reminiscing about this day when we're in our rocking chairs.
Maureen Dowd said it best Op-Ed Columnist - Exit the Boy King - NYTimes.com

In the Name of Love

2009-01-17T12:16:00.000-08:00

The Obama Express - 1/17/2009
War Memorial Plaza, Baltimore
19 degrees Fahrenheit

I have never been in such a joyous, beautiful crowd in all my life…marches, protests, music festivals…never experienced anything like the energy in this crowd. Joy is not a vibe that is easily faked, especially in a crowd of 40,000 people. The joy was palpable. And for Baltimore , a city hard to accuse of pretense, the usual rawness was replaced with an infectious up swell of hope and happiness. Hell, I was even dancing to country music, celebrating how “we dream in red, white, and blue…”

The crowd looked very much like Baltimore—predominantly African-American, but completely diverse, with whites, Asians, Latinos, young and old, children, old folks, hipsters, hippies, religious fanatics, PETA pamphleteers, and entrepreneurs selling everything Obama (including hats, buttons, shirts, and, my vote for most creative, Obama cologne, so we could smell like the new prez—no joke!) We got in line (or on line for you Jersey folks!) around 11:20 AM at Calvert & Lexington. We met some lovely women in line, and did some great people watching, until we went through the metal detectors before 1:30 PM . I have to say, I was totally impressed with how organized and how smooth this whole process was: the security, the volunteers, the attendees, were alert, calm, and perfectly helpful. There didn’t appear to be any glitches (although we did see someone turned away at security for having a backpack). A secret service officer from Minnesota checked us in (even she thought it was cold) and there were ample metal detectors and scanners for our bags (yes, this was high tech!). If this is any indication of how Tuesday will go, I am surprisingly optimistic, although I realize that 40,000 is not 3 million.

Once we were in front of the War Memorial, probably 50-75 feet away from the podium where Obama would be speaking, we chatted with folks around us, many from the city, but some from DC. Kathy struck up a conversation with the woman in front of her about Turkey and the divided Cypriot city of Nicosia , and finally the recent turmoil in Gaza . The conversation moved to lighter topics, as we commiserated about the cold, the amazement of this election, and where the sharp shooters were on the rooftops. In a city that understandably has a contentious relationship with its police force, it was interesting to note that all of us felt much better knowing our man Barack was so well protected.

Staying warm was a greater challenge than any of us had anticipated, especially since we counted on the body heat generated by the crowd to warm us. But regardless of how close we got to each other (and believe me, we couldn’t raise our arms we were so close), the wind still cut right through us, and I mostly couldn’t feel my limbs. A nice older woman next to us proceeded to rub my mom’s hands, shoulders, and arms in an attempt to warm her, as if my mom was a little old woman and she wasn’t (they both were, in fact). She was decked out in a purple scarf, several layers of coats and gloves, and my mom helped her zip her coat. It was those kinds of simple, very human interactions that made the day so special. How often do we embrace perfect strangers?

Kath and I had toyed with the idea of going to the Creative Alliance’s “Obama’s IPOD dance party” on Saturday night, but aside from being way too tired, we’d already done enough dancing while waiting for Obama. That’s right—dancing. They played music on the loudspeakers all day— from Will.i.am’s “It’s a New Day” to U2’s “Beautiful Day” to some hip hop I didn’t recognize but everyone around us seemed to know. Crowd favorites were “Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours” and “Higher and Higher.” In the section in front of us several young women appeared to have organized a line dance to “Respect.” And it was impossible not to dance—not only because of the cold, but because we were in such close proximity that if one person swayed or shook their hips, well it was a chain reaction.

A personal trainer for the Ravens came out to literally warm up the crowd (twice) by leading us in calisthenics, and reminding us “ Baltimore —drink water, eat vegetables, stay alive.” It was quite remarkable and amusing that the majority of us obeyed his instructions to “work those abs” and “raise the roof.” Jumping rope proved more difficult since we didn’t have the space, but simply jumping helped me regain feeling in my toes.

