Sitting on Sara's couch
A friend at my side.
Surrounded by new friends just met.
Listening to the music flow,
rolling off the instruments,
rolling out of the hearts of
these musicians that surround me.
At the end of each song,
my friend and I would applaud,
but we two were the only audience.
And the musicians were not playing for us.
They were playing for each other.
They were playing for themselves.
After a fun passage,
they would look at each other and smile.
After a difficult piece,
they would talk about it and do it again.
Before playing a new piece, a piece unknown,
they would sing it as they read the notes.
To be part of that afternoon,
to be let into that room
of music and smiles,
and warmth and laughter.
It was a wonderful afternoon.
It transported me.
It taught me the camaraderie,
the interplay between the musicians,
the interplay between the instruments.
Clearly, this is how Choro is meant to be played
and how it is meant to be heard.
Thank you, Sara.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, August 21, 2009
Are you that girl?
Writing this on the plane back to Boston. Maybe it's because I'm half asleep from traveling & working & flying in airplanes w/ my ears blocked & everything sounds like rushing wind. Probably it's because I just finished reading Toni Morrison's Jazz & just began reading On The Road (for the dozenth time it seems).
Last night I landed in North Carolina. Never stayed there before. Just drove through quick once with my son (racing on the highway like nascar drivers). My flights got all screwed up & I checked into the hotel hours past when I expected to. But I had planned on going into Chapel Hill chasing music & lack of sleep & a late hour were no reason to back down now. I found The Cave on West Franklin, just down the street from some college (no idea which one), down a short alley and down the cement stairs. Not really a cave, but a basement, with a ceiling so low, that everyone had to duck. Had a couple of brown beers & a bag of bar nuts for my supper, listened to a couple of bands & chatted w/ the girl taking names for their mailing list & selling CDs. I bought the one from the guy who sang songs so sad it hurt.
Next day, woke up early & started in on coffee (voting early & voting often). Went to do the gig I was sent there for - lucked out when stuff finally came together & worked right around 4pm (after 7 hours straight, no break except to stop for more coffee and to pee). Leave on a high note - always leave them laughing. So I changed my return flight & high-tailed it out of there heading home. One last stop in Chapel Hill for a nice dinner at a micro-brewery before my flight (pasta primevera with too much cheese - like being in Wisconsin). In their bathroom was a poster for a free concert that night with "Lost in the Trees". Damn! I caught them at the Lilypad last year! They're a big band with like 8 or 12 musicians traveling the country in a old school bus running on fryolator oil. Crazy awesome sound of alt / folk / country / blues with just a touch of symphony hall thrown in for good measure. Almost great karma, but my flight was already changed and hotel room emptied. Should have stayed one more night but I was already falling towards Boston. I hope to catch the latin band "La Clave Secreta" at the Regatta Bar on Friday night.
So are you that girl? Chasing music, listening to folk or country or jazz or punk or noise or bluegrass or throat singers from Mongolia. Hearing some bad stuff, but knowing you don't want to risk miss hearing something fantastic that you'll remember forever.
Are you that woman? full grown, but still feels the child inside your heart? Riding your bike because it still makes you feel free and adventurous. Makes you feel like a cowgirl riding the city streets late at night.
Are you that girl? Am I your guy?
Monday, July 06, 2009
Samba Dreams
I've been dreaming of Samba - and I don't want to stop. Tonight I will go back to samba drum practice, and I know I will be able to hold the rhythm and keep the beat for more than one and a half measures.
I pushed my way into the drumming - pushed through my own reluctance and insecurities and embarrassment - and pushed my way through the door and found Samba Tremeterra on the other side of the door, pulling me in. I have so much to learn, but I can feel it inside when the drums begin pounding, and I know its real.
On July 4th, I showed up at the studio in Somerville early in the morning, thinking that I would simply be a roadie for the Samba troupe - packing their drums in my station wagon, and helping them set up for the parade. But Deraldo had scheduled the troupe for two different parades, and only half the troupe came to Natick, while the rest went straight to Pepperell (we would meet them later). When we got to staging area at the beginning of the parade route, Deraldo told me to get on the back of the flat bed truck, behind the snares and behind the bass drums, because he needed me to play the Rocar.
So I shook the Rocar and swayed with the beat and watched the crowd as we passed them - smiling and dancing and clapping and cheering - and the look of shock and awe and excitement as our dancers would go into the crowd to pull people out into the street to dance with them - anyone that wiggled their hips or shook their shoulders was fair game for Rachel and Randi, who would dance up to them and shimmy and shake.
I've been dreaming of drums and dancing and samba and now I don't ever want it to stop.
Next Saturday, July 11, Samba Tremeterra will perform in Providence as part of the Sound Session Street Festival (276 Westminster Street) - I will be there - either in the background, lugging equipment, or standing in the crowd cheering and dancing, or maybe (if I'm lucky) on stage, hiding behind the bass drums with a Rocar in my hands.
http://www.sambatremeterra.com
http://www.youtube.com/user/werkperson
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=129570039664&ref=mf
http://www.providencesoundsession.com/
I pushed my way into the drumming - pushed through my own reluctance and insecurities and embarrassment - and pushed my way through the door and found Samba Tremeterra on the other side of the door, pulling me in. I have so much to learn, but I can feel it inside when the drums begin pounding, and I know its real.
On July 4th, I showed up at the studio in Somerville early in the morning, thinking that I would simply be a roadie for the Samba troupe - packing their drums in my station wagon, and helping them set up for the parade. But Deraldo had scheduled the troupe for two different parades, and only half the troupe came to Natick, while the rest went straight to Pepperell (we would meet them later). When we got to staging area at the beginning of the parade route, Deraldo told me to get on the back of the flat bed truck, behind the snares and behind the bass drums, because he needed me to play the Rocar.
So I shook the Rocar and swayed with the beat and watched the crowd as we passed them - smiling and dancing and clapping and cheering - and the look of shock and awe and excitement as our dancers would go into the crowd to pull people out into the street to dance with them - anyone that wiggled their hips or shook their shoulders was fair game for Rachel and Randi, who would dance up to them and shimmy and shake.
