Leap In The Dark

Can anyone tell me why we celebrate people's deaths? How many times do we see special re-issues and recordings of material in honour of some musician's death day, or because it's been X number of years since they've croaked? Wouldn't it make more sense to celebrate their birthday?

When we remember someone, or honour them in some way, it's usually to commemorate what they accomplished while they were alive. The majority of us don't get much accomplished once we've shoved underground. I know there are those occasions when we want to honour how the person died; a fire fighter who refused to give up on people trapped inside a burning building ends up sharing their fate for example.

But even that is still about how that person lived their life, examples of their strength of character, their heroism, or their compassion. Nothing they are going to be making use of after they are dead in other words. It's one thing at a person's funeral to itemize his or her good points to help us remember them, but after that, maybe we should celebrate what their being born meant to the world and the impact they had on their field of endeavour.

Maybe it doesn't sound like much of a difference, whether we do that sort of thing on the anniversary of a person's birth or death, either way it's still a summation of their accomplishments. But, to me honouring someone's life through their death instead of their birth just seems a little backward.

The reason I bring the subject up is that the last few months have seen quite a few re-releases, special packages, and DVDs of the late, great, Jazz saxophonist John Coltrane being released. It doesn't take much to realize that since he died in 1967, 2007 marks the 40th anniversary of his death and that it appears anybody who ever had a piece of him is lining up to cash in. Ironically since he was forty years old when he died, this year also marks the 80th anniversary of his birth – something far more worthy to celebrate and commemorate in my opinion. After all if he hadn't have been born, we wouldn't have very much to celebrate at all, now would we?

The art of John Coltrane was his ability to find the core of a piece of music and extrapolate improvisations around that theme that were beautiful flights of fancy that managed to stay rooted in the original song. "I keep looking into certain sounds, certain scales, not that I'm sure of what I'm looking for, except it will be something that hasn't been played before. I don't know what it is. I know I'll have that feeling when I get it." So what sounded like finished work to us was always him continuing to explore and find new depths to delve into or heights to scale.

The ability to work with the sort of passion and skill required to sustain that type of free form, inquisitive playing, only comes about after years of disciplined playing with other musicians of like mind. The Jazz scene of the 1950's was ideal for a player of Coltrane's skill and desire as many of the best players moved away from the big bands of the forties into smaller combos so they could work out what that insane man Charlie Parker had come up with when he started be-bop.

It's from recordings that Coltrane made during this period on the Prestige Label in sessions from 1956 –58 that material has been gleaned for a new five disc box set called Interplay by Concord Music. Looking at the other musicians represented on the discs it represents a "Who's Who" of American Jazz at the time. Zoot Zims, Kenny Burrell, Paul Chambers, and Mal Waldron, are only a few of the greats who Coltrane recorded with for the Prestige label in the famous studios in Hackensack New Jersey of Rudy Van Gelder. (Although all this material was recorded during the 56-58 time period, some of it wasn't released on album for the first time until Coltrane's 1965 record Dakar )

I have to admit that listening to five discs of Jazz music is a rather overwhelming experience and I seriously doubt my abilities to have absorbed even a fraction of what was being performed. However, even in these early recordings Coltrane is so distinct sounding that you can pick him out of the crowd as if his name were announced before each of his solos.

Even when the tracks are taken from an original recording called Tenor Conclave featuring three other tenor players the fullness of the Coltrane sound can't be missed. His style of play has been referred to as "sheets of sound" as in the way sheets of rain will wash over a field or a road during a particularly heavy shower. I think, only listening to him play solos of extended runs with more notes then one could think humanly possible for one man to produce, as he searches for that sound he'll know is the right one when he plays it, will allow you to understand how "sheets of sound" can be produced.

It may sound like a cop out to say that describing the music that Coltrane creates is an exercise in futility. It comes down to stringing together a series of words that may or may not have meaning for the person reading. There are those who know enough about music to talk about chromatics and other technical terms concerning the way in which Coltrane's solos and sound are built, but in the end they are still just words that can not replicate the experience of sitting down and listening to the music.

With five CDs of music drawn from seven recording sessions Interplay is a wonderful overview of a key development period in the career of John Coltrane. Even within the limited time-period covered by these recordings, it is possible to hear Coletrane's range of expression develop and expand. Listening to these discs, I caught myself wondering if he knew his time was limited among us, as it seemed like there was something driving him beyond what the simple desire to perform well could explain.

Accompanying the music in this collection is a one of the best booklets I've ever read of its kind. Not only does it contain details and impressions about the music being played, but they do the listener the courtesy of breaking down the solos on each song by performer, so you can identify who is playing when. All in all Interplay is an amazing compilation of music from the years just prior to John Coltrane putting together his own band and taking flight.

I'm going to leave the last words to Jimmy Giuffre: "...it was as if he was standing naked on stage, the music coming directly from the man, not the horn."

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:07 AM | Permalink

I don't make any secret of my politics and the label most people would a fix to me would be left of (insert name of person furthest to the left you can think of) but you would probably be wrong. You see I usually end up despising the folk on the left almost as much as I do those on the right; if it weren't for that I tend to less violently disagree with the left than the right it would be a draw.

My problem with all political beings is the fact that they are political beings and forget that the majority of us aren't. Most of us are just trying to get by in a world that is getting increasingly fucked up with each passing day. The problems of the world are not going to be solved because one person's philosophy is more suited than another's to the circumstances we find ourselves in as a species. Political pundits on either side of the pendulum are those who are too stupid to have understood the lessons two thousand years of history have taught about political ideology's total irrelevancy to living.

Where I tend to agree with the left is the fact that they don't like the actions of the right. They don't agree with the invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan, neither do I. The problem is that they suffer from the same problem as the right in thinking that they know what's best for other people, their ideas and solutions are the only ones that are viable and everything else should be disregarded as heretical and dangerous.

This has been one of the main reasons that I've avoided reading the majority of what has been written over the last five years in terms of writings against the policies of the Team Bush & Blair. I already know whom to blame for what's going on thank you very much, so who needs to hear it repeatedly. It's just as tedious as having to listen to Bush, Blair, and company reciting their mantras of blame and self-righteous horseshit.

So far the only books I've read about the occupation that have made any sense are the novel The Sirens Of Baghdad by Yasmina Khadra and a collection of essays, poems, and other writings published by Perceval Press called Twilight Of Empire: Responses To Occupation. What separated these two works from others was they were more concerned with talking about the situation on the ground then talking about whom to blame, who benefited, or a world wide capitalist/leftist-Muslim conspiracy.
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When I decided to give War With No End , published by Verso Books and distributed by Penguin Canada, a try it was in the hopes that because it followed a similar format as Twilight Of Empire it would be as diverse a presentation. A variety of authors from different professional backgrounds; academic, artistic, and journalism, have the potential for making an anthology less political and more personal in content.

It's hard to believe now, but there was a time when Israel was the darling of the left. What with her collective farms and socialist governments she was one of the few left leaning countries that weren't under Soviet influence in the fifties and sixties. Now of course all the problems of the Middle East stem from Israel, her ambitions, and her ties to the United States.

I don't have much love the Likud party or the path of self destruction that the past few governments seem to have embarked on with their intransigence on issues, but that doesn't make the country evil anymore then George Bush makes America a nation of dangerous religious fanatics. Maybe I'm a little sensitive about the issue because I'm a Jew, but I'm sorely tempted to grab the next asshole that blames all the world's problems on Israel, paint a Swastika on his chest and put a white hood over his head and dump him on the South Side of Chicago.

It must be some sort of reflex action on certain people's part, they're writing along making an intelligent argument in their case about Iraq, when all of a sudden its Israel's fault. Look, I know Israel has been pretty stupid about settlers and the whole issue of Palestine, but they weren't the ones who invaded their neighbours with the express purpose of driving the "Jews into the sea" on a regular basis for a couple of decades.

That's bound to make you a little paranoid after a while and a little mistrustful. Everyone is always quick to say that they know there are members of the Israeli population who don't support the government's policy, but they don't seem to mention what would happen to people in Syria who openly defy their government about policy? Do you think there would be Peace Now demonstrations in Damascus when Syria was fighting Israel as there have been when Israel is at war?

So I was disappointed to find a couple of otherwise intelligent essays by Arundhati Roy and Ahdaf Soueif descending into that usual territory. Soueif's essay especially, as it had started out as an intelligent and insightful look at Arab identity, the disintegration of Egyptian culture, and the gradual intellectual impoverishing of the nation due to the many years of one party/military rule.

On the other hand the essay by Haifa Zangana about the role of song and poetry in the life of Iraq, and more specifically in it's vocalization of protest against the occupation of Iraq by the Americans and its allies gives a clearer picture of the lengths that the administration will go to maintain control. Even more telling are his descriptions of the desperate to the point of being ridiculous if they weren't so heavy handed and disgusting, actions of the occupying administration to shut down the music industry. They've yet to make singing illegal but have done everything short of that to try and make sure no one hears any of the protest songs.

It started with shutting down local media outlets, escalated into raiding recording studios, and finally has resulted in attacks on any store suspected of selling CDs, music DVDs, and videos. Sometimes it's the coalition troops involved in raiding record stores, but more often then not, they get mercenaries to do the job and make the owner disappear without a trace.

The other two contributions that helped to elevate this from being merely another series of political knee jerks on somebody's behalf were Joe Sacco's mini graphic novel "Down! Up!", and the contribution from the group September 11th Families For Peaceful Tomorrows. Sacco's piece is a great piece of black humour on the efforts of two Marine "lifer" sergeants attempts to turn uneducated, poor, middle aged Iraqis into the fighting force Bush has declared must be in place before American troops can withdraw. It's a brilliant example of satire, black humour, and sobering pathos that gives us some idea of the futility of creating local security forces.

There is nothing remotely funny about the contribution from one of the many people who lost a child on September 11th whose motto "Not In Our Names" does more to undermine the moral high ground that Bush and company have tried to seize through invoking those deaths then any speech or simplistic rhetoric could even dream of.. This piece makes the rest of the book meaningless, and elevates it beyond anything political rhetoric could ever hope to achieve.

At one point near the end of her contribution she talks of how her son Stephen, who died on September 11th, sat at a conference table with a group of other people sharing a phone so they could leave messages of love to those who they knew they would be leaving behind. There was no talk of vengeance or hatred – just love. She goes on to say that is the legacy she works to keep alive - the legacy of love.

She talks of how there are times when the temptation to despair is overwhelming, but that she is given hope by those people who won't let go of the belief that the world can be a beautiful place for all it's peoples. I wonder if she realizes what a beacon of hope she is with her ability to hold on to love after what has happened to her? Does she know what a high standard she is setting for the rest of us to live up to?

Could I talk like her if a loved one had been taken from me by violence? I'd like to think so but I don't know, and quite frankly don't want to find out anytime soon. If more of North America thought like her and less like George Bush I don't think we'd have quite the number of problems we have in the world right now.

War With No End is a collection of essays ostensibly about the War On Terror, but it seems to bounce all over the place and not keep to its central focus save for a couple of the essays. As is typical of the majority of anti-war, leftist writing these days too much of it is filled with as much anger and hatred as the rhetoric of those they claim to oppose.

Thankfully there are still a few voices out there who are able to lift themselves out of that quagmire and offer a perspective that doesn't depend on ideology or an ism for its survival – now that's a real policy alternative.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 01:17 AM | Permalink

When you witness a sudden change in the attitudes of a majority of people in your community it raises a number of questions. The first question you are bound to ask is how could so many people change their minds so fast. Perhaps what you should be asking yourself though is not why or how the change happened, but how much of a change was it really. What might have looked on the surface to be the truth about people's beliefs had no real depth and was as easily dispersed as topsoil in a dust bowl.

Canada has developed a reputation as being a tolerant country over the years and seemingly has some of the most liberal attitudes on issues of race, sexual identity, and gender discrimination. Ever since the implementation of the Canada's Charter of Rights and Freedoms in 1980 any legislation or activity that would allow for the discrimination of anyone based on race, gender, religion, creed, or sexual preferences have been successfully challenged and overturned.

When this has been combined with Canada's willingness to support progressive legislation in the health care field like supplying patients with medical marijuana and our former reputation as Nobel Prize for Peace winner because of peacekeeping efforts it certainly makes us appear to a kind and compassionate country. But there's a difference between what can be legislated and what are the genuine feelings of a people.

As long as people aren't confronted with situations that stretch there tolerances, they usually are able to live up to the laws of the land. Unfortunately, it looks like Canada's famous tolerance was only skin deep and at the first sign of trouble has up and vanished. Currently it's the ugly smell of racism mixed with xenophobia that's wafting around the halls of power and the streets of cities, towns, and villages.

It started innocently enough with Elections Canada, the government agency responsible for administering elections, declaring that Muslim women wouldn't have to remove their veil in order to vote, in spite of their being a new law in place requiring picture identification in order to vote. Elections Canada was willing to make an exception to this law in order to respect the traditions of devout Muslims if they did not feel comfortable revealing their faces in public.

In response Prime Minister Steven Harper came out and said he "profoundly disagreed with this decision" and that he hoped Elections Canada would change their mind. It was Harper's government that passed the new legislation, demanding visual identification of voters, so it's not surprising he'd object to the decision.

While in of itself this seems more like an etiquette decision, how to accommodate someone's religious beliefs in a situation where they come into conflict with the law, it should be asked why wasn't this issue considered when the legislation was being created. Secondly, in the past when this type of conflict has arisen, governments have acted with a little more flexibility then Stephen Harper is it this situation.

When the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) first started taking Sikhs on as officers, it was decided that they could wear their turbans instead of the regular headgear, as it would not interfere with their ability to do their job. On the other hand Sikhs who took construction jobs would have to wear a hard had. Instead of showing any sensitivity to the needs of another's religious belief, and trying to find a compromise like was achieved in the case of Sikhs, it can only be all or nothing for Mr. Harper.