The official program began sometime after 3/3:30, when the Morgan State University Choir took the stage. I had seen them perform with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra this year (Bernstein’s Mass—it was awesome!), but nothing prepared me for this. Not only were their voices amazing, but the energy of the crowd— the majority of whom appeared to know these spirituals and were singing along—had shifted; no longer were we the increasingly impatient citizens making the best of the cold while waiting for our new leader, we had became this huge, connected group of people, singing, dancing, holding hands. We were moved by these words of struggle, joy, hope, humility. It was then that I realized that I could never even come close to imagining what this moment must be like for the older African-American woman holding my hand. It was enough to make a believer out of a non-believer like me.

“I bet you haven’t been able to see anything down there except for the back of people’s coats. How tall are you, anyway, 5 foot 2?” asked a very big man in front of me. When I replied that I was actually 4’10, he whisked me away from my companions to stand in front of him and get a much better view of the choir, next to a sweet older woman who proceeded to protectively place her arm around my shoulder. I overheard a woman behind us remark “you’re a good brother” to the man, a perfect stranger, concerned that I wouldn’t be able to see. The day was filled with such moments of goodwill.

Elijah Cummings and Martin O’Malley made brief remarks, but I really couldn’t hear them. The crowd was restless for Obama and had little interest in what these gentlemen had to say. Sheila Dixon was notably absent, as was appropriate. If you pocket money intended for the poor you really shouldn’t have the privilege of introducing Barack Obama.
Every time the disembodied female voice announced “Ladies and gentleman……please welcome…” the crowd held bated breath which turned to utter disappointment when it wasn’t Barack. So we almost missed it when we heard “Ladies and Gentleman……… Dr. (groans from the crowd)…Jill and Vice President Elect Joe Biden! (followed by rapturous applause). How can you not love Joe Biden, he’s from Greenridge ( Scranton ), and Jill was lovely in her flowing purple scarf. Then we heard “Michelle and President Elect Barack Obama!” I couldn’t see or hear a thing from the stage, for this crowd of 40,000 became electric—screaming, shouting, cheering, waving, jumping up and down, embracing their companions & neighbors, caressing their children, crying. (And I thought the crowd was joyous during the Morgan State University Choir—clearly I had never experienced true jubilance before). Barack made his way to the podium, and I was very pleased to see him wearing gloves. Michelle and the Bidens sat behind him while he spoke. I have to say that Michelle is a beautiful woman—all poise, confidence, and tall, quite stylish in her purple gloves and high boots. I know there’s more to her than that, but what a pleasure it is to have a cool first lady, too!

The teleprompters unfortunately blocked Obama’s face while he spoke, but we could see him on his way to and from the podium. The previously raucous crowd was completely silent. All you could hear was Barack’s voice and the click of digital cameras. We were captivated. Obama spoke carefully and passionately of the struggles past and the struggles ahead, the importance of Baltimore (historically and currently), the importance of unity, hard work, commitment. His remarks were brief (~15 minutes), but he stayed and worked the crowd— shaking hands, posing for pictures, waving to those of us too far away to get close— “I love you back” he shouted. And then he left, leaving the crowd cheering, dancing, shouting “O—Bam—a…!” We kissed and hugged each other and our neighbors in the crowd. I’ve never seen anything like it, the true melting pot of America embracing one another in celebration.

It was those moments of human connection that made standing 6 hours in the freezing cold worth it. As Obama said himself, this was never simply about him. Yesterday it was about the experience—being in this joyous, hopeful crowd in my city. A city that he didn’t have to come to either time (he was always guaranteed our vote), but that was symbolically important for him to visit. His visit doesn’t erase the history of slavery, or the racism that still exits, or the 250 murders of young black men in Baltimore in 2008— this election doesn’t change national or global inequities overnight. But it’s not just the historic nature of this election that has everyone excited—it’s the man himself, an unflappable pragmatist, who is exactly what we need right now. It’s such a joy to have hope in one’s leaders again. More than that, it’s a joy to have hope in one’s neighbors again.