I've been dreaming of drums and dancing and samba and now I don't ever want it to stop.
Next Saturday, July 11, Samba Tremeterra will perform in Providence as part of the Sound Session Street Festival (276 Westminster Street) - I will be there - either in the background, lugging equipment, or standing in the crowd cheering and dancing, or maybe (if I'm lucky) on stage, hiding behind the bass drums with a Rocar in my hands.
http://www.sambatremeterra.com
http://www.youtube.com/user/werkperson
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=129570039664&ref=mf
http://www.providencesoundsession.com/
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
instruments
You asked if I ever played a musical instrument.
When I was a young boy, and my family still lived together, my two older sisters and my parents, all in one big house just outside Wilmington, Delaware. My mother made sure there was a piano in the house. Neither my mother nor father grew up with music - their houses were quiet. My mother thought that having a piano in the house would add class, would add sophistication, would add value to our lives. She was right. I was 7 years old. My sisters and I took piano lessons from the old woman around the corner. We would walk to her house and sit at her piano, with her metronome. I played Hot Cross Buns and Mary Had A Little Lamb. My teacher gave me stickers to put in my practice book when I played well. My sisters learned to play Chopsticks. I thought it was so cool when they sat next to each other on the piano bench and played together in unison, that was real music. So much better than my burnt buns. And when my sister learned to play Beethoven's Fur Elise, well, that was the third time I fell in love with a woman.
Then we moved to New Haven. At first there was still room for the piano, but we no longer could afford piano lessons. My mother still made me practice, but motivation did not come easily, especially since there were no stickers for reward when I played well. I would rather watch TV after school than practice, and eventually I stopped.
But New Haven meant Yale, and Yale meant Yale Bowl, and that meant football games on Saturday afternoons. My sisters and I found all the holes in the fences and would sneak into the games. Or we would hang around the entrance gates and bum tickets off the people who were leaving early. Or my sisters would flirt with the boys outside the gates and get in for free - and then I had to find the fence holes by myself. We could almost always get in by half time, when the marching bands came onto the fields to play. That was my favorite part of the game - watching them march and listening to the pounding drums. Sometimes, after winning a big game, the band would play and march around outside the stadium in celebration. I would always follow them around, wishing I could join in.
I was ten years old, and Yale beat Harvard 24-20, and it was a very big deal. The crowd went wild and poured onto the field. The bands wouldn't stop playing. They marched and played inside the stadium and outside the stadium, and I followed them everywhere they went. Instead of getting on their buses for a ride back to town, they decided to march all the way back to campus. I fell in line alongside the drummers - rows of snare drums, rows of tom-toms, rows of big bass drums. All playing in syncopation - chaka chaka BOOM BOOM, chaka chaka BOOM BOOM, chaka chaka chaka chaka chaka chaka BOOM BOOM! I marched alongside. I marched in the middle of them and marched inside their column. All the way from the stadium, from the edge of the city back to the center of town. The drums were like thunder and magic. When we passed the hospital, they quieted their voices but kept the beat, clicking their sticks on the edges of the drums to soften the thunder - clika clika chick chick, clika clika chick chick, chaka chaka BOOM BOOM! And then the parade ended. They had reached their dorms. They had reached the tents for their party into the night. They took off their drums and their hats and their uniforms and began the night's festivities. I looked around and I had no idea where I was. I was ten years old and alone - my sisters hadn't wanted to march with the band like I did. So I walked home, following the bread crumbs back the way we came, through New Haven on a Saturday night in 1967.
Then we moved to Philadelphia, and I never saw Yale Bowl again. It was 1968, just past the Summer of Love. Folk Music and Rock and Roll and hippies and girls with long hair and no bras and the girls in my 6th grade class who so desperately wanted to wear their first bra. I tried to take saxophone lessons - I have no idea why - but I never got past a SQUONK! and my parents made me return the sax before the 30 days were up. My middle sister, Linda, began taking guitar lessons from an older boy with long hair, a hippie still in high school. Linda lusted after that boy so much, she never missed a lesson. She learned how to pluck and strum with a Folk style - like Joan Baez, like Joni Mitchell. I wanted to play Rock and Roll. I took lessons as well, but I never practiced enough. My parents wouldn't buy me an electric guitar, so my sister and I shared a used acoustic guitar. The guitar was big, and my fingers were small and it hurt to hold the strings down. I couldn't wrap my thumb around the neck to hold the bass strings down while my index and middle fingers were supposed to hold down the high notes. I tried. I listened to the Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Guess Who and Santana and The Temptations, and I wanted to play like that. My music teacher taught me three chords and then said "improvise" and I had no idea how to make up music when I could barely play 3 simple chords.
In 7th grade, my best friends were Eric Charry and Amnon Hershkowitz. It was Eric's older brother that taught my sister and me to play guitar, but it was Eric who was the better guitarist. He was a rock and roll god with long hair, a real musician, and all the girls loved him. It was 1969, The Chicago 7 trial was on tv every night. The Vietnam War was on tv every night. I went to a Be-In in Fairmont Park, but I knew that in San Francisco they had more than that - they had a Love-In. Eric and Amnon and I would get in trouble in school. I don't remember why or how. Maybe we got caught smoking cigarettes with the cool kids behind the school. Maybe we talked back to my beautiful 7th grade teacher (who I was desperately in love with). We got sent to detention, a bunch of times. So we decided to become a rock and roll band. We practiced during detention and we planned that our first gig would be at the 7th grade talent show. We practiced playing songs from Abbey Road, but the song we decided to play was Satisfaction by the Stones. We all played guitar, Eric played lead, Amnon played bass and I played rhythm. We practiced, but we didn't practice enough. We spent most of our time playing tag and arguing about who would sing which verse. "Traveling 'round the world, trying to get some girl" - Eric was the best and he got to sing that. "He can't be a man, 'cause he doesn't smoke, the same cigarettes as me" - Amnon played better than me so he got to sing that line. I got "The Man comes on the radio, he's telling me more and more, about some useless information". But something happened on that stage at the Talent Show and I never understood what it was. I was in a Rock and Roll band and it felt great. I was singing like Mick Jagger and I was famous. But when it was over, my classmates came up to ask what went wrong. The girls asked me why I didn't sing. The teacher asked what was wrong with the guitar. Apparently, I sang without a voice - or at least one that anyone could hear. And when I strummed my borrowed electric guitar, my pick never touched the strings. And that was the end of my life as a rock and roll star. I never played again.