Of course as is the case with most politics, there is a subtext that might help explain his stance and the lack of anything being said by the opposition in answer to his statement. It has to do with the current political situation in Quebec, where they are experiencing a sharp increase in xenophobia. When the small town of Herouxville Quebec passed bylaws prohibiting the wearing of the bukra, and stoning as forms of punishment, just in case they ever had to deal with hoards of Muslim immigrants, they were looked upon as a group of intolerable red neck bigots.

But, in the last provincial election, the party who ran on a nationalistic/protect us from the immigrants/ platform ended up in opposition in a minority government situation. Although the Premier spoke out against xenophobia he formed a commission of inquiry to go from community to community to let these bigots have their say in public. So now, all levels of government feel like they have to try and appease these folks and reassure them that if the Muslims invade Quebec disguised as immigrants looking for a better life, they won't be given any special treatment.

Did I mention that there were three seats being contested in by-elections in Quebec right about now as well? Do you think that may have anything to do with any of these signals being sent out to the ultra nationalists in Quebec?

While the whole issue of whether an Islamic women be asked to remove her veil for identification purposes before voting may seem trivial. (We never had to produce any identification at all to vote in Canada except proof that you were on the voters list and that makes me wonder about the validity of the new law requesting ID anyway) However, against the new background of fear mongering and xenophobia that is beginning to fester in Quebec and elsewhere it takes on the appearance of being a symptom of a growing intolerance to anybody who is different.

What kind of message do we send when even the slightest accommodation for another's religious practices is called wrong? Where has our tolerance gone for another person's differences, or did they even exist in the first place? Fear of something because you don't understand it is the behaviour of a coward, and intolerance is the coward's defence against fear. Are we a country of cowards?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:59 PM | Permalink

In 1980, my mother and I moved into an apartment in the neighbourhood she had spent a large part of her childhood. Forty-seven years earlier when she'd been brought home from the hospital five blocks south of where she now lived just north of Spadina and College in Toronto Ontario. In 1933, Cecile Street and it's environs, The Kensington Market area of Toronto, was still primarily Jewish, and home to a good many immigrant families who had fled Europe one if not two generations ago.

Although some families had already gained a good enough measure of success by this time for Jewish enclaves to be established in slightly more affluent areas of the city, Kensington Market was still home to a large percentage of the city's Jewish population. By this time, many families had children like my mother who represented a second generation born in Canada but life remained hard for them. It was the middle of the depression and work was scarce, especially for minority immigrants.

When I used to walk through the neighbourhood in the early eighties when we moved back you, could still see traces of the old community. A sign on an old building advertising a kosher butcher, or a house on a back street that was still an active synagogue, reminders of an earlier time when a village had moved over together and people had done their best to create a familiar atmosphere in a foreign environment.

In the years from my mother's birth leading up to September 1939 when the German's invaded Poland, a thin trickle of new immigrants arrived with whispers of a new pogrom, far worse then any the Tsars had conducted, being carried out by the Nazis. It is to Canada's and the United States' eternal shame that they refused to lift their quota's on how many Jews were allowed entry at that time in spite of having impartial reports confirming the round up of Jewish people in Germany and the confiscating of all their property.

Mayer Kershenblatt was one of the lucky ones who got out before the war started, and came to Canada from the village of Apt in Poland in 1934. When he had a family of his own he would regale them with tales of life in the Jewish community in the small city to the point that later in life his daughter, Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, encouraged him to try and bring the people and places to life through paintings.

It wasn't until one day when he was meeting some friends and realized that no matter what happened their conversation would turn to reliving their days in the concentration camps. It was as if no life existed before the war for any of them. In his introduction to,They Called Me Mayer July: Painted Memories Of A Jewish Childhood In Poland Before The Holocaust, Mayer recounts these conversations as being the motivation for finally surrendering to his daughter's wishes that he set brush to canvas in an attempt to preserve the memory of Jewish life before the war in Poland.

At seventy-three Mayer started to attend drawing and painting classes in order to create a visual record of the time. His method for a painting was simple he says, first he needed a subject, and then the subject had to have a story attached; either one he knew first hand, was told by fellow citizens of Apt, or that had been written down in the "Apt Chronicles" the memorial book of his town.

When people began to show significant interest in the paintings; an exhibition and offers to buy work surely count as interest, Mayer and Barbara began to piece together the stories of life in Apt he had been telling her since her childhood to work as complements to the paintings. They Called Me Mayer July: Painted Memories Of A Jewish Childhood In Poland Before The Holocaust, published by University Of California Press, is the end result of their joint efforts to ensure that the life of a vibrant community won't vanish from our memories like the smoke from a chimney dissipated in the wind.

The narrative and the paintings are all from the viewpoint of a child, but filtered through an adults understanding of how the world works. What could have easily turned into an exercise in sentimental nostalgia for something that never existed, is instead a steadfastly honest depiction filled with the excitement and wonder that a child bears for the world.

On the one hand, we experience the author's joy at adventuring out into the millpond in a small skiff with his friends and pretending to be pirates, much as children the world over create imaginary worlds for themselves. However, we also read of the tenements where families sleep five to a bed while sharing a room with two or three other families. This is no simplistic singing of praises to the good old days that suggests we would all be better off if we only lived like they did back then.

Things that we take for granted now, such as a ready and easy supply of water, aren't available to the people of Apt. Either they hire a porter to carry the water to them as required or they make the trip to one of the town's two wells. Mayer describes in detail all of those who congregate at the water, from the town prostitute, the soldiers from the local barracks, and of course the housewives who would also stay to exchange the latest gossip.

At first glance, the illustrations appear to be simplistic; work that any grade school student might have done with his or her mother's fridge door the intended gallery. But on closer inspection you realize you are looking at work of a sophistication that belies it's appearance. The detail that is included in each of the works is astounding, from the wall murals that decorate the interior of the synagogue to the elaborate ritual of the Black Marriage staged in the Jewish cemetery.

Of my mother's family it was her father's Romanian people whose stories I was most familiar with. Her mother's Polish family was always something of a mystery. I never heard stories of what their life was like for them back in Poland in spite of the fact that all my grandmother's brothers and sisters were born there. But after reading, and experiencing They Called Me Mayer July: Painted Memories Of A Jewish Childhood In Poland Before The Holocaust I can image in my head the streets they may have walked down before they came to Canada.

In the past century there have been attempts to erase various peoples from the annals of world history. From the Armenians and Kurds in the Middle East, indigenous peoples throughout the world, to the Holocaust. As a result, we run the risk of losing the stories of these people's lives in specific places and times. Each people are a unique strand in the tapestry that make up who so many of us are today that to allow those stories to vanish would be to throw away a piece of our selves.

Mayer Kirshenblatt and Barbara Kirshenblatt –Gmblet have given the world the precious gift of bringing the town of Apt back to life. Leafing through the pages of They Called Me Mayer July you can almost hear the sound of the Klezmar band as they perform in accompaniment to the Purim Play "A Krakow Wedding". As Mayer is peeking through a window in his painting of this scene to try and catch a glimpse of the performance, we are peeking through the window of his eyes catching glimpses of what life was like in Poland for Jews before it was ended so horifically.

No on can bring the past back to life, or reverse the course of time and history, but we can strive to ensure that people are not forgotten and that their memories are cherished. As long as one copy of They Called Me Mayer July exists the people of Apt Poland will live on indefinitely. Now that's a blessing.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:01 PM | Permalink

When young it's hard not to be blinded by the allure of being a professional entertainer or artist. Finding out that someone made their living by playing music for a living, especially popular music, automatically gave them an elevated status in a young person's eyes. At that age, professional musician meant the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Even the slightly less glamorous form of Bob Dylan in the late sixties and early seventies implied wealth and stardom.

The idea that there were men and women who performed daily for little money and who were lucky to make enough money from their gigs and record sales each year to support themselves, let alone a family, just didn't occur to me. Pop musicians lived in different strata then the rest of us after all; at least that's what we told. They didn't really work, wore all sorts of fancy clothes, drove expensive cars, and were worshipped by adoring fans.

Even having somebody in the family who was involved in an only moderately successful band (My common-in-law uncle played electric violin for Lighthouse in their first incarnation) did nothing to change that perception. The one time I had any exposure to the world of rock music as a kid was my mother dragging me along with her as she searched for my aunt backstage at an open air, free show that Lighthouse was doing in Toronto Ontario's Nathan Phillip's square in front of the City Hall buildings.

Instead of seeing it for what it was, unglamorous and exhausting work, all I noticed were the huge crowds of people overflowing the square up onto the ramp leading up to the 2nd floor entrance of the City Hall. There was that air of expectation and excitement that I have since come to identify with concerts, that also fed the myth of the pop star lifestyle that I had bought into.

Illusions don't hold up to well in the face of prolonged exposure to reality, and as soon I started working in the arts, if not before. My own life in theatre was never particularly glamorous, and neither were the lives of the musicians I met over the course of those ten years. Names that I had been familiar with from the Toronto music scene for years I discovered lived in rooms in the hotels they played in and barely eked out an existence.

Knowing all this it still comes as something of a shock when you hear about the difficulties that people you consider well known in their field and how they didn't fare much better or even worse. A perfect example of this is the story of Blues great Son Seals as recounted in the newly released DVD on the Vizztone label A Journey Through The Blues: The Son Seals Story.

Producer and co-director Peter Carlson of Sagebrush Productions says in his liner notes for the DVD that "...despite a life that only bordered on success, Son Seals never failed to stay committed to the music that drove him". In so many ways that would sum up the legacy of the vast majority of Blues men and women who came out of the South to join the legion of players up in Chicago. None of them ever became rich doing what they were doing, but the compensation was they were doing what they were supposed to be doing

Journey Through The Blues is divided into two parts; The documentary, which includes interviews with Koko Taylor, Dr. John, and of course Son Seals himself, is thirty minutes long. There is also around an hour of concert footage culled from three concerts, Rooster Blues, House of Blues, and The Chicago Blues Festival. There are also outtakes from over a dozen songs in the interview section of the film that act as little tastes of what is to come in the concert and to emphasise some of the more important aspect of his personal and professional life.

For instance, we learn about when one of his wives tried to kill him and managed to shoot him in the face. The bullet remained permanently lodged in his head just below his ear. The biggest worry after an injury like that, after finding out you're going to survive, is that you may have lost your voice forever. But Son came back from that and his voice was just as good as it ever was.

But the most important thing you learn about Son Seals from this documentary is how much he loved doing what he was doing. Koko Taylor describes the life on the road that they had as going from one dive to another in your car. You play for three or four hours a night and then you have to load all your equipment back up into your car again and then drive until you found someplace you could spend the night that wouldn't charge you all that you had earned from the gig.

"We didn't do it for the money, we did it because we had no other choice," is how Koko Taylor put it. These folk loved what they did to the extent that they sacrificed their lives and their health for their music. There's no way your going to have anything resembling a family life if you're on the road as much as these people were in those days.

Aside from being a dedicated Blues man, we also learn from that Son's style of guitar playing and his voice were unique to him. He was self-taught primarily although his father was the one to introduce him to music. Funnily enough, he was called Son because of his close relation to his father in spite of being the youngest of thirteen children.

His voice is what some refer to as dark and smoky, as there is a certain quality to it that makes every subject serious somehow. But he also gave off a certain energy that felt like a burst of sunshine able to wipe away the clouds brought on by what ever topic he was singing about.

While the documentary aspect of the film was interesting and informative, the concerts were far from satisfying. On the first song of the first one, Rooster Blues, you can barely make out Son's vocals and the same went for the House of Blues gig where the sound was just muddy. These were somewhat redeemed by the quality of the recording at the Chicago Blues Festival, which was pristine. Unfortunately, it was also near the end of his life and career, and his indomitable will had taken quite a beating because of the diabetes that had taken his leg.

According to everyone that knew Son, he died because he probably felt like he could no longer go on stage and perform. At one point in an interview he as much says that, when he says that once this is no longer any fun for me, you won't see me.

A Journey Through The Blues: The Son Seals Story attempts to tell the story of Son Seals in words and music. While the words are quite effective, the concert footage does not do him justice. Part of that stems from the fact that the sound on the DVD is only 2-channel stereo, which doesn't allow for clean presentation. Watch the documentary part of the movie to learn about the man, but go out and buy one of his re-mastered CDs to learn about the music.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:17 AM | Permalink

I have to admit that anytime I see the words Romanian and gypsy together I'm irresistibly attracted. Part of that stems from being a descendant of the other outcasts of Romanian society, Jews, and the other part is that the music taps into some wellspring of untapped emotion inside of me.

Okay maybe this is the one place that sentimental romanticism rules for me, as I hold on to some fake image of fierce independence and the indomitable will to survive that has been perpetuated about gypsies by so many millions of bad movies and stereotypes. But how can anyone listen to that music and not feel stirred. The violin plays an extended note overtop a raspy voice that hoarsely proclaims a string of passionate words, while underneath the cimbalom is playing patterns of notes that only slightly falls short of the vocals for intensity.

An almost infinitesimal pause is followed by an explosion of sound as the strange mixture of brass, woodwind, strings, and percussion takes flight. While the songs themselves could be about anything, within each one you can hear the echoes of the gypsies long migration that started in Northern India and as far west as Ireland. With the opening of the world and the always-present hostility of Europe towards gypsies and everyday reality they crossed the ocean in their quest for peace.

I've never heard why the original migration from India began, after all elements of the tribe continue to live there following the ways of their ancestors. But, leave they did and as they travelled they left behind communities in every territory they crossed through. If possible, these communities were even more isolationist then the Jewish ones existing alongside of them. Like the Jews, they discovered that refusing to mix with society was responsible for the generations of myths concerning their behaviour, as humankind's fear of the unknown is always fertile breeding ground for hatred and rumour.