I get impatient with friends on the far left who accuse me of drinking the Obama Kool-Aid. No one expects the man to walk on water (except maybe my mother). I think equating hope with naiveté is not only dangerous, but plain wrong. The best McCain bumper sticker I saw said “Nope”—with the Obama symbol being the o. What a huge miscalculation that was, running on the platform of “no hope”! If there’s one thing I’ve learned working at the Kennedy Krieger, it’s that hope is never false. Hope is what gets people out of bed in the morning even if they’re trapped in a completely broken body. There’s nothing naïve or clichéd about that. And it certainly doesn’t mean we don’t expect real change in this country. Obama’s going to piss people off (he already has with Rick Warren— hell folks even got mad about hottie Rahm Emmanuel). I’m sure he’s going to piss ME off. I disagree with the notion that just because we’re hopeful somehow we’ll give him a free pass. On the contrary, as Cornel West said during the election, once he’s elected we’ll be watching carefully to make sure he does what we’ve elected him to.

Over the last 8 years, many of us not only felt beaten down, but horrified and embarrassed by things done in our name. And, most significantly, we felt powerless. I yelled an expletive out loud in a completely silent movie theater while watching Fahrenheit 9/11. I never want to feel that hopeless again. The day was also a reminder of the things we have done right. Our union is imperfect, as Barack says, but it works nonetheless. World reaction to this election was telling—our European neighbors who we find so progressive have been forced to do some soul searching. Could they, too, anytime soon elect a person of color as their leader? The answer appears to be a resounding no. Hell, France has something like 1 person of color in their entire Parliament. And while those in Obama , Japan may be celebrating the election of Barack, the Japanese would rather create robots than open up their borders to immigrants (and they treat their own buraku as second class citizens). We are a very flawed nation, and atonement for Gitmo and Iraq will not come quickly or easily. But yesterday we literally were those tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Listening to the soloist from the Morgan State University Choir sing the national anthem, I felt a completely foreign feeling. Pride.

It was a gift.

October.

2009-01-15T15:37:00.000-08:00

October
And the trees are stripped bare
Of all they wear
What do I care
October
And kingdoms rise
And kingdoms fall
But you go on…..

---- U2

I wouldn’t have survived the 2004 election were in not for the special extended edition DVDs of the Lord of the Rings trilogy—an entire world to get lost in. Likewise, I don’t think I would’ve survived the last month of all Sarah Palin news all the time were it not for the exquisite distraction of 3 stellar live shows. I’ve had bits of papers of notes from these shows, and am finally getting around to compiling them. There’s been too much “Obamaphoria” to concentrate on anything else. I read a great Frank Rich column in which he says something to the effect that we’re finally able to recover from our 8 year abusive relationship with our government. I thought it was a brilliant analogy, and helps explain why we’ve all been walking around with our heads in the clouds for days. It’s a new world.

Enjoy!

Literary death rock.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds – 10/6/2008

9:30 Club, Washington DC

This show was a 68^th birthday present for my mother, so my folks came down for a visit and I drove us to DC. Remarkably, they were not the oldest people in the crowd, but they were probably the oldest people there who were not allowed to drink. Yes, that’s right, we were carded (of course!), thanks to their freakish fountain of youth daughter (come on people-- I have wrinkles all across my forehead, and laugh lines, too, I do not look under 21!) And, of course, being the responsible senior citizens they are, they left all of their credit cards, IDs, etc. back in my apartment in Baltimore. So they both got black ink stamped on their hands which FORBADE them from drinking alcohol! It’s a good thing they aren’t drinkers and didn’t care, though my dad was somewhat delighted that he was carded—he’s nearly 70! We should’ve known we were in for an exceptional evening from the start.

The openers were more monotonous than monotonous, and I don’t even remember their name. And then it happened, Nick and company took the stage, looking like a haggard band of pirates/gypsies/Amish settlers—all thin men in weathered suits, with long, straggly hair. And there he was, the ring master of this motley crew, as seedy and sinister as Mack the Knife, and as sinewy as Mick Jagger. He would be the sexiest 51 year old I know were in not for the pedophile mustache (seriously!), but it’s no wonder Polly Jean and the doe-eyed Anita Lane both dug him. (youtube “Nick Cave and PJ Harvey-- Henry Lee.” It’s reportedly one of the first times they met, and is, um, intense.) It’s disappointing that he’s married to a supermodel, but I guess freakishly beautiful and tall women also dig intense, skinny guys. Bummer.