And then I was an old man, riding my bike through the city, through Arlington and Cambridge and Somerville and Boston. Drinking in the night. Stopping to listen to music, at the Lily Pad and at The Burren, or stopping to listen to musicians playing on the street. Riding to Flat Top Johnnies to shoot pool with my son. Riding to Sally O'Brien's to drink Jameson and listen to the blues, to meet a woman and see if she would kiss a man riding a bicycle. I went to the movies, and saw The Visitor - a story of an old man, alone, who befriends a musician, a drummer. The old man learns to play the drums and learns how to live again.
And then one night, when I was riding through the streets, I rode through Somerville, past a performance space where sometimes jazz and noise bands played. The doors were closed, but the lights were on and I heard drumming coming from inside. I got off my bike and poked my head through the door, looking for that magic. And I found it that night in Union Square. It was a samba troupe at rehearsal, Samba Tremeterra, full of thundering drums playing in syncopation, and full of musicians filling in the melody, and full of beautiful women dancing and gyrating and popping to the beat of the drums. I stayed for hours, with my eyes closed tight to feel the drums, with my eyes wide open to watch the dancers, with my mind wide open to feel the joy. During a break, one of the musicians came over to ask my name. She told me to come back the following Monday night, before the samba troupe's rehearsal, when the band leader gave drumming lessons. And I fell in love again.
When I was a young boy, and my family still lived together, my two older sisters and my parents, all in one big house just outside Wilmington, Delaware. My mother made sure there was a piano in the house. Neither my mother nor father grew up with music - their houses were quiet. My mother thought that having a piano in the house would add class, would add sophistication, would add value to our lives. She was right. I was 7 years old. My sisters and I took piano lessons from the old woman around the corner. We would walk to her house and sit at her piano, with her metronome. I played Hot Cross Buns and Mary Had A Little Lamb. My teacher gave me stickers to put in my practice book when I played well. My sisters learned to play Chopsticks. I thought it was so cool when they sat next to each other on the piano bench and played together in unison, that was real music. So much better than my burnt buns. And when my sister learned to play Beethoven's Fur Elise, well, that was the third time I fell in love with a woman.
Then we moved to New Haven. At first there was still room for the piano, but we no longer could afford piano lessons. My mother still made me practice, but motivation did not come easily, especially since there were no stickers for reward when I played well. I would rather watch TV after school than practice, and eventually I stopped.
But New Haven meant Yale, and Yale meant Yale Bowl, and that meant football games on Saturday afternoons. My sisters and I found all the holes in the fences and would sneak into the games. Or we would hang around the entrance gates and bum tickets off the people who were leaving early. Or my sisters would flirt with the boys outside the gates and get in for free - and then I had to find the fence holes by myself. We could almost always get in by half time, when the marching bands came onto the fields to play. That was my favorite part of the game - watching them march and listening to the pounding drums. Sometimes, after winning a big game, the band would play and march around outside the stadium in celebration. I would always follow them around, wishing I could join in.
I was ten years old, and Yale beat Harvard 24-20, and it was a very big deal. The crowd went wild and poured onto the field. The bands wouldn't stop playing. They marched and played inside the stadium and outside the stadium, and I followed them everywhere they went. Instead of getting on their buses for a ride back to town, they decided to march all the way back to campus. I fell in line alongside the drummers - rows of snare drums, rows of tom-toms, rows of big bass drums. All playing in syncopation - chaka chaka BOOM BOOM, chaka chaka BOOM BOOM, chaka chaka chaka chaka chaka chaka BOOM BOOM! I marched alongside. I marched in the middle of them and marched inside their column. All the way from the stadium, from the edge of the city back to the center of town. The drums were like thunder and magic. When we passed the hospital, they quieted their voices but kept the beat, clicking their sticks on the edges of the drums to soften the thunder - clika clika chick chick, clika clika chick chick, chaka chaka BOOM BOOM! And then the parade ended. They had reached their dorms. They had reached the tents for their party into the night. They took off their drums and their hats and their uniforms and began the night's festivities. I looked around and I had no idea where I was. I was ten years old and alone - my sisters hadn't wanted to march with the band like I did. So I walked home, following the bread crumbs back the way we came, through New Haven on a Saturday night in 1967.
Then we moved to Philadelphia, and I never saw Yale Bowl again. It was 1968, just past the Summer of Love. Folk Music and Rock and Roll and hippies and girls with long hair and no bras and the girls in my 6th grade class who so desperately wanted to wear their first bra. I tried to take saxophone lessons - I have no idea why - but I never got past a SQUONK! and my parents made me return the sax before the 30 days were up. My middle sister, Linda, began taking guitar lessons from an older boy with long hair, a hippie still in high school. Linda lusted after that boy so much, she never missed a lesson. She learned how to pluck and strum with a Folk style - like Joan Baez, like Joni Mitchell. I wanted to play Rock and Roll. I took lessons as well, but I never practiced enough. My parents wouldn't buy me an electric guitar, so my sister and I shared a used acoustic guitar. The guitar was big, and my fingers were small and it hurt to hold the strings down. I couldn't wrap my thumb around the neck to hold the bass strings down while my index and middle fingers were supposed to hold down the high notes. I tried. I listened to the Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Guess Who and Santana and The Temptations, and I wanted to play like that. My music teacher taught me three chords and then said "improvise" and I had no idea how to make up music when I could barely play 3 simple chords.