In spite of the animosity that existed towards them in Eastern and Western Europe, and the attempts of Hitler's Nazi party to exterminate them as part of their campaign for racial purity, their communities continued to survive and make glorious music. Even under the iron rule of Nicolae Ceausescu, party secretary of the Communist Party and leader, the music flourished internationally and at home.

One of the leading lights of gypsy music in Romania at this time was cimbalom, or ţambal, player Toni Iordache. He was born in 1942 just outside Bucharest and at the age of four had already begun learning to play the instrument of his choice. A few years later his family moved into Bucharest where his neighbours numbered some of the biggest names of gypsy music in post World War Two Europe.

To most of us, these names probably mean nothing at all. Thankfully Asphalt Tango Records in Germany has been given permission to dig into the archives of Romanian state radio and has unearthed tapes of many of these greats and been releasing these recordings under the name Sounds From A Bygone Age. Volume #4 gathers close to an hour of old recordings of Toni Iordache playing with a wide variety of his contemporaries and gives us ample opportunity to hear his incredible versatility.

The most simplistic way to describe a cimbalom is to think of a grand piano with its lid taken off and cut down in size to a large almost perfect square. Then picture this being played by striking the various strings with cloth headed mallets. When struck it sounds like a cross between a piano and a tightly strung stringed instrument being played by hitting the strings with your finger instead of plucking them.

At it's most basic it can be used as a tuneful percussion instrument, hammering out a melody at the same time as it maintains the beat. However, in the hands of an expert like Iordache it turns into something far more sophisticated; it can become the lead instrument, akin to a piano or violin. In that role, it can lend support to a vocalist, be the central force in an ensemble, or be used for solo performances.
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On Sounds From A Bygone Age: Volume 4 we hear Toni performing in all those capacities. The first thing you notice about him is his speed; supposedly, he was able to play at an amazing speed of twenty-five beats per second without ever miss-hitting a single note. The second thing that stands out about his playing is his amazing ability for nuance and subtlety.

It's one thing to be able to play with blazing speed, and that's no minor thing, but it's another thing all together to be able to play so well that you are credited with changing the way the instrument is played. On some of the more delicate pieces on the CD, his playing never overstates or overwhelms, as he softly coaxes sound from the gently massaged strings of his cimbalom. His dexterity and control are such that it feels like he could convince the strings to cry with joy one second and sing laments the next.

Since Iordache was in such demand as a player during his life time the fourteen tracks on this CD feature some of the best and brightest of the Romanian gypsy music community. This is especially true of the vocalists who make appearances on the CD. Romica Puceannu is the most often featured on the disk and his duets with the cimbalom are things of beauty and passion.

Toni Iordache died in 1988, from complications due to diabetes. Two hours after having his leg amputated in surgery he died in the recovery room. His health hadn't been helped by having to spend a year in jail for possession of foreign currency. When he was released from prison, it was obvious that he would not have much time before he was lost to the world.

In preparation for that eventuality he taught his son and his grandson his arrangements and his techniques. Today if you were to go to Bucharest, you could find his son and grandson playing the music of their elder and keeping the heritage of Toni Iordache alive.

Toni Iordache played gypsy music that resonated with the passion and intensity that we identify as the hallmarks of the genre. We may all have our own reasons for appreciating gypsy music, but there can be no disagreement when it comes to the superlative playing of Mr. Iordache.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:05 AM | Permalink

I've always found the habit of referring to a genre of music as "fusion" sort of redundant. I mean, by now almost every form of music we listen to or perform is going to be the result of the fusion of earlier styles of music. Even music that we tend to think of as "original" or "roots" like Blues and old time Country were the result of fusion.

Some of the results of fusion haven't been the greatest, disco is pretty good example, as was some of the pabulum "sensitive" folk rock that came out in the seventies. Most times when fusion got bland, was when the music started to be mass produced and creative control was wrested away from the bands who had built the original connection.

In the mid to late sixties it wasn't just North Americans who were exploring this combining of musical style to create some thing new. All over the world people were experimenting with how they could use the new electric instruments in the music they were playing. From Laos in South East Asia to the mountains of Peru in South America people who only a generation ago hadn't even lived with electricity were discovering what could be done with amplified instruments.

One of the strangest blends of music that I've ever heard, but also one of the most infectious and happy, came out of Peru in the mid 1960s. Chicha Music, was a mixture of the indigenous music of Peru, Colombia's cumbia rhythms, surf rock wah wah pedal guitar, and rock and roll electric organ. "Chicha" is the name of a fermented corn drink that dates back to pre-Columbian times and has long associations with the indigenous peoples of Peru.

Like other areas of the world with oil deposits Peru experienced a boom in the sixties leading to the displacement and migration of its rural population into the cities. In the urban areas, they were exposed to Western Pop music for the first time and it was in the poor neighbourhoods they occupied that Chicha originated. With Peru's rich tradition of guitar based music it was only natural that the music was guitar centred, making the distinctive sound of the Southern California beach a major element.

In spite of the fact that the music had a wonderful sound and was eminently danceable, it somehow never gained widespread popularity in this it's initial stage of development. Part of the problem was due to class and probably race, as the musicians in the original bands were not only poor workers, a great many of them were indigenous as well. But, thanks to the release of The Roots O Chicha: Psychedelic Cumbias From Peru on Barbes Records from Brooklyn New York that might begin to change.

Oliver Conan, the owner of Barbes Records, took a trip to Peru where he went to considerable time and effort to unearth original recordings by six bands from the heyday of the period; Lose Miros, Juaneco y Su Combo, Los Hijos del Sol, Les Destellos, Los Diablos Rojos, and Eusebio y Su Banjo. He was so impressed by the music that he heard that he has not only put together this album, he has created a tribute band to try and generate enough interest in the bands to assist the survivors in comeback attempts
(The completely indigenous band Juaneco y Su Combe saw most of it's member killed in a plane crash in 1976)

I have to admit the when I first began to listen to the tunes it was hard not to giggle, some of it sounded so silly. The juxtaposition of electric organ with the melodic vocals and scratch rhythms of Latin American music was very strange on "Linda Nena" by Juanec y Su Combo. Then there was the Los Destelios' song "A Patricia". With it's two lead guitars, one doing surf music jangles and the second played through a wah-wah pedal, overtop a very Latin sounding percussion sound, I was struggling to rationalize a point to the music.

But gradually the music began to work a kind of magic on me, and I gave up trying to think about and just began to enjoy what I was listening to. So by the time Juaneco y Su Combo was playing their second track of the disc "Ya se ha muerto mi Abuelo" I was able to enjoy the music for what it was – a celebration of life and music

I have no idea how old some of these recordings are, but they were all recorded between 1968 and 1978. Although some of them have that slightly tinny feel of having had their original sound stretched through the re-mastering, the music is just as vibrant and exciting as it must have been hearing it in the clubs or the dance halls of Lima and other cities in and around Peru.

While the band Los Mirlos coined the phrase Poder Verde – Green Power – as an indigenous equivalent to Black Power in the United States, the music was not overtly political. If anything, their existence as bands was their strongest political statement not the contents of their lyrics. Although Juaneco y Su Combo dressed in traditional clothing and occasionally wrote lyrics about the plight of rural people transplanted into the city, the focus was still more on producing music that people would want to get up and dance to.

Although it may take a bit for you ears to get used to what you are listening to, and like me, you may be inclined to laugh on first hearing Chicha music, prolonged exposure is not only habit forming but also respect inducing. These are highly skilled musicians who created a very distinctive sound with the intent of getting people up off their feet and dancing.

I can't see even death standing in your way if you really wanted to dance to Chicha music. Of course if your not dead you can just pick up a copy of The Roots Of Chicha: Psychedelic Cumbias From Peru and get a few hundred friends together for a dance. Enjoy.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:05 PM | Permalink

Environmentalists use the word footprint to describe the impact each of has on the planet. Ideally, according to them, the smaller the footprint we leave behind us the better as it means we have used up the least possible resources and left behind the least amount of non-biodegradable trash possible.

But is living without leaving any record of your having been here really how you want to live your whole life? It's one thing not to scar the environment with your presence but it's another thing all together to have so little impact as to not even metaphorically disturb the dust of the world with your passage. To sit by idly as people suffer from the indignities of war, poverty, famine, and disease is as much a crime as if it was your hand that caused their suffering in the first place.

In North America, we surrendered our precious individual rights and freedoms with barely a whisper of protest, yet we still insist on the sanctity of the individual over the whole. But without the former the latter is just a type of selfishness that prevents us from seeing beyond our own personal fulfillment and recognizing the needs of others.

Of course selfishness is not unique to North America and people everywhere need constant reminders to look beyond the tip of their nose when looking out at the world. On his latest release on the Heads Up label, Tsimba Itsoka (translated as "No Foot No Footprint") Oliver Mtukudzi has written a series of songs that talk about that issue and the various forms it can take.

Oliver Mtukudzi is a member of the Shona language group of tribes living within the borders of what is now Zimbabawe. Unlike her neighbour to the south, South Africa, who achieved majority rule primarily through international pressure and surrender to the inevitable by the government, Zimbabawe's path to independence came through revolution. Her current President, Robert Mugabe, was also one of the leaders of the rebel forces that forced the abdication of Ian Smith and the last minority white rule government in what was than Rhodesia.

So when he speaks of change through participation in order to make things happen he know what he's talking about. But what I find very interesting about this disc is that instead of talking about any of specific issues that face both his own country and all of Africa, he sings about people's personal actions and attitudes; the stuff that makes up the composition of their footprint.

Take for example the opening track of the disc "Ungade' We?" in which he upbraids people who deceive youngsters for personal gain. He asks them to think about their actions from the other side of the coin, and asks how they would feel if it were their children being victimized.

As he proceeds through the songs on the disc, he dispenses advice couched in the gentle tones of a father speaking with an errant child. "Don't waste your time on negative emotions" he admonishes on "Kauipedza" ("Wasting") or on "Kuroposdza" ("One who talks too much") that if you just talk without bothering to make space for someone else to speak you will never be able to have a conversation.

But it's not just advice he gives out, he also calls people on their behaviour, especially in the song "Mihinduro" (Reply") addressed to all those people who give answers when there were no questions asked because of the guilt they feel. "You're explaining yourself when no one has asked you to. You're trying to cover your guilty footprints".

On, "Kumirira Nekumirira" ("Waiting and Waiting") he admonishes those who would allow adverse conditions to control them instead of taking some initiative to exert some effort to affect their circumstances "We can't wait for miracles to happen...if our feet are not moving, then there's no footprint for people to follow". If we can't show people how to be self reliant, he wants to know, whom are they going to learn it from?

Musically Mtukudzi's music is on the mellower end of African pop music spectrum with saxophone and keyboards adding lushness to sparse and muted guitar work. Everything about the disc breathes gentle persuasion, from Mtukudzi's rough hewn but calm voice that rises up through the music, to the vocal harmonies and percussion added by backing vocalists Mary Bell and Namatai Mubariki as emphasis.

Instead of the high energy beat of the Nigerian sound or the sharper rhythms of their Zulu neighbours to the South, the music of Oliver Mtukudzi's band seems more reminiscent of the wind blowing through the high grass of the savannah. There is a continuous flow of sound that has been gathered at the beginning of the disc that is allowed to move through all the tracks, making occasional adjustments in tone and speed as per the requirements of each song's message.

Tsimba Itsoka, by Oliver Mtukudzi, like the environmentalists, is concerned about the size and nature of the footprints we leave behind. But instead of being concerned with the size of our traces left behind, Mtukudzi is interested in having us explore the nature of the footprints that mark our passage through life for the example they leave for those following in our wake.

Instead of lecturing us on child poverty, disease, and the usual litany of desperation we hear about life in Africa, he focuses on the work we need to do as individuals that would enable us to work with those around us to improve conditions for us all. Sometimes he says it's important to leave a good strong map of footprints that can be followed. At least that way, we'll know that we've set people on the right track.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 11:41 PM | Permalink

When I fit into the Young Adult demographic, which I assume to be from late pre-teen to mid to late teens, I doubt if I ever read anything that was considered written for that age group. The closest I came would have been the obligatory books that were foisted on me in High School; Salinger's Catcher In The Rye and William Golding's Lord Of The Flies. Of course I don't really think those books are what you would call your normal Young Adult reading – they were just what was on offer in Grade Nine thirty very odd years ago.

The main problem I had with fiction that was geared for my age range was that none of it, no matter what the genre, had characters in it that I could either identify with or recognize as being human. Part of the problem were the times, and back in the mid 1970's the majority of youth oriented fiction had not stayed abreast of things as far as I could see. None of the books I came across that proclaimed authenticity ever had a character that smoked drugs who wasn't "bad news".

Now how was that supposed to make me feel, when everybody I knew (including myself) and was friends with had more then a passing acquaintance with smoking dope? It wasn't just the lack of dope smoking characters that made these books and stories such a waste of time, there was also the fact that the pretty much everything about them was clichéd or formula. Anyway, I was too busy reading real books to want to waste my time with stuff like that; how could they compare with Hemmingway, Joyce, Tolstoy, and the legions of books that were waiting to be devoured on the regular fiction shelves?

Well times certainly have changed and it's now possible to have characters in stories for young adults who know about drugs without being evil. In fact one of the wonderful thing about the stories contained in a the new anthology Firebirds Rising from Firebird Press and distributed by Penguin Canada is the fact there are no clear-cut lines that separate the good from the bad.