Their 2008 release, “Dig, Lazurus, Dig” dominated the setlist, but they played songs from across their catalogue, including my first of their albums, 1992’s “Henry’s Dream.” It was an evening of pure theater, but at the same time, remarkable music. They are not simply vampiric in style and image, but also play like the undead—beautifully and relentlessly. I’ve never heard so many lyrics about God and dead lovers—but it’s a testament to his skill as a songwriter and the musicianship of the Bad Seeds, that this never dissolves into art school drivel. It completely works, and you’re transported to another world. The evening can be summed up with the chorus from ‘Deanna”: I ain’t down here for your money, I ain’t down here for your love, I’m down here for your soul…

1. Hold On to Yourself
2. Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!
3. Tupelo
4. The Weeping Song
5. Red Right Hand
6. Midnight Man
7. God is in the House (1st half only, missed the lines, so he just stopped it)
8. Love Letter
9. Today's Lesson
10. The Mercy Seat
11. Moonland
12. Deanna
13. Papa Won't Leave You, Henry
14. More News From Nowhere

Encore
15. Your Funeral... My Trial
16. Jesus of the Moon
17. Get Ready for Love
18. Stagger Lee

I was a lover before this war.

TV On the Radio with the Dirtbombs - 10/10/2008

Electric Factory, Philadelphia

I discovered the Brooklyn band TVOTR earlier this year quite by accident. I’d seen their name in Rolling Stone at some point, and just happened across 2 of their CDs at the library. From the opening bars of ‘I Was a Lover’ on 2006’s “Return to Cookie Mountain” I was completely hooked. I don’t remember a time in my adult life feeling so excited about a new record. It was akin to being a kid and hearing “War” or “Synchronicity” or “Louder than Bombs” for the first time. I was completely at a loss, pacing around my apartment, wondering who I could possibly share this momentous news with who would truly UNDERSTAND, and not just say “that’s nice” and go back to their spouse or kids and think me self-indulgent for having the luxury to obsess over a band. So, of course, I called my mom, who listened to me as if I was 17 and describing why “Monkey Gone to Heaven” was the greatest song in the world. (Thanks mom!— I was right, of course, because if there’d been no Pixies, there would’ve been no Nirvana, and kids in small towns across America would’ve never been exposed to indie rock). It was a fortuitous discovery, since late 2008 saw the release of TVOTR’s “Dear Science,” which proved to be a critical and commercial favorite, if not as ground breaking as their 2006 release.

I first heard them live during the summer at Merriweather Post Pavilion outside of Baltimore— a great venue with great acoustics for a band with an expansive sound like TVOTR. There, however, they shared the bill with several other bands (Thievery Corporation, Ladytron, Federico Aubele, and the much-hyped Seu Jorge—who was very disappointing in his 1 song appearance), and I was eager for more TV on the Radio.

The Electric Factory— in newly gentrified northern Philly – is similar to the 9:30 Club. I wanted to be close to the stage, and wasn’t planning on drinking, so I joined the under 21 crowd on the floor. From what I could see, it was your typical indie rock crowd (young, white, predominantly male hipsters), but certainly more racially diverse than Nick Cave’s crowd, whether this was because it’s Philly or because the band members are predominantly African-American I’m not sure. Race is always discussed in regards to TVOTR, and every review/interview describes them as a black rock band, as if that’s an anomaly. The band members are always quick to point out that despite the popularity of hip hop and R&B, rock ‘n roll has historically been black music, so the fuss is much ado about nothing.