In 7th grade, my best friends were Eric Charry and Amnon Hershkowitz. It was Eric's older brother that taught my sister and me to play guitar, but it was Eric who was the better guitarist. He was a rock and roll god with long hair, a real musician, and all the girls loved him. It was 1969, The Chicago 7 trial was on tv every night. The Vietnam War was on tv every night. I went to a Be-In in Fairmont Park, but I knew that in San Francisco they had more than that - they had a Love-In. Eric and Amnon and I would get in trouble in school. I don't remember why or how. Maybe we got caught smoking cigarettes with the cool kids behind the school. Maybe we talked back to my beautiful 7th grade teacher (who I was desperately in love with). We got sent to detention, a bunch of times. So we decided to become a rock and roll band. We practiced during detention and we planned that our first gig would be at the 7th grade talent show. We practiced playing songs from Abbey Road, but the song we decided to play was Satisfaction by the Stones. We all played guitar, Eric played lead, Amnon played bass and I played rhythm. We practiced, but we didn't practice enough. We spent most of our time playing tag and arguing about who would sing which verse. "Traveling 'round the world, trying to get some girl" - Eric was the best and he got to sing that. "He can't be a man, 'cause he doesn't smoke, the same cigarettes as me" - Amnon played better than me so he got to sing that line. I got "The Man comes on the radio, he's telling me more and more, about some useless information". But something happened on that stage at the Talent Show and I never understood what it was. I was in a Rock and Roll band and it felt great. I was singing like Mick Jagger and I was famous. But when it was over, my classmates came up to ask what went wrong. The girls asked me why I didn't sing. The teacher asked what was wrong with the guitar. Apparently, I sang without a voice - or at least one that anyone could hear. And when I strummed my borrowed electric guitar, my pick never touched the strings. And that was the end of my life as a rock and roll star. I never played again.
And then I was an old man, riding my bike through the city, through Arlington and Cambridge and Somerville and Boston. Drinking in the night. Stopping to listen to music, at the Lily Pad and at The Burren, or stopping to listen to musicians playing on the street. Riding to Flat Top Johnnies to shoot pool with my son. Riding to Sally O'Brien's to drink Jameson and listen to the blues, to meet a woman and see if she would kiss a man riding a bicycle. I went to the movies, and saw The Visitor - a story of an old man, alone, who befriends a musician, a drummer. The old man learns to play the drums and learns how to live again.
And then one night, when I was riding through the streets, I rode through Somerville, past a performance space where sometimes jazz and noise bands played. The doors were closed, but the lights were on and I heard drumming coming from inside. I got off my bike and poked my head through the door, looking for that magic. And I found it that night in Union Square. It was a samba troupe at rehearsal, Samba Tremeterra, full of thundering drums playing in syncopation, and full of musicians filling in the melody, and full of beautiful women dancing and gyrating and popping to the beat of the drums. I stayed for hours, with my eyes closed tight to feel the drums, with my eyes wide open to watch the dancers, with my mind wide open to feel the joy. During a break, one of the musicians came over to ask my name. She told me to come back the following Monday night, before the samba troupe's rehearsal, when the band leader gave drumming lessons. And I fell in love again.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
night ride - Friday night
A night ride can change everything. My bike is my magic carpet to freedom, to adventure, to playfulness. The dark sky, the street lights, the cool night air, the sound of my tires on the pavement. This is a story of the joy riding can bring, even in the middle of physical pain...
After too many years of neglecting my teeth and ignoring my dentist, I finally went back - after I broke a tooth. Unfortunately, my foolish oversight has led to a long schedule of procedures, including several hours in the chair this past Friday morning. I left the doctor's office with a mouth full of Novocaine, and a head full of pain killers. I slept most of the day - rather, fell in and out of a haze of drifting sleep and fitful dreams.
When I finally partially woke up, it was nearly 6pm and I hadn't eaten all day. My mouth was still mostly numb, and my head was still full of pain killers, but I had to get out of my apartment - it was such a beautiful spring day that I had missed, and it was quickly turning into a beautiful and warm evening. I changed into comfortable street clothes, and got on my bike for a _very_ slow ride. Trust me when I say that I know how to ride slowly. old women with canes pass me. little children walking backwards pass me. slow.
I rode into Inman Square to my favorite, small cafe for meals - where the women who own the place and work there always welcome me with a smile and warm greeting. I had a bowl of soup and a glass of Malbec - delicious, nourishing, calming and just what the doctor ordered.
And then I was off - riding to Fan Pier on the waterfront for the final evening of celebrations around the international sailboat race that has been docked and hanging out in Boston all month. I got there in time to catch the tail end of some Irish musicians and step dancers, but while I was wandering through the crowd, a friend came up and called out to me. ah! THIS is who I came to see - Samba Tremeterra were the last performers for the evening. I had stumbled onto their rehearsals in Union Square a few weeks ago - they let me watch and revel in their loud and thundering drums and beautiful dancers - they didn't kick me out of their rehearsal and invited me back the following week. Tonight, I finally had a chance to see them perform on stage, in full regalia, with a large, loud and appreciative audience. It only took moments for the crowd to understand that this was Samba - this was celebration - this was joy and music - and the cheering began! And when the dancers came out, first in modest white, ceremonial dresses, and then later in full festival attire - the crowd was joyous with wild abandon! And we all danced!
But then I had to leave - I wish I could have been in two places at once, but the evening was turning so wonderful and I wanted to experience it all. Earlier that week, I had met a new friend who told me about a different kind of dance - a slower dance, a soulful and sensual dance, a dance of interpretation and spirit, a community of people who gather to dance together. I didn't quite understand, but I desperately wanted to learn. So I rode through the late night, through the cooling Boston streets, out to Brookline, to see and to watch and to learn how this community dances and celebrates. I got there near midnight, just a half an hour until their dance ended. I removed my shoes - it was a barefoot dance - and was greeted warmly and allowed to enter a large room, dimly lit with colorful lights and the dj playing soulful, deep trance music. I found a large, soft couch and sat down to rest from my ride and watch the dancers around me. People were dancing in pairs. people were dancing by themselves. people were dancing in groups. some twirling, some slow and sinuous and slinky, some just holding on and rocking slowly back and forth. I know if I should choose to return, I will be greeted warmly and enjoy the dance.