The Firebird imprint of Penguin books was established to resurrect titles in the fantasy and science fiction genres that might have otherwise been lost forever. Although it's primary focus is on titles that were originally written for a younger audience the works that I have come across to this point have been of equal value to adults as adolescents. A quick examination of the list of contributors to Firebirds Rising, who represent a cross section of the authors published by the Firebird Press, is enough to explain why the quality of their books is so high.

Charles de Lint, Tanith Lee, Patricia McKillip, and Allen Dean Foster are all well-established fantasy and science fiction writers with successful careers and if they are the types of people writing for young audiences today it's no wonder the quality has improved. Of course fantasy and science fiction have always been a cut above its competitors when writing for a younger audience, dating back to the days of Jules Verne and his novels The Mysterious Island, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, and Journey To The Centre Of The World.

In her forward to the collection, editor Sharyn November talks about the difficulties in putting together this type of anthology. Aside from the usual stuff about having to choose between two equally good stories, and editing the stories as they have all been expressly written for the collection, there was the problem that normally faces musicians, the sequence in which the stories should appear.

She said that it reminded her of doing a set list when she was in a band and how delicate a balancing act that was. She also said that she didn't expect anyone to read the anthology through from beginning to end, but that she wanted to make it possible for the person who just might want to. Being that person, I sat down and read each story in the sequence they were published in, I can honestly say they flow together like chapters in a book. Even though each "chapter" is a different "book", there is an underpinning tying them together.

There are so many things being foisted on young people today that are de rigour if they want to belong and be part of the group. Self-identification has always been a problem for all but the most assured teenager, and each story in this book reflects that in someway or another. The desire to be accepted and be part of the group is taken to the extreme in a couple of the stories; "Hives" by Kara Dalkey and "Huntress" by Tamora Pierce, while the search for personal identity is given whimsical treatment in "In The House Of The Seven Librarians" by Ellen Klages.

Charles de Lint provides an interesting perspective on teenage resentment and isolation with "Little (Girl) Lost" and "Quill" by Carol Emshwiller brings new meaning to how being different can be dangerous. But no matter how the story ties in with a teenager's ability to appreciate him or her self, or their lack of self assurance, what is obvious is how well written and intelligent each of these stories are.

There is none of the cuteness or sentimentality that so often plagued the stories written for young people in my generation. Not once did I feel like I was intruding in somebody else's territory by reading these stories, like I have in other specifically targeted material. Perhaps it's because the writers of these stories are sophisticated enough that they avoid cliché and are able to find a way of making the characters' problems universal so all readers can relate on some level or another to their plights.

Firebirds Rising is a great collections of science fiction and fantasy stories that just happen to have been written with young adults as the focus. Don't that let you put off picking up a copy, as they are every bit as sophisticated as today's young people like to think they are.

Canadian readers can pick up a copy of Firebirds Rising directly from the Penguin Canada web site or from an on line retailer like Amazon Canada.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:22 PM | Permalink

Back in the early twentieth century when the unions were first trying to organize workers in the United States to stand up for their rights and fight for safe working conditions and the novelty of a forty hour work week, they had the problem of trying to educate people of various backgrounds and levels of literacy. They found that music allowed them to communicate to large amounts of people at one time and they didn't have to worry about whether or not someone could read to be given information.

People like Joe Hill and others would either compose original songs that spelt out the issues, or even better take old songs whose tunes people were familiar with and give them new lyrics more appropriate to their circumstances and situation. If you've got twenty thousand miners standing around in the freezing cold looking to be inspired, it's far better to have some guy get up and sing "Solidarity Forever" then have them listen to some person droning on for five minutes on the same subject.

Not only is it more entertaining to listen to music then speeches, it's more likely they'll retain the message. Even better is if a song has a chorus that people can sing along with, helping to reinforce the feeling that they were a large number of people speaking with one voice. Physically speaking its a long way from the silver mines and coal fields of Colorado in the early 1900's to 21st century Mali in Africa, but there's a connection in what's being done with music by some of today's African performers.

Habib Koite has just released his first studio album in six years and this new Cumbancha Records release, Afriki (Africa) hearkens back to those songs from an earlier century as he is using this album to try and awaken people to the challenges facing Africa. This isn't a new role for the musicians of Mali to assume, as it has long been part of their culture to be the storytellers and history keepers of their people, it's not much of a stretch to add teaching to the list.

As this is music for the people of Mali that we have been invited to listen in on, the lyrics are in Bambana, one of the languages of that country. Even though things will sometimes get lost in translation, you can get a good idea of what he is singing about through the English version of the lyrics that's provided in the accompanying booklet.

The song "Africa" is an example of this where he lists all the stereotypes that the world sees when the look at the continent: corrupt politicians, countries dependant on handouts, and endless cycles of war, poverty, famine, and genocide. Koite says they have the choice of either waiting for someone to help them or to help themselves, and that young Africans should stay at home and work towards that goal of independence rather then leaving the continent behind to better themselves as individuals.

Of course, he doesn't just sing about politics, he sings some beautiful love songs as well. The one I liked especially was "Fimani" (The Little Black One), a song from a young woman's point of view. It's not about any young man in particular, but about the fact that she wants a young man. It doesn't matter about his wealth or his colour, but that he be the source of her hope. Spelt out baldly like that it doesn't really sound like much, but it's not the words themselves that are important – it's the feeling of yearning that's expressed by the song that makes it so powerful.

The other love song that was particularly moving was the one he wrote to commemorate the passing of his mother. Instead of any false sentimentality, he writes about the wishes a mother has for her child, and about learning that for a mother, best intentions are the one blessing she has at her disposal. No matter how much she may want to control the world and make her child's life as perfect as possible the reality is she's as much a subject of circumstances as anybody else and can only hope for the best.

As in the previous song it's not so much what's being said, it's what the song is communicating that is important. A good deal of this comes down to elements aside from the lyrics; the music and Habib's voice have their role to play as well. Unlike some other performers I've heard who try to incorporate elements of Western Pop music with African it doesn't sound like a collision of cultures.

He has taken the time and effort to find those elements that are common to both and blend the music at those points. Instead of all of a sudden having wild guitar solos or electronics added in just for the sake of adding them in, Habib has managed to create his own style of music that is based on elements of both his Malian tradition and Western pop. It's almost like he started from zero and carefully built something that's unique to him that makes full use of his talents.

What's really nice is that it is flexible enough that he is able to utilize some very specific Malian traditional instruments in one song without them sounding out of place. On the song, "Nta Dima" (I Will Not Give Her To You) he makes use of antelope horns that give a marvellous sound to this piece about a father telling marriage arrangers that he's not going to give his daughter up to just anyone.

Using traditional instruments is more then just a novelty item, it's part of his overall intent in keeping alive traditional elements of African music while not allowing it to become a museum piece. Part of that is also singing in Bambana, the primary language of the people of Mali, instead of either English or French. Of course, with Habib's voice it wouldn't matter if he was singing in Pig Latin, he would still be one of the most expressive singers I've heard in a long time.

He uses his voice like another instrument in the band, not just as the means for delivering the message of the lyrics. In these songs, inflection seems to be very important, as he is attempting to communicate ideas of pride and independence to his African listeners, and letting non-Africans know about the pride Africans feel for their countries. Moreover, even without our help, they are going to make it. In fact, if we could leave them a little more alone, that would be even better.

At times he cajoles, and other times he praises, in his attempts to rally the various people of different countries and tribes to unite for the common purpose of bringing their continent back from the brink of catastrophe. He has millions of people he is trying to reach, who speak a multitude of languages. For that reason, like the union organizers a hundred years ago, he keeps his message as direct as possible but never simplistic.

Habib Koite is a magnificent performer who through his music and his own sense of purpose is doing his best to bring about a pan-African revival. Of course, he knows that he won't be able to do this on his own – but that doesn't seem to stop him from trying.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:58 PM | Permalink

In North America, we never really paid that much attention to the Muslim world until events forced us to. The revolution in Iran in 1980 that saw the overthrow of the American backed Shah and the seizing of the American Embassy in Teheran changed all of that. Instead of taking these events as an object lesson, a warning about the level of resentment felt in Islamic countries towards Western policies and what that could portend for the future, we exasperated the situation by continuing to ignore the consequences of a foreign policy that caused the situation in the first place.

Instead of taking steps that would have seen us trying to improve the lot of poverty-stricken populations or backing away from supporting regimes that were repressive, we instituted policies that increased the level of confrontation. Within the "us versus them" attitude that has developed over the last quarter century the idea that Islam might be more than just a group of fanatics hell bent on destroying everything we hold dear hasn't been able to gain much purchase.

What's amazing is that there has actually been any sort of connection established that establishes even the tiniest beachhead of understanding amidst all this mutual recrimination. In the last few years there has been a growing fascination among people in the West for the poetry of the Persian Sufi mystic Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Balkhi Rumi, most commonly referred simply as Rumi. With modern Iran being home to the land once known as Persia it is only fitting that Iranian musicians have created a musical tribute for the 800th anniversary of the celebrated mystic's birth.

Shahram &Hafez Nazeri are father and son who have followed in the footsteps of generations of Persian and Iranian musicians in attempting to interpret the work of Sufi mystics through music. But it was Shahram, thirty-five years ago, who first set the words of Rumi to music and has gained a huge international following because of his amazing voice and the passion he brings to his work.

Hafez began his musical education at the age of three and hasn't stopped since then. In an attempt to broaden his horizons, he left Iran to study musical composition in the West. In the year 2000, he assembled a group of young musicians to perform his father's compositions based on the poetry of Rumi.

The Rumi Ensemble toured twenty cities in Iran. Their concerts in Tehran alone drew 140,000 people setting attendance records for the Middle East. In 2005, he put together a new Rumi Ensemble for a highly successful tour of the United States. The music from the first concert series has now released as the CD, The Passion Of Rumi. The CD features the vocal harmonies and melodies written by Shahram that made him famous, and music composed by Hafez that compliments and honours those songs. Hafez refers to the program of music as being a duet between instruments and voice.

Although some versions of the ensemble have seen the inclusion of Western instruments like cello and violin, this version taken from the tapes of the original Iranian tour utilizes only the Mid Eastern stringed instruments; Keammanche alto, Barbat, and Setar with percussion accompaniment supplied by Daf, Tombak, and Damams. While this set up might appear skimpy to our eyes used to far more instruments from a group referred to as an ensemble, once you begin listening to the music you won't be aware of any deficiency in sound.

Various reviewers have tried to describe Shahram Nazeri's voice and I'll now join the ranks of those who fail miserably to do him justice. How do you describe something that manages to transcend being merely physically present and that manages to communicate on a spiritual level? I could tell you technical details about how amazing his control and range are; that he can sing in a near whisper that will carry for miles, each individual note is so crisp and clean.

Or that he can sing notes of such depth that they cause your sternum to vibrate and then takes his voice to places that are almost beyond our capacity to hear they are so clean and high. Would it make more sense if I said that when he sang he reached down inside himself and opened his heart the better to reach out to every single person living.

How about, that it feels like when he sings the secrets of the universe can be heard and the wonders of creation are no longer a mystery. A passion for life that is tangible suffuses each phrase and sends ripples through his voice in the form of tremolos that sends a shiver through your spirit.

Lyrics become immaterial, and at times he is vocalizing sounds in the same manner as a Jazz musician improvising. It's when he releases his hold on lyrics and sets out on these vocal runs with the music swirling around him like leafs cycling in an autumn wind, that you remember that not only was Rumi a Sufi but also the inspiration for the Dervish sects as well. However, instead of just a select few dancers immersing in the words and splendour of Rumi, all who listen to Nazeri are given the opportunity to travel the road of musical meditation.

I don't know if anyone but Hafez Nazeri could have composed music that was appropriate for his father's songs. Not only did it require a thorough understanding of the music, but an awareness of the connection his father had to the songs in order to create the perfect balance between the needs of the overall piece and the vocalist's extraordianry abilities.

The Passion Of Rumi will hold special interest for those who have read his poetry. However, even those like me who have never read the work of Rumi can't help be moved by what they hear. What contribution this disc can have in opening the door a little wider between the West and Iran remains to be seen. At the very least, it puts a human face on our so-called enemy.

I've heard many different types of spiritual music played from Southern Baptist to choral pieces. Without a doubt The Passion Of Rumi outstrips them all in terms of beauty and wonder. This music will speak to everyone no matter how they name their God or their manner of worship. In the nature of all truly spiritual work, it transcends religion and speaks straight to an individual's heart.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:46 PM | Permalink

Routines are something all of us depend on, if it wasn't for routine, I'm sure half of us wouldn't be able to get out the door and get to work everyday. You get up and you go through the same sequence of activities that you do every other weekday, from going to the bathroom at the same times each morning to eating your toast only after finishing reading last night's game results in the sports section.

Your routine is all about timing, without even knowing it probably, it's your routine that ensures your day runs like clockwork. Each little component just naturally fits into the one that follows it, in your mind at least – others may not appreciate the connection between the second cigarette and the trip to the bathroom – but for you they are all essential cogs in what makes you tick along.

God forbid anything should go wrong in the routine; you're screwed if it does. One day the paper isn't delivered and you go to eat your breakfast and you can't figure out when to eat your toast, drink your coffee, or have your cigarettes. You get so flustered that you lose track of time and you leave home late and miss the bus you usually take to work.

Because you missed that bus, you don't have time to have one more cigarette before you go into the office for the morning and that means you're distracted and in a rush. You go through security and forget that you have to sign in everyday, and they stop you and make a big deal of reminding you, even though it's the same two jerks who've seen you for seven years, five days a week.

So now you've been held up as a figure of ridicule and you're late for work, something you haven't been in all your years of working for this company. Of course today is the day that the CEO has decided to make an example of people who are habitually tardy, and you happen to burst into the office conspicuous in your lateness, just as he's half way through his speech to the assembled office staff on how much it costs the corporation in dollars and cents for every minute a person is late.