TV on the Radio ARE, in fact, an anomaly, but not because of race, but because of their SOUND. Their combination of rock, new wave, and funk is courtesy of their dual frontmen, Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone, and multi-instrumentalist (and “it” producer, notably of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and (cringe!) Scarlett Johansson’s album of Tom Waits covers) David Andrew Sitek. The band is rounded out by Gerard Smith on bass and Jaleel Bunton on drums. Following Detroit’s hard-rocking and crowd pleasing Dirtbombs, TVOTR opened with ‘Young Liars’ from their 2003 EP. It’s a great song of gradual build-up that just doesn’t work in a small venue with muffled acoustics, but the crowd didn’t care, and neither did I, and I let myself move and sway and dance, which became increasingly easier to do as the set became funkier. Hell, Tunde even sorta raps on ‘Dancing Choose.’ The band’s energy was electric, although the dissonance sometimes overpowered the band’s most original feature—the complement of Tunde’s baritone and Kyp’s falsetto. However, on songs like ‘Province’ and ‘Dreams’ it totally works and you hear two powerful, distinct voices on top of Dave’s grooves. Personal favorites were ‘Wolf Like Me’ (although it was somewhat disconcerting to be in a sea of adolescent hormones at the time), and ‘Blues from Down Here’ which is one of my faves— partly because of Kyp’s voice and partly because it reminds me of the Wind-up Bird Chronicle. The 4 song encore ended with ‘Staring at the Sun’ from their 2004 debut album, which begins with the line “Cross the street from your storefront cemetery, hear me hailing from inside and realize, I am the conscience clear in pain or ecstasy, we were all weaned, my dear, upon the same fatigue…” All in all it was a great show, although I would’ve loved to hear their killer version of the Pixies’ ‘Mr. Grieves.’

Far from my teenage days of wanting bands only to myself (it was so sad to share beloved bands with the unworthy masses!), I want TV on the Radio to be multi-millionaires who sell records worldwide. I want everyone to know their name. TV on the Radio is not Radiohead (even though their debut EP was named ‘OK Calculator’!). But they have the potential to be.

Set List:
Young Liars
The Wrong Way
Dancing Choose
Golden Age
Wolf Like Me
Halfway Home
Province
Dreams
Blues From Down Here
Shout Me Out
Satellite
\\
Love Dog
Crying
A Method
Staring at the Sun

Talking to the tax man about poetry.

Billy Bragg with the Watson Twins - 10/28/08

Ram’s Head Live, Baltimore

I first discovered Billy Bragg after hearing my sister’s college radio show when I was in high school, and then saw him live for the first time while living in Seattle in ‘96. (He was touring with Robyn Hitchcock—what a great show!) So even though I’d sort of lost track of what he’d been up to (after Mermaid Avenue), I was psyched to have the chance to see everyone’s favorite socialist in Baltimore, especially 1 week before the election. I figured if Billy couldn’t deliver hope, well then…

I’d never been to Ram’s Head before, and must confess I totally misjudged it. For some reason I was under the impression that that whole area catered to the fake tan and fake nails set, probably because that’s the crowd I spied when waiting for the last Harry Potter book to come out while people watching the kids at the anime convention (they were the cutest alternative kids in the world, if I was born 2 decades later I would’ve so been there as Princess Mononoke!). Anyway, Ram’s Head turned out to be a great place to see a show, and for the first time in 35 years, I was right up against the stage, right under Billy’s microphone. Woohoo! I met a nice couple who first saw Billy in the 80s, and had seen him hundreds of times since. They were also huge Pogues fans. I didn’t tell them my story of seeing Shane in Dublin and being rescued from the drunken youth by the security guards. I felt more like listening than talking, and they were good company.

The Watson Twins—2 pretty sisters with pretty voices from Louisville, KY—opened with a set of pleasant but utterly forgettable acoustic ballads. Billy opened the show with ‘Help Save The Youth Of America,’ a cold-war era song that includes the line “the cities of Europe have burned before and they may burn again, but if they do I hope you understand Washington will burn with them…” Yes, it was that kind of evening. And while Billy didn’t hesitate from addressing a wide range of issues from global warming, to worker’s rights, to Barack Obama, he also addressed more benign issues including the virtues of throat coat tea, and, um, Ingrid Bergman. While there were, surprisingly, some right wing hecklers (yelling about John McCain—how odd), most of the crowd appreciated his musings on politics, the Clash, and getting older. And in fairness, although he is seen as a political singer, he’s written some killer love songs, one of my faves being Brickbat (which he didn’t play): “I used to want to plant bombs at the last night of the proms, but now you’re by me, with the baby, in the bathroom..” And of course ‘Levi Stubbs Tears’ which got more press this year because of Stubbs’ death. He is a true storyteller, and his songs and guitar playing are an added bonus.