And then the evening was over and it was time for my ride home. Riding the night streets, through Brookline. through Allston. though Cambridge. back to Arlington. I love this city. I love to ride at night.
After too many years of neglecting my teeth and ignoring my dentist, I finally went back - after I broke a tooth. Unfortunately, my foolish oversight has led to a long schedule of procedures, including several hours in the chair this past Friday morning. I left the doctor's office with a mouth full of Novocaine, and a head full of pain killers. I slept most of the day - rather, fell in and out of a haze of drifting sleep and fitful dreams.
When I finally partially woke up, it was nearly 6pm and I hadn't eaten all day. My mouth was still mostly numb, and my head was still full of pain killers, but I had to get out of my apartment - it was such a beautiful spring day that I had missed, and it was quickly turning into a beautiful and warm evening. I changed into comfortable street clothes, and got on my bike for a _very_ slow ride. Trust me when I say that I know how to ride slowly. old women with canes pass me. little children walking backwards pass me. slow.
I rode into Inman Square to my favorite, small cafe for meals - where the women who own the place and work there always welcome me with a smile and warm greeting. I had a bowl of soup and a glass of Malbec - delicious, nourishing, calming and just what the doctor ordered.
And then I was off - riding to Fan Pier on the waterfront for the final evening of celebrations around the international sailboat race that has been docked and hanging out in Boston all month. I got there in time to catch the tail end of some Irish musicians and step dancers, but while I was wandering through the crowd, a friend came up and called out to me. ah! THIS is who I came to see - Samba Tremeterra were the last performers for the evening. I had stumbled onto their rehearsals in Union Square a few weeks ago - they let me watch and revel in their loud and thundering drums and beautiful dancers - they didn't kick me out of their rehearsal and invited me back the following week. Tonight, I finally had a chance to see them perform on stage, in full regalia, with a large, loud and appreciative audience. It only took moments for the crowd to understand that this was Samba - this was celebration - this was joy and music - and the cheering began! And when the dancers came out, first in modest white, ceremonial dresses, and then later in full festival attire - the crowd was joyous with wild abandon! And we all danced!
But then I had to leave - I wish I could have been in two places at once, but the evening was turning so wonderful and I wanted to experience it all. Earlier that week, I had met a new friend who told me about a different kind of dance - a slower dance, a soulful and sensual dance, a dance of interpretation and spirit, a community of people who gather to dance together. I didn't quite understand, but I desperately wanted to learn. So I rode through the late night, through the cooling Boston streets, out to Brookline, to see and to watch and to learn how this community dances and celebrates. I got there near midnight, just a half an hour until their dance ended. I removed my shoes - it was a barefoot dance - and was greeted warmly and allowed to enter a large room, dimly lit with colorful lights and the dj playing soulful, deep trance music. I found a large, soft couch and sat down to rest from my ride and watch the dancers around me. People were dancing in pairs. people were dancing by themselves. people were dancing in groups. some twirling, some slow and sinuous and slinky, some just holding on and rocking slowly back and forth. I know if I should choose to return, I will be greeted warmly and enjoy the dance.
And then the evening was over and it was time for my ride home. Riding the night streets, through Brookline. through Allston. though Cambridge. back to Arlington. I love this city. I love to ride at night.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut
I haven't written a book report in 35 years or so. The truth is, I want to write about last week and my six nights of culture overload, but I've been struggling with that piece for, well, for over a week now. I've had some thoughts (some even coherent). I wrote down some scribbles on a napkin while having dinner at City Girl the other night. But still - nothing real to write here.
So today is a cold, rainy Saturday. I should be finishing my taxes and helping my son with his taxes. But instead I am sitting in Jam N' Java in Arlington Center, finishing yet another Vonnegut. I read most of his stuff when I was in high school and college, sandwiched between Herman Hesse and Carlos Castaneda and Harlan Ellison. Just before Kurt died, coincidentally, I began reading his later works. I like reading his recent stuff because I like to listen to him as a cranky old man - depressed about the state of the world, anticipating his oncoming death, but still unable to suppress his love of beauty and people and of love itself that I always found coming through his words, no matter how depressing his stories. I though Cat's Cradle (which describes the end of the world) was a funny love story!
Vonnegut has always repeated and quoted himself over and over in his books and stories, and it seems that he did that with even more frequency in the last books he wrote. But I don't mind. Just like I don't mind listening to my old friends tell stories that I have heard them tell many times before - especially those that I lived through in their original telling. Even if the facts and details of the stories change a bit with each retelling - sometimes a good story is better than the truth. Just ask George Washington!
Now I am barely a dozen pages from the end of Timequake. I'm not anxious for it to end. There is no suspenseful plot line whose conclusion I am dieing to learn. But neither am I reluctant to finish this book, like I was two weeks ago as I was finishing a different book. Then, I had nothing in the queue to read next and I went into a near panic: Quick! To Brookline Booksmith! At Once!
This time I am slow to finish because I would rather laze away a rainy afternoon, then go to the extreme effort of reaching into my bag for the next book in my pile. Which should it be? Should I finally finish Leo Buscaglia's "Love", an old, used, worn and heavily underlined and annotated copy which was given to me by a pretty girl at Darwin's one evening - the first time something like that had ever happened to me, so I am sure I will never finish _that_ book - just so I can relive the pleasure of receiving such a wonderful present every time I look in my book bag. Or should I finish "Faithless" by Joyce Carol Oates - which sits on my nightstand, adjacent to my bed? Or should my next book be Lorrie Moore's "Birds of America" - an author I've never read but who was recommended to me by a woman I once dated.
Anyway, none of that is my book report of Timequake - which after all, was the pretense of this journal entry to begin with! So not even close to a book report, here are some of my favorite lines from Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut
"a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit"
"My uncle Alex Vonnegut... taught me something very important. He said that when things were really going well we should be sure to notice it. ... Uncle Alex urged me to say this out loud during such epiphanies: 'If this isn't nice, [I don't know] what is.' "
"I am eternally grateful to [my Uncle Alex] ... for my knack of finding in great books... reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else may be going on."