Fuck, right about then you wish the floor would just drop out from under you as you make your into the room with the eyes of all fixed upon you like lazar beams. The day of course gets progressively worse, because by now you're as jumpy as cokehead at a southern cop convention and when your boss comes up behind you to commiserate over what happened, he startles you so much that you throw your coffee at him.

As that went down such a treat, you decide to spend the rest of your day finding ways to screw up that defy believability. You have no logical explanation for why you were caught with your fly stuck in the fax machine's send button or one arm past the second bend inside the pop machine on the second floor. By the end of the day you're just grateful not to have been fired and to still be alive (the bit when you were about to board the elevator only to find when the doors opened the elevator had gone somewhere else will feature in nightmares for weeks you figure)

It really makes you wonder how much of history has hinged on somebody's routine being screwed with and them ending up having an awful day. Maybe Caesar's paper wasn't delivered on that fateful 15th of March when he ended up looking like a pincushion? Who knows, he might have had it a little more together and noticed the guys closing in on him with knives drawn if only he hadn't had his routine messed up?

Is it any wonder than with routine being so important that most of us are terrified of change? Routine represents order and control, a way of ensuring that we know exactly what will happen at almost any given moment of the day. If we change anything about our routine, it means we open ourselves up to the possibility of anything happening, or at least something that's never happened before.

But the real problem is that there is always a part of us that desires change; that is frustrated and bored with the day in and day out routine of our lives. It might not be something that we are even aware of, but periodically it will express itself either through depression or what we call a mid-life crisis. In the latter case, a person will let the pent up frustration act as a catalyst for making a drastic change in their circumstances. Its most common expression usually comes in the form of leaving a longstanding partner and establishing a new and supposedly different relationship.

The depression usually comes about due to our inability to make changes in our life. It's not unusual for this to coincide with the Fall, all around there are visible signs of the world changing, while you're staying the same. I know people usually link seasonal depression to the depletion of light as winter approaches, but the loss of light is just one indication of the overall changing of the season.

The majority of cultures still consider Fall the end of one year and the beginning of a new. It's the period in temperate climates when our year's growth is ready for harvest and the world is preparing to become dormant. It doesn't matter how far removed we are from the rhythm of the planet; Fall is one of the few changes we can't help but notice as everything around us appears to be dying.

What more tangible reminder could you want of how life is passing you by than seeing the world change while you stay stuck in the same routine that you've followed for years? All of a sudden, what seemed like comfort and safety becomes a trap from which there appears to be no escape. Is it any wonder that people become depressed?

Yet, we continue to fear and resist change as something dangerous and unwanted in spite of the evidence that change is good for us. Maybe if Julius Cesar had walked a different route to the Senate that day and come in an hour earlier or later then normal he wouldn't have been bumped off?

After that horrific day at the office where everything had gone wrong, because your routine had been screwed up, you decide you can never face those people again. You accept a severance package and take a year off work in which you finally write that book you've always meant to. You're happier then you ever were and you discover that you quickly establish a routine wherein your able to do a certain amount of writing each day and have plenty of time for yourself.

Of course, if anything happens to mess up that routine...

Posted by Richard Marcus at 12:07 AM | Permalink

When someone says they are disabled what does that make you think? Do you automatically get a vision of a person who is confined to a wheelchair? What do you think if you meet a person who has been described as suffering from a disability but they have nothing discernibly wrong with them?

Do you find yourself stealing glances at them when they're not looking to see if you can spot what's wrong with them? Like they might have an extra arm they've secreted around their person, or some other sort of deformity that you failed to notice at first glance? Do you talk to them slowly and in short sentences because maybe they suffer from a mental deficiency that has robbed them of some of their intellect? Or, do you worry that they are suffering from a mental illness and every time they laugh you check them for hysterics or other signs of an unstable mind?

When you suffer from a chronic condition that is disabling to the extent that you can't work, but that hasn't incapacitated you completely, you get used to a wide variety of reactions. I get the feeling that some folk are disappointed on meeting me when they discover that I look like a reasonable facsimile of normal. I'm not missing any limbs, nor am I in a wheelchair, foaming at the mouth, falling down in fits, or bursting into tears inconsolably for no reason what so ever.

If you meet me at home the only thing you'd notice out of the ordinary is that I don't seem to be able to sit for any length of time, or that I spend a lot of time stretched out in bed. Other than that, around the house I don't seem any less capable then the next person. Of course you don't know that I haven't been able to get into a shower for close to five years on my own, or any of the other things that happen behind the scenes that are the result of my symptoms.

To be fair I'm just as capable of forgetting myself as they are of misinterpreting my appearance. When you've established a routine that allows you to utilize what few resources you have to maximum efficiency it can be easy to forget that you suffer from limitations. It's only when you push the boundaries of your comfort level that you are forcibly reminded that you are disabled.

What's really upsetting is that no matter how many times this happens, each time is as unpleasant as it was the first time. Somehow or other I forget the previous experiences and suffer through the disappointment and frustration of the failure with the same intensity. It could be something as simple as not resting in the afternoon for a couple days in a row and forgetting what happens as a result, or the difference between writing while sitting up at a desk and lying in bed writing on my laptop that shoves my face in it.

It doesn't matter what the cause is, because the result is the same, and it takes a number of days to recover both physically and psychologically enough to get back on that even keel where I look "normal". While the body doesn't usually take any more time to heal from one occasion to another, the head is another story. The less it takes to remind me of my disability, the harder it is to overcome it's debilitating effects psychologically.

As I have a chronic pain condition caused by damage to the muscle wall of my pelvis, there is normally a direct correlation between the amount of physical activity I do and the amount of pain that I'm in. When I can logically tell myself that I'm feeling worse today then yesterday because of what I did I have no trouble accepting the consequences, and can usually believe I'll be better in a day or two.

But sometimes there is no logical reason that I can see for the pain to increase, and in those circumstances the feelings of frustration are such that it is difficult to believe myself capable of accomplishing the simplest of tasks. That is a dangerous place to find myself in, because those times are when it would be easiest to surrender to the condition and let it define my life completely.

Nobody expects a disabled person to do anything; you're given an allowance by the government and pretty much forgotten about after that, except when they decide to check and see if you're still incapacitated. (As a friend of mine who had lost the majority of one hand in an industrial accident put it – they want to make sure my hand hasn't grown back) So, if I were to retire to my bed for the rest of my life to take analgesics and gradually turn into a vegetable I'd merely be fulfilling everyone's expectations.

People talk of acceptance, as in accepting your limitations or accepting who you are and your situation in life. But what you have to decide is what you are willing to accept. Since I'm not willing to accept the definition of disabled as being unable, while at the same time I can't say that I'm fully able, I have had to develop my own standard of what is acceptable.

The hardest thing to accept, and I still don't do a very good job of this, is that there are times when there will be rationale explanation for how I'm feeling. It won't matter if I had done barely anything or walked two miles the day before, and I'll still barely be able to get out of bed and need to take my pain medication on a regular basis. On those days, I have to accept that I can't do very much and that it would be foolish to make the effort and waste the energy.

At the same time, I have to accept that it will require a little extra effort on my part even on the good days to do the things that I want to. If I want to write, I will have to exert myself to focus through the pain, but learn how to pace myself so that I don't overdo it one day and end up unable to accomplish anything the next day. Since some days it's impossible to tell how difficult it will be to accomplish anything, I have to be willing to accept the fact that I could have to stop what I'm doing, whether I want to or not, at a moment's notice.

What it comes down to in the end is having the ability to accept the fact that I can't predict from day to day how I'm going to be, and that I have to accept whatever it is each day gives me, whether I like it or not. It's either that or become what most people imagine a disabled person to be; and that's unacceptable.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:38 PM | Permalink

One of the wonderful things about the writing and reviewing I've been doing over the last few years is learning how little I know the people we share this planet with. It's difficult not to be affected by the chauvinism caused by living in North America that ensures we think we are the be all and end all of what it is to be human. Even when we know that the propaganda asserting our way of life as the pinnacle of human achievement is a load of crap, there is no denying that it contributes to a narrowing of our world view.

Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that the three countries of North America are ruled by immigrants, and that two of the countries share a similar heritage. There is also the fact that we have encouraged people to become "one of us" instead of retaining ties to where they came from. While Canada does offer a pretence of multiculturalism, it's more along the lines of being ethnic on special occasions because the reality is we are just as nervous of those who choose to remain different as anyone else.

"If they want to live here they should live like the rest of us" is still the attitude of choice for those who have been here longest, conveniently forgetting that they too imported all their social and cultural mores when they settled here. It's not hard to see that when that mindset looks out into the world it's going to try and compartmentalize everybody else into easy to digest generalizations.

So, instead of Africa being composed of numerous countries and a mind boggling array of cultures, she becomes a single entity. India and China have within their borders as many different language groups and cultural traditions as are found in nearly all of Europe, yet we persist in considering them only in terms of their geographical boundaries.

Music may not be able to change the world, but it sure has the ability to open your eyes to what the world has to offer. ArgentineanAlejandro Franov's new release Khali on the Staubgold label, distributed by Forced Exposure in North America is one of the best examples of this that I've ever seen.

Alejandro has been playing music for years now, with his albums only being available in Japan and South America. Like another Western Hemisphere musician, Bob Brozman, his music has less to do with the land of his birth, then with the places he has travelled in the world. A multi-instrumentalist he has mastered instruments from three continents; the sitar and mridangam from India, the Mbira of the Shona people of Zimbabwe, and the Paraguayan harp (arpa in Spanish).

Each of the instruments he plays, especially the mbiras, is culturally specific to a place and a people. At first glance, we might mistake the mbiras for what we call a thumb piano (kalimbas) over here but they are far more sophisticated with two rows of "keys", and five specific tunings. In fact the name of the instrument is modified according to its tuning, so on Khali you will see credits for agandanga mbiras and nyamaropa mbiras two separate tunings that create very distinct sounds and moods.

Now that we know what he's playing, the question is what does he do with them? There are plenty of people out there who use another culture's musical instruments to either make "neat" sounds or create some sort of new age broth that is vacant and tasteless. Well Alejandro Franov isn't either one of those people.

Starting with the title of the disc, he's deliberately confusing about his intent. Khali is of course the name of an Indian deity, but it's also the name of the island in Croatia where Alejandro's grandfather came from. But he's playing a sitar, right, so he must be referring to the Goddess – except he doesn't play ragas, or any other traditional Indian music with either the sitar or the mridangam and he's playing them alongside traditional instruments of Southern Africa.

What he has done is create some very beautiful music with what all these instruments have to offer. There are thirteen tracks on the CD, but they all segue into each other so that it is like one fifty minute composition. He has also incorporated some Western instruments into his composition, keyboards, guitar, glockenspiel, and the occasional non-verbal, vocal accompaniment.

What makes his work so good is that he makes no attempt to disguise the roughness or the voice of the original instruments. Each instrument's is clear and distinct within the composition, and is used in the manner it was meant to be used. Instead of a bland mishmash that doesn't really sound like anything, his music is alive with all the cultures he draws upon.

What Alejandro Franov has done with Khali is create real "world music". His compositions do not merely reflect one cultural identity or voice, but speak with the voices of many people. It's a celebration of distinction within a harmonious framework that is a joy to listen too not only for its musical splendour, but for the philosophy behind the creation.

Not many people are willing to say that we don't all have to believe or act the same way to live in harmony. Alejandro Franov's music on Khali not only makes that statement, it proves it's possible and that it can sound beautiful.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:45 PM | Permalink

I remember how surprised I was when I found out that the banjo had come to North America with African slaves. I had associated it for so long with both Country and Bluegrass music that it was hard to believe it had ever been used for other types of music. Of course the instrument has evolved from its original form, and along with its physical modifications the role it played in music changed. Initially a percussion instrument, a role it can still play, the addition of the fifth string changed it into the lead instrument we are familiar with today.

But since finding out that it had come from Africa, I had been curious as to its origins. Africa is a huge continent after all, and there is no more a single African culture then there is a single European culture, so which of the many musical traditions spawned the banjo? I don't know if there is any definitive answer as the slaves came from all over the continent and would have formed something of a melting pot of traditions amongst themselves. What we call a banjo could have been the result of combining a few different instruments into one body.

One possible source of inspiration for the banjo is an instrument from the West African country of Mali called the ngoni. This is the Bambara name given an ancient traditional five stringed, lute like instrument found throughout the region, which is plucked with the thumb like the banjo. It's a deceptively simple looking instrument; a single piece of wood shaped something like a cricket bat's paddle with a length of round dowelling serving as a neck. The five strings run from a bridge near the fat end of the paddle and run up the to the end of the dowel where they appear to be simply tied off.

Bassekou Kouyate is one of the premier ngoni players in Mali, and earlier this year he and his band Ngoni Ba (The Big Ngoni) released their first album Segu Blue. Released on the Out/Here label from Great Britain it is just now being distributed by Forced Exposure in North America.

Bassekou Kouyate was raised in a family of traditional musicians, with his mother being a praise singer and his father and brothers exceptional ngoni players. He left home at nineteen and started his own musical career by collaborating with other young African players. He first came to international attention when he was part of Taj Mahal's Kulanjan project, the esteemed Blues player's project that explored the African roots of American Blues. In fact Taj Mahal was so taken with the Bassekou Kouyate's playing he described him as "a living proof that the Blues comes from the region of Segu".

According to the notes that accompanied the review copy I was sent, the music played by Bassekou and his band is from the region of Segu (hence the CD's title) which is the centre of Bambara culture. The notes go on to say that unlike other types of traditional music Bambara is pentatonic in nature – having five distinct tones – making it as close to our Blues music as you're going to get from traditional African sources.