One of the evening’s highlights for me--in a monologue about Obama and how 1 person can’t fix everything but can still make a significant difference—was when Billy talked about how disappointed he was in Tony Blair, but how, despite everything—the war, Blair’s support of Bush—he was still partly responsible for peace in Northern Ireland, something Billy never expected to see in his lifetime. Something Billy had to give him credit for. Now, I don’t need to tell you what this meant to me. My jaw and my stomach must’ve both been on the floor. It’s been a great disappointment to me that the left in this country has such an easy time romanticizing the struggles of ‘the other’—why, for instance, Baltimore’s radical bookstore, Red Emma’s, sells Zapatista coffee, but not, say, Irish republican army breakfast tea (!!!)—and not examining conflicts like Northern Ireland. That’s not to say Irish Americans haven’t supported Northern Ireland, they have, for better or for worse, and perhaps THEY have romanticized the struggle. But the left has been notably silent. So it was thrilling to have Billy Bragg discuss how remarkable and really earth shattering is it that the Good Friday agreements have been implemented, that Gerry and Martin were seated in the Northern Ireland Assembly, that the RUC was disbanded. I wanted to cry. I don’t understand why we’re such anglophiles as a culture. I mean, we learned all our Guantanamo tactics from the Brits—they had plenty of practice in Ireland and India and elsewhere, and internment of Irish citizens without being tried or charged was the precursor to our dreaded Patriot Act. Anyway…Way to go, Billy! England Get out of Ireland! (He didn’t quite say that!)

But we just elected an African-American man named Barack Hussein Obama as President, so all things are possible…“I don’t want to change the world, I’m not looking for a new England, I’m just looking for another girl…..”

Couldn’t find a setlist online, but he played these songs (in no particular order):

Help Save The Youth Of America
Farm Boy
Shirley (Greetings To The New Brunette)
The Milkman of Human Kindness
A Lover Sings
NPWA
Sexuality

I Keep Faith
There Is Power In A Union
Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards

E-
Levi Stubbs Tears
Sing Their Souls Back Home (with The Watson Twins)
A New England

When I’m at the pearly gates, this’ll be on my videotape.

2009-01-15T09:00:00.000-08:00

Radiohead with Grizzly Bear - 8/12/08
Susquehanna Bank Center, Camden, NJ

Sound Check - 4:30 PM:
I arrived in Camden 2 + hours before the gates of the venue were scheduled to open. While there were lots of friendly-looking folks tailgating in the parking lot, I decided to head over to the Susquehanna Bank Center, figuring that I’d find a bathroom and a drink of water after my 2 hour drive. As I approached the gates, I could hear Thom’s perfect, pure voice singing “Pull me out of the air crash, pull me out of the lake, for I’m your superhero, we are standing on the edge…” I probably don’t have to tell you what a thrill it was at the moment to hear them playing, seemingly, just for me. I couldn’t see anything, but if I put my face through the bars of the gate and closed my eyes, it really didn’t matter. The SOUND was perfect. It was a rare moment of really truly just listening to a group of amazing musicians-there was no crowd, no cheers, no one talking or singing along in the background-it was just them and me (well ok, 2 or 3 other people were there listening too). There were 2 teenage boys who couldn’t stop smiling—they were in complete awe—and eventually more of a crowd formed and the spell was broken. But for those several minutes of listening quietly to the sound check, it was much harder to think of them as gods- no matter how I would feel later- we were just human beings a few hundred feet away from each other that were momentarily connected.
[Besides ‘Lucky,’ they also played ‘I Might Be Wrong,’ ‘The Gloaming,’ and ‘Go Slowly.’]