"Listen: We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different."
"I have taught creative writing during my seventy-three years... I told my students that when they were writing they should be good dates on blind dates, should show strangers good times."
"I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about... You are not alone."
And finally, here is my favorite line from Vonnegut's "A Man Without A Country" which is also quoted somewhere in Timequake as well:
"When you get to my age, if you get to my age, and if you have reproduced, you will find yourself asking your own children, who are themselves middle-aged: 'What is life all about?’ ... I put my big question about life to my son the pediatrician. Dr Vonnegut said this to his doddering old dad: "Father, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.' "
yeah.
So today is a cold, rainy Saturday. I should be finishing my taxes and helping my son with his taxes. But instead I am sitting in Jam N' Java in Arlington Center, finishing yet another Vonnegut. I read most of his stuff when I was in high school and college, sandwiched between Herman Hesse and Carlos Castaneda and Harlan Ellison. Just before Kurt died, coincidentally, I began reading his later works. I like reading his recent stuff because I like to listen to him as a cranky old man - depressed about the state of the world, anticipating his oncoming death, but still unable to suppress his love of beauty and people and of love itself that I always found coming through his words, no matter how depressing his stories. I though Cat's Cradle (which describes the end of the world) was a funny love story!
Vonnegut has always repeated and quoted himself over and over in his books and stories, and it seems that he did that with even more frequency in the last books he wrote. But I don't mind. Just like I don't mind listening to my old friends tell stories that I have heard them tell many times before - especially those that I lived through in their original telling. Even if the facts and details of the stories change a bit with each retelling - sometimes a good story is better than the truth. Just ask George Washington!
Now I am barely a dozen pages from the end of Timequake. I'm not anxious for it to end. There is no suspenseful plot line whose conclusion I am dieing to learn. But neither am I reluctant to finish this book, like I was two weeks ago as I was finishing a different book. Then, I had nothing in the queue to read next and I went into a near panic: Quick! To Brookline Booksmith! At Once!
This time I am slow to finish because I would rather laze away a rainy afternoon, then go to the extreme effort of reaching into my bag for the next book in my pile. Which should it be? Should I finally finish Leo Buscaglia's "Love", an old, used, worn and heavily underlined and annotated copy which was given to me by a pretty girl at Darwin's one evening - the first time something like that had ever happened to me, so I am sure I will never finish _that_ book - just so I can relive the pleasure of receiving such a wonderful present every time I look in my book bag. Or should I finish "Faithless" by Joyce Carol Oates - which sits on my nightstand, adjacent to my bed? Or should my next book be Lorrie Moore's "Birds of America" - an author I've never read but who was recommended to me by a woman I once dated.
Anyway, none of that is my book report of Timequake - which after all, was the pretense of this journal entry to begin with! So not even close to a book report, here are some of my favorite lines from Timequake by Kurt Vonnegut
"a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit"
"My uncle Alex Vonnegut... taught me something very important. He said that when things were really going well we should be sure to notice it. ... Uncle Alex urged me to say this out loud during such epiphanies: 'If this isn't nice, [I don't know] what is.' "
"I am eternally grateful to [my Uncle Alex] ... for my knack of finding in great books... reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else may be going on."
"Listen: We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different."
"I have taught creative writing during my seventy-three years... I told my students that when they were writing they should be good dates on blind dates, should show strangers good times."
"I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about... You are not alone."
And finally, here is my favorite line from Vonnegut's "A Man Without A Country" which is also quoted somewhere in Timequake as well:
"When you get to my age, if you get to my age, and if you have reproduced, you will find yourself asking your own children, who are themselves middle-aged: 'What is life all about?’ ... I put my big question about life to my son the pediatrician. Dr Vonnegut said this to his doddering old dad: "Father, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.' "
yeah.
Friday, April 03, 2009
First Friday at SOWA
I just got back from my first First Friday event at the galleries in the South End, specifically the SOWA galleries (South of Washington Ave, nee SOMA in SF). Had a fun time - went there specifically to see the performance artists TRIIIBE do "Profile" at the Samson Projects. TRIIBE is comprised of the identical triplets Sara, Alicia and Kelly (Sara has short hair, Alicia's bangs and long hair form the letter "A", and Kelly is the rock climber, aka the other one - that's the only way I can tell them apart - I always want to simply call them SKA as a communal name).
The piece that TRIIBE performed was meant to be a reflection and commentary on social networking web sites. They each stood in front of a blank wall with identical masks, identical wigs and identical orange smocks, with a blank cartoon word bubble on the wall behind them. They would occasionally erase and write something new in the word bubble. The rest of the gallery had a half dozen other places for audience members to write their own word bubble caption and hold up a triplet mask - perhaps with a mustache or goatee, or bright red lips. The collaborative photographers that assist TRIIIBE had still and motion cameras set up to record the interaction and photos of audience members participating in this performance piece. People came and looked and wondered, and it took very little prodding to get folks to write their own captions, grab a mask and pose for a quick picture. I was thrilled that the triplets greeted me by changing a bubble to say "Thanks for coming Harry" - yeah baby, even I can become art! I posed for two pictures: one next to the welcoming caption they wrote for me and one with a cartoon in the cartoon bubble that my sisters taught me to draw when I was very little, with the caption "my avatar has a mask to hide behind" - at least that's what I meant to write.
I hung out in the triplets gallery for bit and then wandered around to the other galleries in the SOWA complex. I found some interesting art, some very cool stuff that moved me, some boring stuff, and some pretty good red wine (sweet!) - so I did a few loops stopping in to check out TRIIIBE and their crowd, swinging back to the place with good wine (and boring pictures) and checking out the more interesting stuff and talking with a few of the artists. Here is some scribbles from my pocket notebook that I wrote down as I wandered, looked, mingled and drank my way through a very pleasant Friday evening!