Okay so that's what the paper says, but what does the music say? Well the music is astounding; it's almost impossible to believe that these simple looking instruments are producing the diversity of sound you hear on the CD. The members of Ngoni Ba each play a ngoni of a different size, and with just those instruments create a sound as full and rich as any produced by a band playing conventional instruments.

If it weren't for the note saying there is no djembe, (bongo type drum) or kora (another African stringed instrument) in use, you'd swear they were both being played. The sound is so elaborate that you swear you can hear those instruments being played. Perhaps the lushness of the sound is because the four musicians are playing in such close harmony that it sounds like they are part of a pattern being woven unto a loom in the manner of an elaborate rug. At first, you can't really see the picture that's being created, but gradually it begins to take shape before your eyes (or ears in this case) and what's produced in the end is as beautiful as it is mysterious.

For those of you familiar with African music you might hear echoes of other forms you recognize. I know there were times when the music sounded like the Nigerian pop sounds of King Sunny Ade, with its bright guitar and up tempo rhythm. At other times, I caught elements that reminded me of the Senegalese singer Babba Maal. But it occurred to me that I was thinking in reverse; instead of Ngoni Ba sounding like other people, they were playing the music that those other styles evolved from.

The Ngoni is one of the oldest instruments in Africa, so it follows that the music played with it would have to be of a similar pedigree. Listening to the songs on Segu Blue it was easy to forget that this music could have been what was being played long before European contact was made with the people of Africa.

It sounds so fresh, alive, and reminiscent of something heard before, that it's impossible to associate the music of Ngoni Ba with the past or to think of it as anything but contemporary. Even thinking that does it a disservice, and diminishes the talents of Bassekou Kouyate. Of the fourteen songs on Segu Blue ten are ones that he has written, and three are traditional songs that he has created the arrangements for.

Just because in a lot of cases in our culture contemporary seems to preclude the involvement of the past, doesn't mean that's the case in the rest of the world. Music can exist as stream whose current flows in a circle between the past and the present. When the past feeds the present like it does in the work of Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba, traditions create new possibilities for the future.

Segu Blue contains fourteen songs that are amazing pieces of music no matter when they were written or who they written for. Prepare to be amazed by the sound and the virtuosity of the players on this CD like you haven't in a long time.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:25 AM | Permalink

Why if some one were really upset and feeling down would they play music called the Blues? Wouldn't that just make them feel worse, singing about how down they are and all the troubles in their world? Yet, have you ever seen somebody playing the Blues who looks depressed? Hell, it usually looks like they're having the time of their life.

They could be singing lyrics that talk about how many times their woman has cheated on them in the past week, or how the world just keeps getting them down, and all the while they have a huge smile on their face. Of course some of them may not have actually ever experienced anything that makes them seriously Blue, so they're just having a great time playing some wonderful music. But what about somebody who has genuinely suffered at the hands of the world, why in the world would they want to sing about stuff that will just depress them more?

I've heard a lot of people asked that question, people like B B King, Muddy Waters, and Big Bill Brozney who laid the foundations for the Blues we hear today, and they all seemed to be saying roughly the same thing; the emotional release that you get from singing about troubles helps you get over your own.

Blues came out of the cotton fields via Southern Baptist churches, where they sang Gospel and Spirituals to help cope with a world that spat on them at every opportunity.
Out in the secular world people needed the same comfort, and that's where the Blues came in. Instead of testifying about the wonders of God to alleviate a wounded soul, they testified to the ongoing troubles of simply getting by. Is it any wonder that so many of the old time Blues musicians sound like they're only a couple of steps removed from the pulpit?

Now if there were ever a man who had a right to complain about the hand that life has dealt him recently it would be Lurrie Bell. Since the beginning of this year he's lost his partner - the mother of his child, photographer Susan Greenberg to illness, and his father, famed Blues Harmonica player Carey Bell, to complications from a heart condition and diabetes. Yet instead of wallowing in misery like so many would be tempted too, Lurrie has chosen to celebrate the love he shared with these two very important people in his life.

He has just released his first album on his own Aria B G Records (named for his daughter) and Let's Talk About Love is twelve classic Blues love songs. Matthew Skoller who produced the album, says in the liner notes that instead of talking about the troubles that have beset him through out his life, Lurrie wanted to make a record that reflected the love that resided in his heart. With that in mind, they set out to find twelve "chestnuts" (his word not mine) that spoke to Lurrie the loudest. They took three months putting this disc together, getting the right people for the right songs, and making sure everything was just right.

If anybody ever had any questions about the talent of Lurrie Bell as either a guitarist or a vocalist, this album shows that the descriptions of him as one of the masters to be talked about in the same breath as other greats who have come out of Chicago aren't exaggerations. From the first song, title track "Let's Talk About Love" to the final cut on the disc, "Wine Headed Women" Lurrie shows he can handle any type of Blues style that's been invented with style and passion.

One of the other highlights of the disc are some the friends that stopped by to help out. "Earthquake And Hurricane" features the amazing harmonica playing of the great Billy Branch. They first played together years ago in a band made up of second generation Chicago Blues musicians, and they've played behind various other front people together on many occasions since then.

This time they've stepped up to the lead microphones and the results are awesome. The way Billy can make his harmonica work in counter point to Lurrie's voice is just wondrous, playing the high harmonies to Lurrie's alto. They trade solo's, guitar to harmonica, back again, until they finally join together like a meeting between two forces of nature so strong and natural is the sound.

The very next song Lurrie switches gears to play a soulful version of Papa Staples' "Why (Am I Treated So Bad)". This is the closest he comes to bemoaning his own fate on the disc, but it's such a glorious example of his great voice and amazing guitar that you can't help but feel lifted up by it. Since it is a Gospel song encouraging listeners to keep their heads up in spite of everything, it makes sense. But the fact that he can communicate those feelings with the tone of his voice and the notes he plays on his guitar even while asking why he was treated so bad, is testament to what a glorious talent he brings to the table.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that his guitar work is the type I personally prefer over most other kinds. Lurrie would rather put his heart into one note, instead of playing twenty just for show in the same space of time. That doesn't mean he can't burn up a fret board when it's called for, but he doesn't have to do it on every song, or even worse every lead. He doesn't try and make the song fit his guitar lead, instead he make his leads fit what the song needs to make it that much better.

Lurrie isn't a shouter when it comes to his vocals, instead as a singer he seems to have more in common with jazz vocalists than with a lot of Blues singers. Maybe it's his phrasing that distinguishes him, the way he carefully ensures that each word is distinct no mater how fast or passionate he gets. Or perhaps its the fact that even through your stereo you can feel how important it is for him to communicate the deeper meanings behind each song; the feelings the lyrics generate in his heart.

Lurrie Bell had every excuse in the world for either never making music again, or recording an album of songs that talked about all he's lost in recent days. Instead with Lets Talk About Love he's created a work that celebrates the love he was blessed with. Not only is this a CD of great music, it is also an expression of love from an extremely brave man honouring the two people who meant most to him in the world and who he lost within months of each other.

Let's Talk About Love and Lurrie Bell are truly inspiring, artistically and personally. Its not often that popular music can transcend personal tragedy with dignity and sincerity, but Lurrie Bell has done just that; what an amazing accomplishment.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:13 PM | Permalink

You know the New Age movement really has a lot to answer for. Aside from all the charges of cultural appropriation that can be laid at their feet, there's also the small matter of the stereotype they've created of Native Canadian and American musicians. Hand Drums, Cedar Flutes, and chanting vocals are what all "real" Native musicians are supposed to be playing. At least that's what you'd end up thinking if you were to make your judgements based on what's available in your local New Age emporium.

This makes it really hard for those who want to follow the more traditional path of the pop musician. Rap, Rock, Funk, Blues, and for the older generation, Country, are just as popular on the Reservation as they are anywhere else and the folk who play it have the same ambitions as their counterparts in the city. Sure a lot of them do sit around teh Big Drum at Pow-Wows, and might even play the wooden flute on occasion, but that's not pop music and won't be played down at the local on a Friday night anymore then you're going to sing Mass in a bar.

So aside from the usual difficulties facing aspiring pop musicians Natives have to overcome the image that us non-natives have been foisting on them for the past twenty-thirty years. That's not to say they aren't spiritual or proud of their culture and heritage, but they can do that and play Rock & Roll at the same time. There have been plenty of good Native pop musicians who have had various degrees of success playing music ranging from folk to hard rock in the past, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise that a new generation of musicians share the same aspirations as their predecessors.

One of those up and coming stars of the new generation is Martha Redbone, whose lates release, Skintalk, came out earlier this year. Martha is of mixed African and Native American heritage and her music is contemporary without ignoring who she is or where she came from. She might sing about love and fun on "Stick Wit Me", but the very next song, "Medicine Man" talks about living in a traditional Native way.

There're two things that strike you about hearing Martha for the first time, one is her voice, and the other is the type of music she plays with her band. In these days of squeaky voiced little girls singing about who knows what, and spending their off days in rehab or on the front cover of People, hearing a woman who can sing in the mid ranged like Martha can is a treat on its own. The fact that she also has a voice with personality and expression is gravy.

She also has range, meaning she can start a song in the mid-range and putsh it all the way up into the high end without ever sounding like she's straining or doing something foreign to her nature as a singe. But it's when she's in her throaty, mid range, best, that I found her the most effective. She reminded me of some of the classic women voices from the soul and Motown eras.

Maybe that is also because she and her band play some of the finest Funk I've heard in a long time. Having never heard Martha before, I didn't know what to expect when I started the disc. So when that wonderful electric guitar sound came through my headset on the opening cut of the disc, "Hard Livin'" It was a great surprise. What is really good about this disc is that they can play the full spectrum of Rhythm & Blues, from hard Funk to the softer sounds of soul. Not only can they play those styles, but they also do them justice. Unlike so many others who confuse soulful with cheap sentiment, their music is the real thing, mellow with an undertone of something a little more – something that gives it body to go with it's soul.

I mentioned earlier her drawing upon her Native heritage for some of her lyrics at a couple of points on the disc. But on track eight she goes all out and brings in a Native Drum group to provide the opening for "Children Of Love, a prayer for the future. Interestingly enough the person leading the Drum group is Dennis Banks, one of the key members of the American Indian Movement (AIM) in the early 1970's.

For all of its problems AIM had been able to make it possible for people coming after them to believe in the possibility of a future where they could be proud of who they were, instead of being a dirty secret that nobody wanted to talk about.

At first the song was a bit disconcerting because there was no effort made to integrate the two styles of music with each other. But after listening to it a second time, I think that was the right choice as the contrast actually made both halves of the song that much more effective. Every so often the sound of the Native singers would come up into the mix on the funkier part of the song, and it felt like the voices of the past communicating their message of encouragement to the people of today and tomorrow.

Martha Redbone's new CD Skintalk is about as far removed from the so-called "Native" music that passes for authentic in lifestyle stores and boutiques as you could get without leaving North America. Instead, its the authentic voice of a modern woman who sings about the things that concern her the most. The fact that she is a Native American means that she will sing about that subject on occasion, but not in any way that's expected.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:45 PM | Permalink

It was late, but that was okay, he'd walked home by himself plenty of times and never had any problems. He was always amazed when people asked him if he felt safe. What was there to feel unsafe about? He had confidence in his abilities to look after himself even if no one else did?

Anyway, he liked it when the streets were empty, there was something almost romantic about a small city late at night when there's no traffic or people. Looking down the long expanse of two lane cracked asphalt that disappeared into a horizon line he felt like he could be in any small city in North America. There was something about the scrawny trees that littered the edge of the sidewalk in front of ubiquitous concrete block low rises that said small town like nothing else could.

From the abandoned bank across the street from the 7-11 to the row of pizza joints taking up the next block, he was certain this stretch of road existed in cities across the continent. Even the glimpses of tree lined side streets offered when stopping at intersections was probably an echo of the same scene on another street in another town.

So, no, he wasn't worried about being out late at night. Even when he caught a glimpse of her out of his peripheral vision standing on the sidewalk across the street he wasn't concerned. Just another person out for a walk after all...it was a nice night for it and he couldn't be the only person in town who didn't like the noise and bustle of the street during the day.

So, he was startled when her voice sounded only steps away from him on the sidewalk. Somehow, she had crossed the street and come up behind him without him even noticing.

"Hey, what you doing?"

The smell of booze on her breath was so strong that he could feel his eyes starting to smart. If he wasn't careful they could start to water, and she might think they were tears and take it as a sign of weakness. He was used to being accosted by drunks, but normally it was when he was with a crowd of other guys and the girl was being egged on by her buddies to go and pick one of them up.

"I'm walking" he said and kept suiting the action to the words.

"Hey, whaz' you hurry" she said. The slight slurring of the words might have made them sound more belligerent then was intended, but there was no mistaking the aggressive attitude behind them. "Maybe ya wan' some company?"

"No, I like to walk by myself thanks" he said keeping walking but also being careful not to pick up speed no matter how much he wanted to. She sounded the type who would take that as an invitation – an invitation to what he didn't know, but not one that he was prepared to offer.

"Well, okay... "Her voice trailed away, and for a moment she stopped and he thought she had taken the hint to bugger off and leave him alone. But then she was right beside him, and her smell; booze, sweat, and cigarettes was almost overpowering. He was sure he was going to retch if he wasn't careful.

"Lissen, ya wanna come back ta my place for a drink. I don't live too far, ya know, stay for a drink and then finish walkin' alone". She was trying to angle her body to make him stop walking but he was able to keep moving without running into her by moving over on the sidewalk slightly and walking on a bit of a diagonal.

"I don't drink," he said in what he hoped was as neutral a tone as possible. He was starting to feel more then a little nervous now. She seemed drunk enough that if he out and out rejected her for no what looked like no reason she just might get violent.