The gates opened at 6:30 on the dot. The line stretched down the street. There were groups of teenagers, college kids, parents with children, loners (like me), thirty and forty somethings, even a few white hairs. I only had 2 people in line in front of me, so was one of the first people to enter the venue. Despite being slightly dehydrated and still needing to find a bathroom, I skipped all of the concession stands and walked passed the restrooms. Lawn seating is of course first come first serve, and I was not going to take a chance of getting a bad spot, especially since every spot is a bad spot if you’re as short as me. Luckily, I got a perfect spot, and the closest spot on the lawn. The only thing separating me from Thom were those yuppies in the expensive seats. I plopped my blanket down right against the railing at the bottom of the lawn, slightly right of center, which ensured an unobstructed view. Even if the entire seated crowd stood, or stood on their seats (which they did), I’d be able to see. And thank god – once the show started, the entire lawn stood, so even if I was on the incline, there’s no way I would’ve seen anything. It looked really unbelievable though, a complete sea of people, with no sign of grass anywhere, and 25,000 devoted fans. A nice couple seated to my right offered to watch my blanket while I went for a walk, and after I did the same for them, we talked for much of the night. They weren’t nearly as surprised as I was to learn that we were all from Baltimore (!), and they filled me in on some local bands (Fools and Horses—has anyone heard of them?).

It’s probably a good time to take issue with the recent comments from Liam Gallagher, of the highly overrated British band Oasis, who called Radiohead fans “boring and ugly.” I’d also like to dispute the stereotype that Radiohead fans are predominantly white, middle class, and morose. It was an amazing, beautiful, diverse crowd. My Baltimorean friends were white—he was originally from Philly and looked kind of like Flea—but the audience covered the spectrum. To my left were two Russian supermodel types, I could totally see their thongs when they sat down, and behind me were 2 young Asian students, a brother and sister, who spoke in heavily accented English. It was their first Radiohead show. There were young hipsters wearing brightly colored ties smoking thin cigars and wearing sunglasses after the sun went down, same-sex couples holding hands, the tattooed and pierced, the dreadlocked, and lots of intense looking young men. There were people talking, laughing, reading, dancing, smokin’ up. One of the security guards confiscated a joint from someone next to me, but suspiciously pocketed it. I don’t think he was going to turn it in to his supervisor. Definitely not a boring, ugly, or easy to pigeonhole crowd.

The opening band, the Brooklyn-based Grizzly Bear, played a pleasing set, but like most of the crowd, I was anxious for Radiohead. Prior to their last song, the lead singer thanked Radiohead and thanked the audience for listening to them “while waiting to be blown away.” I think that was the general consensus, Grizzly Bear were a good band, but we were all waiting to have our minds blown. And we did.

Shortly before 9 PM, Radiohead took the stage. Hearing and seeing Radiohead last night I felt what it must have been like to see Pink Floyd before Roger Waters left. While Thom is definitely the epicenter, the confluence of these 5 talented men is what’s made Radiohead work. While they’ve done some great things apart (Thom’s “Eraser,” Jonny’s composing), as a band they are preternatural. They opened with ’15 Step,’ the “In Rainbows” opener, to an awesome LED “light show”— energy efficient ‘lighting’ (think Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker, but really cool)—and Thom’s wacky dancing, a cross between running in place and religious possession. I’m sorry, but this man is the definition of sexy—all wiry, lazy-eyed 5’5 of him, the author of ‘Fake Plastic Trees,’ with a falsetto that rivals Beth Gibbons’ of Portishead. For the majority of the night, he was playing guitar or playing piano, so had less opportunity to flail, although he was conducting the audience like a deranged maestro during ‘Idioteque.’ Jonny arrived wearing a dark hoodie covering his head which made him look strangely elf-like (I kept picturing Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings), especially with his lanky body, head down, and hair covering his face. I saw a post on a RH fan site recently that asked “does Jonny Greenwood have Asperger’s?” Who knows, but he certainly plays like he’s possessed. He eventually took the hoodie off, looking more human, albeit pretty intense. At first I thought Ed was wearing a suit, looking all dapper and poised and tall. His backing vocals were stellar, especially on Weird Fishes. Colin looked like Colin—happy and wearing a white tee, while it was pretty hard to see Phil, except for the top of his bald head. They were all pretty quiet between songs, with Thom’s occasional “thank yous” and “cheers.” More than that was unnecessary.