Triiibe - do the masks make us anonymous? or do they make us uniform? part of the same body? we can all be identical triplets when we connect. We can share thoughts and emotions, we can finish each others sentences, we can interrupt each other and do each other's hair. I wish I was a triplet!
Photos taken inside giant cathedrals, mega-churches: all staging and hollywood production and mixing boards and technology and props. God was nowhere to be found.
Still motion photos that prove the existence of motion. two picture sequences. a man holding a dark cloak - then the cloak flying high in the air revealing a child's tricycle. a nude woman holding a bridal gown in front of her body, and then just the gown floating in the air after being tossed high above.
Old photos of a little brother. cracked glass in tarnished frames. faded and blurry photos never revealed the memories from when they were taken. my brother making a fist, showing his strength and muscles. my father saying grace before a sunday meal, looking down. me, getting ready to jump off the porch railing,ready for adventure and flying.
Unseen and Seen: shadowy figures standing in shallow water. lost, confused, stuck in purgatory. only one woman has joy, looking back to see the ripple she caused with a splash of her hand.
Photographs of natural textures and patterns in sand along the shore - juxtaposed against giant colorful purses collapsed into crumples of random colors. the colored crumples disconcerting, the patterns in the sand peaceful and calming. ripples in the sand formed by the receding tide. reflections of bare trees in a tidal pool. the white foam at the edge of the water, well past the breaking wave. The artist stopped to chat "what are you writing?" I told her "so I can remember what I see". She told me that she took these pictures over a a period of years while living near the Santa Barbara beach. Taking these pictures was a meditative, therapeutic practice that she needed to get over some horrible trauma in her life. She would go to the shore several times a day, day after day, month after month. She learned to stop being a photographer, and to become one with the moment, she became the sand, and that it when these images appeared to her. Her name is Nahid Khaki and I love her sand.
Ancient city-scapes painted by number. numbers are the texture. numbers are the stones of the wall and the pave of the sidewalk. numbers are the water rippling in the canal. numbers fade into the pale blue of the sky. numbers are the branches and the twigs of the trees. numbers are the reflection of the number footbridge, in the number water, under the number sky. His name is Tobias Rava.
Cellphone Pictures: reflections of a cloud in water. shadows from a tree overlaying water lilies. shadows across a shuttered door. tibetian prayer flags blow in the breeze. I take a picture of the pictures and the artist asks what I will do with my notes and picture of her pictures. I tell her I will remember what I saw. I tell her that it is the reflections that capture my attention - everything else fades into the background because it is the reflections that show me the truth of what we cannot see. I love her pictures - her name is Mary Lang.
I stop in the "Mars made" showroom to play a game of 8-ball on their beautiful tables, machined from solid blocks of aluminum and steel, with cups made of carbon fiber, with felt that is not regular felt, but is made from worsted wool. The table is smooth and hard and straight. A perfect fast table with no imperfections and unforgiving pockets.
I go back once more to the Triiibe performance space as the First Friday comes to a close. I greet the triplets and thank them for inviting me. I meet Mattie (for a second time I think), wish everyone a good night and go home to write this...
The piece that TRIIBE performed was meant to be a reflection and commentary on social networking web sites. They each stood in front of a blank wall with identical masks, identical wigs and identical orange smocks, with a blank cartoon word bubble on the wall behind them. They would occasionally erase and write something new in the word bubble. The rest of the gallery had a half dozen other places for audience members to write their own word bubble caption and hold up a triplet mask - perhaps with a mustache or goatee, or bright red lips. The collaborative photographers that assist TRIIIBE had still and motion cameras set up to record the interaction and photos of audience members participating in this performance piece. People came and looked and wondered, and it took very little prodding to get folks to write their own captions, grab a mask and pose for a quick picture. I was thrilled that the triplets greeted me by changing a bubble to say "Thanks for coming Harry" - yeah baby, even I can become art! I posed for two pictures: one next to the welcoming caption they wrote for me and one with a cartoon in the cartoon bubble that my sisters taught me to draw when I was very little, with the caption "my avatar has a mask to hide behind" - at least that's what I meant to write.
I hung out in the triplets gallery for bit and then wandered around to the other galleries in the SOWA complex. I found some interesting art, some very cool stuff that moved me, some boring stuff, and some pretty good red wine (sweet!) - so I did a few loops stopping in to check out TRIIIBE and their crowd, swinging back to the place with good wine (and boring pictures) and checking out the more interesting stuff and talking with a few of the artists. Here is some scribbles from my pocket notebook that I wrote down as I wandered, looked, mingled and drank my way through a very pleasant Friday evening!
Triiibe - do the masks make us anonymous? or do they make us uniform? part of the same body? we can all be identical triplets when we connect. We can share thoughts and emotions, we can finish each others sentences, we can interrupt each other and do each other's hair. I wish I was a triplet!
Photos taken inside giant cathedrals, mega-churches: all staging and hollywood production and mixing boards and technology and props. God was nowhere to be found.
Still motion photos that prove the existence of motion. two picture sequences. a man holding a dark cloak - then the cloak flying high in the air revealing a child's tricycle. a nude woman holding a bridal gown in front of her body, and then just the gown floating in the air after being tossed high above.
Old photos of a little brother. cracked glass in tarnished frames. faded and blurry photos never revealed the memories from when they were taken. my brother making a fist, showing his strength and muscles. my father saying grace before a sunday meal, looking down. me, getting ready to jump off the porch railing,ready for adventure and flying.
Unseen and Seen: shadowy figures standing in shallow water. lost, confused, stuck in purgatory. only one woman has joy, looking back to see the ripple she caused with a splash of her hand.
Photographs of natural textures and patterns in sand along the shore - juxtaposed against giant colorful purses collapsed into crumples of random colors. the colored crumples disconcerting, the patterns in the sand peaceful and calming. ripples in the sand formed by the receding tide. reflections of bare trees in a tidal pool. the white foam at the edge of the water, well past the breaking wave. The artist stopped to chat "what are you writing?" I told her "so I can remember what I see". She told me that she took these pictures over a a period of years while living near the Santa Barbara beach. Taking these pictures was a meditative, therapeutic practice that she needed to get over some horrible trauma in her life. She would go to the shore several times a day, day after day, month after month. She learned to stop being a photographer, and to become one with the moment, she became the sand, and that it when these images appeared to her. Her name is Nahid Khaki and I love her sand.