"What d'ya mean, a good lookin' guy like ya not drinkin'? She reached out and grabbed his arm to try and turn him around so that he was facing her. The touch of her fingers on his arm triggered the anger he needed for the strength to deal with her.

"Don't you dare touch me" he yelled turning on her with his eyes flashing. He stared at her for a second longer and then spun away and began walking briskly up the street. Still restraining himself from obviously hurrying, he still set a good pace. He kept his ears open for any sound of pursuit and at first he heard nothing, but then he heard her start walking.

She followed him all the way up town to the all night coffee shop he was headed for; he was getting a biscuit to snack on when he got home. When he got to the shop, she stayed out in the parking lot wandering around while he went in. The woman behind the counter knew him well enough to know something was wrong, and he told her about being followed and the drunk outside. The last thing she wanted was to have her follow him home and know where he lived.

He was still chatting with them when she burst in through the front door and walked up to the counter. She looked at him and then at the woman behind the counter and said, " Is there a problem here?"

He looked at her for a second, and then with steel in his voice said "If you try to follow me from this store I'm going to kill you. I will beat you senseless and leave you lying in a puddle of your own blood and guts for the street cleaners to pick up with all the other fucking garbage in the morning. So if you know what's good for you, you'll fuck off right now".

The woman looked at her for a second, and then swearing under her breath she headed for the doors, as she got to them she looked back and snapped, "frigid bastard".

He stood at the counter shaking; he was so angry and upset. The woman who had been behind the counter grabbed a broom and pretended to be sweeping the store by the plate glass windows facing out into the parking lot. She was making sure that the drunk had vanished. She turned back and said, "She's gone, I see her crossing the street and heading back downtown again...yeah, she's out of sight".

He quickly paid for his biscuit and thanked the woman for her help, and she smiled.

"Honey, I wouldn't have messed with you if you had yelled at me like that. You didn't need anyone to protect you from scum like that."

"Thanks"

"Have a good night"

"You too"

Of course that would never happen to a man, but incidents like that and far worse happen to women all the time. Shouldn't the quite times of the night belong to everyone?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 12:08 AM | Permalink

Have you ever noticed how there's nothing like an election campaign to bring out the absolute worst in people? Politicians are prostitutes for power most of the time, but that's nothing compared to what they're like when seeking office. It's bad enough if they've never been in power, but give them a taste, and they're worse then a junkie desperate for a fix.

Look at how wild eyed they start getting near the end of a close campaign; they're going to promise just about anything and everything to get those few votes they think might put them over the edge. I know our system is different up here in Canada from those elsewhere in the world, we still run on the old constitutional monarchy, federalist system, but politicians are the same the world over no matter what the circumstances.

In fact, it's safe to say that one thing every society on the face of the earth has in common is a power hungry politician. It doesn't matter if it's a military dictatorship or some sort of democracy, those in power will do anything they can to stay in power. Believe me if the guys in Ottawa, or anywhere else in the world where they have elections, could figure out how they could use the army to avoid an election they would.

Seriously though, look at politicians' behaviour during elections; what are their two favourite tactics? They either smear their opponent with so much dirt that he or she looks like they have been wallowing with pigs all their lives, or they play on the voters worst fears. The quickest way to cast aspersions on your opponent is to tell the voters that he or she will make their worst fears come true, and that only you can keep them safe.

It doesn't matter whether the danger even exists, in fact it's best if you have to warn them of the dangers that will beset them if your opponent wins. If you hadn't told them they would have never known your opponent was prepared to let child molesters teach their children – something that you would never let happen when you win with a majority.

For those of you who think that's a little over the top, let me remind you of what George Bush senior did in the 1988 election to Michael Dukakis. One prisoner who was paroled when Dukakis was Governor of Massachusettes re-offended. Of course, it didn't hurt that the man in question was black, because that played on all the worst prejudices and fears. All of sudden if Dukakis were elected President nobody's lily-white daughter would be safe from mean black rapists prowling the streets.

Lest anyone think I'm picking only on American politicians, Canadians are no better. Hell for all our reputation as being polite, political campaigning up here is just as ugly and nasty as anywhere else. The province I live in, Ontario, is in the midst of an election to see who will rule for the next four years. Although there are four parties officially in the running, Liberal, Progressive Conservative (PC), New Democratic Party (NDP), and the Greens, it's ultimately a fight between the Liberals and the Progressive Conservatives for top prize. (Quick note: The Prime Minister of Canada's Conservative Party of Canada is so universally hated in Ontario that Ontario conservatives chose to retain the party's old name to put as much distance as possible between themselves and his social policies; hence Progressive Conservative).

The PC party has been out of power for almost a decade now and they're really feeling antsy and mean. So they've decided to make the whole election about leadership and who is best suited to run the province – their guy who's never held public office, or the Liberal whose been premier for almost ten years. Since logic won't win that battle, they've gone for scare tactics instead.

You would think that telling everyone to circle the wagons because renegade Redskins are on the war path would be a little dated, but that's their tactic and it might just play well enough in some parts of the province to win them extra seats. About one hundred-and fifty years ago, the province of Ontario leased treaty lands from Mohawks across Southwest and South-East Ontario. Some how or other it slipped their minds that they didn't own the land and have had a grand old time selling it off to developers to build everything from gravel pits to housing developments.

In the past two years, this has blown up in their faces with Mohawks occupying a building site just outside of Caledonia Ontario in Western Ontario, and blockading the highways in Eastern Ontario in protest over the sale of treaty lands to developers. Since treaty disputes fall under the auspices of the federal government to resolve, there's not much the province can do except to try and make sure the situation doesn't get too ugly.

The people who have paid for homes and are still waiting for them to be built aren't thrilled and neither are the developers who can't finish the homes. They need someone to blame for their troubles, and the PCs are more than willing to point the finger at the Liberals for them.

By saying things like real leadership would uphold the law, they are letting the people know they wouldn't let a bunch of pesky Redskins hold up a housing development. Then they point to the blockades happening in the other parts of the province and say, look what happens if you give these people an inch, they'll take a mile. Who know what will happen if you don't elect us, they could come after your house tomorrow!

I find it amazing that with all the real issues that face most western societies these days, like jobs and housing, that modern political parties can still play the race card and fear of "others" so successfully. But then again nobody has ever accused a politician of having a conscience when it comes to trying to win power.

With the primaries getting into full swing in the United States, and Canada probably heading for a federal election within the next year, it will be interesting to see how much low people are going to be willing to stoop to gain power. We'll probably soon hear all about how much Hilary Clinton hates American soldiers, or how much Prime Minister Steven Harper hates everybody whose not white Anglo-Saxon, as everybody tries to find a way of making us fear their opponents.

Wouldn't it be nice if somebody tried to convince us of why we should like and trust them, instead of why we should fear and distrust their opponents? Maybe that's why so few people vote anymore – politicians don't even like themselves enough to give people reasons to vote for them.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:32 PM | Permalink

In Canada we start the family obligation - holiday season a lot earlier than our neighbours to the South. This weekend that just past was our version of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, and while it doesn't start the official opening of the panic before Christmas, it does mark the beginning of the long descent into family hell.

Does that sound a wee bit bitter? Could be because it is. Now I'm not saying that there aren't families who genuinely enjoy each other's company, and look forward to the times they get together as a single unit. However, isn't it about time we acknowledge that there are an equal number who would as soon skinny dip with piranhas as spend "quality time" with their families.

Why is it that we consider the family unit so sacred in the first place? True there are other examples in the animal kingdom of families staying together; prides of lions, wolf packs, and troops of the great apes and monkeys are either made up of family groups or are a family unto themselves. But that's largely due to their need for either safety in numbers or for ease of hunting.

Humans on the other hand don't stay together as a physical unit after a certain age, but are expected to still recognise an obligation to those of the same bloodline. Somehow or other because somebody was responsible for bringing you into the world we're told our lives are irrevocably connected. Children may have left home ages ago, but still are at the beck and call of parents as if they still live at home.

Independence is primarily an illusion of space within the family unit as every decision taken by one member is second-guessed or analysed by the rest. If you're the parent the children will wonder if there is something wrong with you if act differently from the way they think a parent is supposed to act. A child can't make a career choice or pick a romantic partner without everybody within the family feeling justified in passing judgement.

Depending on the moral and religious code that a family follows the approval or disapproval of the family over a person's choices can be grounds for disagreement, or even worse control of a person's life completely. Supposed adults are still told whom they can marry, what they are allowed to wear, and what they should be doing with their lives.

All of this is supposedly being done with "your best interests at heart", but in reality whose best interests are being expressed? If a person within in a family unit decides she or he would like to go to university, but no one else in the family has graduated from high school, how is anybody going to be able to understand that person's ambition?

There is a really good chance that they won't be able to understand the desire to receive an education just for the sake of learning, and will see it only as a waste of time because they don't see a job at the end of the line. So their response to that person will be couched in those terms and little or no attempt will be made to appreciate their ambitions because it doesn't fit within their body of experience.

Families are like any society in that they are geared to the lowest common denominator so that those in charge don't feel like their authority is being tested or challenged. In fact, there are quite a number of ways in which the family is merely a microcosm of the society around them. Haven't you noticed how it is set up along the lines of the chain of command within most religious bodies?

A patriarch who makes all the final decisions; a matriarch who is supposed to nurture everybody as well as create life, and the kids who are supposed to grow up to reprise the roles of their parents. The problem is that nobody is screening people to see if they're qualified to fill those positions. Just because you're a man doesn't automatically give you any magic ability to be fair and impartial let alone wise enough to make decisions that will affect another person's life forever. And, believe it or not, there are actually women who are not suited to be mothers and who ought not be allowed within a hundred miles of anybody requiring a little unconditional love.

But none of that is important to those who hotly defend the concept of family that we are living with right now. For them it is about the ability to control people's behaviour. By making claims as spurious as "the family is the backbone of our nation", they give unwarranted power to the father, who then is able to exert control over the rest of the family and ensure they play by the rules set out by society. It's in their best interest after all, as it gives them their own personal fiefdom to rule over in much the same way as the divine right given to Kings in days gone by.

In these families when people talk of love they are really saying duty and obligation. When they talk of responsibility they are really talking about emotional blackmail and the power of guilt. How else would you describe a system where a person can say do this for me because of who I am in relation to you. There's no talk of earning respect, only that it's due, no matter how badly somebody behaves.

At holidays like the one that just passed in Canada, people are obligated to go and visit with people they may not want to have anything to do with. Is it any wonder that so many family events end up with people getting far too drunk and arguing? Resentment, booze, and unhappiness are a volatile mix, and it doesn't take much to spark that fire.

Both the holiday season and election season are upon us on both sides of the 49th parallel these days. That's a mixture guarantying that we're going to hear quite a lot of bullshit about families from advertising executives, politicians, and religious leaders. The next time you hear that sort of drivel coming from a sanctimonious mouth think about the families you know, even your own, and compare their reality with the myth that's being propagated.

It really makes you wonder what else they know nothing about, doesn't it?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:31 PM | Permalink

I had to replace my laptop a little while ago. The old one had put up a good fight, but after two years, a thousand articles, two drafts of a novel, and two books of compilations, she finally surrendered to the inevitable. For a hundred dollars I couldn't have asked any more from her, but it still meant that my wife and I would have to share our desktop.

Now she has often said that she thinks what I do is important, for a lot of reasons, and I appreciate that. However, that doesn't mean I'm not going to feel guilty about monopolizing the computer and preventing her from doing the things she enjoys doing. So it meant there was a certain amount of urgency to find me another computer.

Not so long ago a friend of ours had offered us an old tower to use as back up for music and graphic files. I figured if that offer was still available it would make a good stopgap until I could find another affordable laptop. I called our friend and she said no problem she'd have it ready in a day for me; she wanted to completely dump the machine's hard drive.

Ten minutes later she called me back and said: "Let me buy you a lap top, I've got some extra money and I can afford "x". To say I was taken aback and grateful has to be the understatement of the year. This is a person whose finances up until a year ago were so bad that she almost lost her house. But through some fortune and luck she found herself solvent and with money to spare.

As she put it, one of the great things about having extra money was that she was in a position to be able to do things like buying me a new used laptop without having to even think about it. What I find amazing is that a person whose existence has been fairly hand to mouth for years – a single mom raising three boys – is able to understand the concept of extra money while people who make thousands of dollars a week can't.

The money she spent on my laptop would have bought food for a month for her and the one son who still lives at home, or she could have just frittered it away on things. I wouldn't have begrudged her a penny of it, because she'd been so long without money to spend on herself. But she had bought everything she wanted and needed for her self, given each of her sons money to do with as they felt, and that was enough for her.

So this was all wonderful, I ordered a slightly newer model of what I had before, with a little more power and a slightly bigger hard drive. It also came with a DVD player, something I thought would be very useful for reviewing purposes as I can now watch movies anywhere I can plug in. But most important to me was the fact that it came with a dial up modem.

I know for most people that's not usually high on their list of priorities, but we haven't been able to afford the jump to high-speed yet (although that might be changing soon) so a dialup modem is an essential. Needless to say when the laptop showed up and I couldn't find any place which even looked like you could plug a phone line into it I was a wee bit perturbed. I double-checked the advertisement on the website, and the receipt they had sent with the laptop, and they both included a 56k modem as being part of the computer.

I immediately phoned the store and was told by the gentleman who answered, that there was a modem, and the inputs were on the right hand side. I said that unless they were making 56k modems without phone jacks anymore there wasn't one, and what did he plan on doing about it?

First he made the generous offer of allowing me to pay for shipping it back to him, which I declined. I suggested that he send me out a 56k modem for the removable card slot and I'd be happy with that. He agreed to that and said "by the end of the week". That was August 27th. For the next four weeks I phoned; I was polite, I threatened, and I begged and still received the same answer – we're waiting for a reply from our head office.