They played an amazing set, including 2 encores, lasting over 2 hours. They played every song from “In Rainbows” as well as ’Go Slowly’ from disc 2, which Thom dedicated to “everybody up in the lawn.” But while “In Rainbows” dominated the setlist, they played songs from all of their albums (if you count ‘Morning Bell’ for “Amnesiac”). ‘The National Anthem’ was a killer, followed by ‘Videotape’ which made my eyes well up. They even did ‘Street Spirit’ to end the first encore--the songs from “The Bends” were pleasantly unexpected (they also did ‘Just,’ ‘The Bends,’ & ‘Planet Telex’). During ‘No Surprises’ it was pretty chill inducing to hear 25,000 people sing “bring down the government, they don’t speak for us” and then cheer wildly. There were many other highlights of the night: Thom and Jonny playing ‘Faust Arp’ alone, hearing ‘Lucky’ at sound check and then again during the show—‘Lucky!’, thinking the show was over and then starting the second encore with a brilliant ‘Reckoner.’ The show ended just as it began—with pure theatrics. They played “Everything in Its Right Place”—there’s something right with the world when thousands of people are singing “yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon”—and ended with each band member leaving the stage while the others continued the song. Thom left first, then Jonny, and so on, with the LED lights finally converging to spell “Everything in Its Right Place.”

It’s difficult for me to describe the experience, just as it’s difficult for me to separate them as a band and individual musicians, from their politics and activism, their totally ‘green tour’ (the LED lights, no plastic, having their equipment shipped, etc), their giving away their album for free on the internet, their other musical accomplishments. When you enter the venue and are immediately handed information about human trafficking, you expect to have a different kind of evening. When Radiohead hired consultants to determine how to reduce their carbon footprint on this tour, they got some flack for being high-brow do-gooders, but were also called hypocrites (Damon Albarn from Blur and Gorillaz criticized them for touring at all). So what does this have to do with music? Well, a lot, I think. Their persona as a band is partly why they have such a devoted following. Let’s face it, if you’re an arch conservative, you probably don’t love Radiohead, despite the fact that they are probably the most talented and groundbreaking band in my lifetime. By definition they do attract a different kind of fan. How else would a band who hasn’t had a “hit” song played on the radio since the early 1990s thrive as one of the world’s most successful and beloved bands? They’ve accomplished this with virtually no mainstream radio play since ‘Creep’ in the early 1990s. Personally I think that’s what’s given them the creative freedom to do an album like ‘Kid A’ – they’ve never been part of the mainstream, so they’ve been able to continue pushing the boundaries musically without any negative repercussions. On the contrary, they are loved because they are fucking amazing musically, and therefore haven’t been accountable to your typical radio listening top 40 audience. Sure, they’re multimillionaires now, but releasing ‘In Rainbows’ on the internet under a “pay what you want” model was a risk, just like everything else they do.
A band like Radiohead is also very freeing for a fan. Sure, everyone has their favorite songs, but since they have no “hits” the people who go to hear them live aren’t waiting for ‘Creep’ (which they do not play anymore, hell they don’t even play ‘High and Dry,’ ‘Paranoid Android’ or ‘Karma Police’). Their fans are there because they know their 7 albums and many of the bootlegs and b-sides. Radiohead can draw on their extensive musical catalogue (as they did last night) and put on an awesome show—there are no limitations.

Strangely, the whole experience felt pretty intimate. Being there with 25,000 people, standing on a small ledge of concrete against a metal railing, I experienced something I haven’t in a long time. I was completely focused on the present. I didn’t think about work, I didn’t think about anyone else, I didn’t even think about myself. I just listened, saw, felt. Happiest I’ve been. Jigsaw falling into place.

Setlist: (thanks to the At Ease website)
01. 15 Step
02. There There
03. Morning Bell
04. All I Need
05. The National Anthem
06. Videotape
07. Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
08. The Gloaming
09. Where I End And You Begin
10. Faust Arp (before starting, Thom: “Good evening Jonny. How are you?”)
11. No Surprises
12. Jigsaw (before starting, Thom: “Okay. You ready?” Crowd roars.)
13. The Bends
14. Idioteque
15. Climbing Up The Walls
16. Nude
17. Bodysnatchers
Encore 1
18. House of Cards
19. Lucky (Thom: “Okay”)
20. Go Slowly (Thom: “This one is for everybody. Everybody up in the lawn … This is a slow song for a good reason.”)
21. Just
22. Street Spirit
Encore 2
23. Reckoner
24. Planet Telex
25. Everything In Its Right Place