Ancient city-scapes painted by number. numbers are the texture. numbers are the stones of the wall and the pave of the sidewalk. numbers are the water rippling in the canal. numbers fade into the pale blue of the sky. numbers are the branches and the twigs of the trees. numbers are the reflection of the number footbridge, in the number water, under the number sky. His name is Tobias Rava.
Cellphone Pictures: reflections of a cloud in water. shadows from a tree overlaying water lilies. shadows across a shuttered door. tibetian prayer flags blow in the breeze. I take a picture of the pictures and the artist asks what I will do with my notes and picture of her pictures. I tell her I will remember what I saw. I tell her that it is the reflections that capture my attention - everything else fades into the background because it is the reflections that show me the truth of what we cannot see. I love her pictures - her name is Mary Lang.
I stop in the "Mars made" showroom to play a game of 8-ball on their beautiful tables, machined from solid blocks of aluminum and steel, with cups made of carbon fiber, with felt that is not regular felt, but is made from worsted wool. The table is smooth and hard and straight. A perfect fast table with no imperfections and unforgiving pockets.
I go back once more to the Triiibe performance space as the First Friday comes to a close. I greet the triplets and thank them for inviting me. I meet Mattie (for a second time I think), wish everyone a good night and go home to write this...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tomoko Omura Quartet at Ryles
It's always a special feeling that I have when a performance begins with Coltrane. It's as if the musicians are acknowledging their teacher, their inspiration. As if they want to start their set with a prayer of thanks and homage. And it tells me, and the rest of the audience,
"This is music. This is real. This what we will play for you. This is how we will play for you."
And then I know the rest of the set will be fine.
And it was wonderful!
Tomoko Omura - violin
Victor Gould - piano
Dan Carpel - bass
Jeffery Fajardo - drums
"This is music. This is real. This what we will play for you. This is how we will play for you."
And then I know the rest of the set will be fine.
And it was wonderful!
Tomoko Omura - violin
Victor Gould - piano
Dan Carpel - bass
Jeffery Fajardo - drums
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
tribute to Al, Irene and their magical place: Windblown
I was supposed to ski at Windblown with my older son last weekend, but he got the flu so I went by myself. I got there early on Saturday morning, and was lucky to be able to ski "first tracks" for about an hour. The snow was silky smooth and perfectly groomed, and the woods were so beautiful and peaceful. But even with the beauty and perfect snow, I couldn't stop my sadness because it might be one of the last times that I will ever be able to ski at Windblown.
I spoke with Al and Irene, and they sounded very convinced that this will be the last season for them. Irene was hopeful that someone would buy the place and continue on, but Al seemed less optimistic. I hadn't realized it but Al has been working that land for over 40 years (he bought it with his grandfather's help when he was still very young).
I've been going to Windblown for about 10 years. I learned to ski and love winter at Windblown. My children learned to ski at Windblown. I got to watch Al and Irene's two sons grow from children to young men. Al taught me a lot about snow and skis and wax and klister. His son Andy used to make maple syrup right in front of the ski lodge and taught me about the whole process. I learned how to ski from watching their kids and trying to imitate them.
Every time I stopped to rest and listen to the trees talk and the ice crack and hear the streams gurgle under the snow pack, I was really overcome by how much I will miss this magical place if it does close - I hope it never does.
I spoke with Al and Irene, and they sounded very convinced that this will be the last season for them. Irene was hopeful that someone would buy the place and continue on, but Al seemed less optimistic. I hadn't realized it but Al has been working that land for over 40 years (he bought it with his grandfather's help when he was still very young).
I've been going to Windblown for about 10 years. I learned to ski and love winter at Windblown. My children learned to ski at Windblown. I got to watch Al and Irene's two sons grow from children to young men. Al taught me a lot about snow and skis and wax and klister. His son Andy used to make maple syrup right in front of the ski lodge and taught me about the whole process. I learned how to ski from watching their kids and trying to imitate them.
Every time I stopped to rest and listen to the trees talk and the ice crack and hear the streams gurgle under the snow pack, I was really overcome by how much I will miss this magical place if it does close - I hope it never does.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
noise night at the middle east
How do you do a sound check for a noise concert? Turns all the knobs ALLTHEWAYUP !!!!
1st: Perispirit: started like soundtrack for the sci-fi movie Solaris - the original Russian version - slow... waiting for ... Monsters? Insanity? Visions? Then deeper & louder, deeper & louder - more bass than I had ever heard before. Until the floor started vibrating, then my mouth opened for more sound. Then my clothes started vibrating - like they would fly off my body. And then it got really loud and deep. Deeper than possible. More rumble than being inside a Saturn rocket engine at liftoff. More rumble than an 11.5 on the San Andreas. And then - explosion - and it was over.
2nd: Ashley Paul: alto sax higher and higher. Squeak on top of squeak. More squeak than the Fringe on a night when I can't follow them. "I'm getting earplugs. Do you want a pair?" oh yeah. People starting streaming out of the room... But others were coming in and moving closer to the stage. Clearly something was happening here and I don't know what it was, do I, Mr Jones? But what does it mean when I see that the guy at the sound board has earplugs in??? Then it ended and people screamed and shouted for more!!??
3rd: Sickness: just static. Frankenstein's monster playing with all the electrodes in the lab while the good doctor had stepped out of the room to take a leak.
4th: Thurston Moore and Mats Gustaffson: wow! amazing! metal files scraping the guitar pickups. broken drum sticks used to pry and lift the strings off the fretboard and then smack them with his fist! baritone saxophone moaning then squealing then swinging back and forth in front of the mike then banging against his knee instead of a mute. outrageous and fantastic !!!
Thank you DT !!!
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