I finally had enough and phoned the credit card company whose card I had used to order the machine. They assured me that if worse came to worse they would go after them for the money needed for me to purchase the modem. The next time I phoned them I managed to find out where their head office was, and when they refused to do anything I sent a threatening email to the head office explaining the circumstances and what I would do if I hadn't heard back from them in two days.

Ten minutes later I received an email back saying they would express post the modem directly to me from Vancouver the next business day. "We had no idea you wanted the part so urgently" was their excuse. It took all my willpower not to write them back and ask them what they used their brains for, as it obviously wasn't customer service. Instead I simply said yes that would be fine.

They obviously had plenty of removable 56k modems in stock, and brand new ones at that, because when it arrived last Wednesday the box was still shrink wrapped and all the parts were brand spanking new. Why then did it take them nearly six weeks to send me one? Why did they only respond when I threatened them? Why couldn't they just have sent me out the part I needed as soon as they knew it was missing?

Maybe you'll think I'm over reacting, but to me this is indicative of so much that is wrong with our society. If you don't use violence, or an equivalent, no one pays any attention to you. That doesn't strike me as being the sign of a caring society, or at least any I'd recognize as such. Come to think of it, there's not much proof of us being that caring anywhere you look.

Would a caring society allow corporations to charges thousands of dollars to people for a drug that could keep them alive? Would it spend trillions of dollars on war and weaponry when people all over the world go to bed hungry or live in the squalor of refugee camps? Is it any wonder that people all around the world think the only way they can get our attention is through violence?

I'm not saying I agree with that tactic, but all they see is so much evidence of our ability to ignore the plight of other people. With that in mind, it becomes easier to at least understand how people can find themselves so frustrated with waiting for a peaceful resolution to their plight that they resort to violence as an answer.

I know it seems like I've take a huge leap from the business of buying a computer to terrorist attacks, but the one is just a milder instance of the same flaw in our society that causes the other. We have forgotten what generosity means, and I don't just mean being free with money. It's about being receptive to other people's plight and responding to it with positive action and not passing the buck.

Why is that so difficult for us to understand?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:30 PM | Permalink

Do you ever wonder how much longer we're gong to be able to pretend that there's nothing wrong with the world? Let me be clear here, I'm not just pointing my finger at the West or American here; I'm talking all of us. From the politburo in China, to Whitehall in England, from The Hague, to the Black Sea, from The Amazon Basin to The Outback, and everywhere in between and all around.

We've got business interests making as much money as they possibly can this very minute every, and anywhere. They don't care if they use ten your old girls in their factories or if they're selling those same girls as whores to wealthy clients, it's all money. People like stone washed jeans so we will strip mine pumice from mountains, use sulphuric acid to separate out the impurities, and make lots of money from the jeans for the year they are fashionable.

The factory fishing boats pulled up to the Grand Banks off Newfoundland and filled up their holds with fish, canned them and started all over again. Who needs a catch limit – the fish won't run out. In Japan and Northern Ontario paper companies used the nice clean water of the rivers rushing by their factories to help clean out the giant presses and they did a great job of washing the mercury out of the equipment and into the water system. It's okay though because the water is moving so it will clean itself.

The International Monetary Fund decides to give one of the deserving countries in Africa a helping hand instead of a handout. All they have to do is be a little financially responsible and they will get their loan. Cutting all social spending is a good start – people who never had education or health care aren't going to miss it anyway are they? Oh and you can't block foreign companies from owning your national resources either - it's a global economy now don't you know?

Oh and not to worry if you think you're going to having problems making your interest payments on time – you'd be surprised how few things really are essential services. Who needs roads to all these isolated areas – no body goes there do they? With so few people, having indoor washroom facilities why do you need to build sewers anyway? It's just wasting the money you could be using to pay the interest on the loan. See it's easy if you just use common sense.

There're people dying by the thousands if not millions in Africa from the spread of HIV/AIDS but we can't corrupt their morals by offering them condoms to help stop the spread of disease. Giving prostitutes condoms to hand out to their clients for protection will encourage them to have sex out of wedlock instead of waiting for Mr. Right to come along like they should.

Anyway, it's Africa, and people are always dying of something there; this country has a civil war, that country has a famine, and despots rule the rest anyway. It's not as if they have contributed anything to the world except refugees and starving mouths to feed so it's no big loss. Between Europe and North America most of the oil, gold, and other valuable natural resources have been locked up for the next few decades already – without the slave trade there's not much else of value left.

The increases in severe weather systems don't need to be a cause for alarm, instead they should be thought of as opportunities for change. Look what happened after the tsunami in South East Asia; all those messy fishing shacks and villages were washed away and new fancy hotel and condominium complexes have come up in their place.

Instead of having to perform the back breaking labour of fishing and living without electricity and running water, the former fishermen and their families now have nice clean service industry jobs and live in apartment blocks with all the amenities in one room. Some of them had never even seen a television or lived above ground level before if you can believe that...?

There's only so long I can even write like that without feeling sick to my stomach. I hope to God that there aren't people out there who still think like that. I have a sick feeling that there are more of them then I want to know about, and that far too many have positions of power.

There aren't many days that something doesn't strike me about our outrageous hubris in thinking that just because we as human's do something it's the right thing to do. There're the idiots who call themselves environmentalists because they move into a desert environment and proceed to plant trees. The fact that they are messing with one of the most delicate ecosystems in the world by introducing something with the deep thirsty root system of a maple or other deciduous tree that disrupts the water table escapes them completely.

That sort of behaviour may not appear like much to some of you, but it's an indication of just how thoughtless we've become. If we care that little about where we live, how are we going to be able to care about someone else's life and where they live? If we can't get it together soon and stop pretending that everything's okay everything could start falling apart at the seams. Another couple of Katrina's or another tsunami or two and not only will the cracks start showing, but the walls will start coming down.

Then we're all going to have to get used to living without electricity or running water

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:02 PM | Permalink

If you want to know a people, know their stories; I don't know if anyone ever said that to me, or it was just something I came to, but what I do know is that it's a truth that's proven itself to me time and time again. About fifteen years ago, I was interested in finding out more about Native American cultures and people and started to do a lot of reading.

The first thing I realised was there was no such thing as an "Indian Culture" in the way we would define it in terms of our own people. What is true for one Nation is not necessarily true for another, and even within Nations, things can be done differently from one village to another. However, that doesn't stop stories from offering universal insights into how people lived. In spite of language and other cultural differences, people who lived in the North East part of North America shared many life experiences that were expressed through story.

In his wonderful book The Manitou Basil Johnson, an Ojibway from Northern Ontario, gathered together stories about the good and bad spirits that had been told by his people for countless years. The majority of the stories were of the life lesson variety, and were used to instil in young people an understanding of what it took to live a good life, and what it took to survive.

Of course, there were other kinds of stories that Native people told each other. Since we're heading into the time of year when story telling was permitted; the earth is asleep during the winter and there is less chance of being overheard by those who you might want to mention in a story. If you talk about a spirit in a story when the earth is awake, you might as well just invite him back to live with you for eternity.

Now anybody can tell you a story, but not everybody is a storyteller. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to listen to stories in the middle of winter, I'm going to want to hear somebody who can do a good job of it. Which means we're all in luck because one of the best in the business, Joseph Bruchac has just released Wabi: A Hero's Tale through Penguin Canada.

Joseph Bruchac has been telling stories for years now and has published over one hundred books of story compilations, or as in the case of Wabi, stand alone novellas. His major focus as a storyteller has been on educating his own people, specifically young people, about their cultural heritage and through that instilling a positive message about being native.

In the case of Wabi, the name means brave one, the story concerns being proud of who you are, and maintaining your identity no matter what the circumstances. That our lead character, Wabi, in this story is an owl who is able to understand all the other creatures, and talks to his greatgrand mother in human language, makes the question of identity very important.

Before anybody makes any wild guesses, some evil sorcerer or witch did not turn him into an owl, he was born an owl. Nor was he taught the other creatures' languages by his great-grandmother, he was born with the knowledge. He must have inherited it from someone he thinks, but who? He also wonders why he's so interested in the human village that lies within his hunting range. He figures it can't be normal for an Owl to sit in a tree and eavesdrop on human during the day when he should be sleeping. But he figures since he does have these special gifts that he might as well put them to good use.

He appoints himself guardian of the village and protects it against the evil beings that still roam the earth. For a while, he is contented with that role, until one day he realizes he has fallen in love with one of the young women of the tribe. As long as he's an owl, he knows that he will never be able to be with her, and his daydream of having her join him on his branch is completely unrealistic.

He seeks out his great-grandmother again, and asks her why he is able to understand human speech, and this time she explains all. Her mate had been a man who had turned into an owl, and Wabi's mother had also been a human and had actually only just become an owl a short while before he had been born.

Of course, all this is very fantastical, and the story is a fantasy, but what's wonderful about it is the way Bruchac never once makes a big deal about it. The magic and the real, the fantastic and the ordinary blend to form a very realistic world where it seems perfectly normal for all this to coexist and provide the catalyst for the action of the story. Part of the reason why it all works so smoothly is that Bruchac has a fine ear for descriptive writing.

His descriptions of the various locales that Wabi travels to, from lush forests to desolate wastes serve the reader well in providing us with visual references to place the action in. The good storyteller is able to tell his or her tale through a virtual slide show that is created by their words. Joseph Bruchac is an excellent storyteller and not only is he able to illustrate his locations, but even moments of action come to life in the reader's minds eye.

In theory, Wabi: A Hero's Tale was written for teenagers, but as far as I'm concerned people of all ages will gain from reading this book. Not only will it provide you with a good introduction to the world of Native American mythology and storytelling you might actually learn a little about self-identity on the way. No matter what "body" you're wearing you are who you are and that can never be taken away from you.

Joseph Bruchac's Wabi: A Hero's Tale can be purchased by Canadians directly from Penguin Canada or through an online retailer like Amazon Canada.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:43 PM | Permalink

Once upon a time in a far off kingdom lived four young princes all called Ramone. Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee, and Tommy lived in the principality of Queens, and like all young stalwarts dreamed of performing great feats of daring-do. They decided they would take up arms in the war for the hearts and minds of the people of their fair realm and become rock and roll musicians.

Now, in the dark days of the early 1970s, rock and roll music and those who played it were committing the cardinal sin: taking themselves seriously. Instead of playing for their audiences, regressive, progressive musicians acted like the audiences should be grateful they were allowed to listen to them.

The Ramones saw this and knew it was not right. Their path was clear; they would take up the cudgel of the "less then three minute pop song" and beat the oppressive, regressive progressives roundly about the chops and send them packing. The people would rejoice and freedom would reign once again in the world of rock and roll.

The Ramones knew their battle would not be an easy one. Their road would be fraught with difficulty and they would face many challenges they could not anticipate. Drunk sound men intent on rendering their vocals incomprehensible and making their instruments sound like mud; devious bar owners who would hold back on their fair recompense; and blinkered record executives who wouldn't understand what they were listening to was only some of what they could expect to deal with. But deal with it, they did.

So it came to pass that in 1974 the four princes of punk donned their armour of black leather, ripped t-shirts, and black stove pipe jeans. They armed themselves with guitar, bass, drums, and attitude and set forth on their crusade. Over the next two decades, in concerts spanning the known world, they spread the gospel according to the Ramones: 1) There is no speed but fast, except maybe faster; 2) Why play two chords when one will do; and 3) When in doubt play louder and faster.

It seems like only yesterday you couldn't turn around without seeing a Ramone clone. Those young men and women slavishly adhered to the dress code espoused by their heroes as a mark of their devotion to the tenets of the band could be seen on the streets of every major city in North America. But those days are past and until recently all we had were our memories and CDs to remind us of the days when punk was young and fun.

Those of us who wish to recapture some of those moments of glory, and those who may have missed out on the power and, dare I say it, beauty of the Ramones in full throttle with overdrive, finally have the opportunity. Rhino Home Video in conjunction with The Ramones have released a new two disc DVD set Ramones: It's Alive 1974 –1996 commemorating those years of mayhem.

From their earliest days at CBGB's to stadiums in Argentina and stops in between, the two discs of this set provide an amazing record of the band's performance history. Dubious sound and picture quality notwithstanding on some of the early tracks, the atmosphere is more than enough compensation. How much footage is there of any band playing CBGB's in 1974 let alone the Ramones at that early stage of their career?

The first five chapters on disc one are really no more than historical archives. So bad are the sound and video quality, they are almost impossible to watch or listen too. (Ironically of the five, the first gig at CBGB's from 1974 is the best of the lot) It's not until chapter six, eight songs recorded at CBGB's in 1977 are we able to see the band, as they deserve to be seen.

Not only that, those eight songs are also probably some of their best known; "Blitzkrieg Bop", "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker", "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue", and "Rockaway Beach" are four tracks that show the band at their finest, minimalist selves. "Blitzkrieg Bop" is a full frontal, rock and roll assault that takes no prisoners, "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker" and "Rockaway Beach" are pure nonsense, pop fun, and "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue" is summed up by the title – don't you think?

Of course, in as long and checkered career as the Ramones have enjoyed, there are bound to be some bizarre anomalies in their concert history. For me the biggest of these, as represented on these discs, are both from television appearances. Disc one's moment from the twilight zone was their appearance in 1977 on Don Kirshners' Rock Concert. The contrast between Kirshner's complete lack of vocal expression, the zombies in his studio audience, and the Ramones having a pulse, couldn't have made it more obvious that Kirshner was part of what the Ramones were rebelling against.

Disc two's moment from television's land of truth being stranger than fiction was their appearance on the musical – variety show Sha Na Na, hosted by the band of the same name. Sha Na Na had always been a bit of a parody band, who can forget their star turn at Woodstock, and by the time of this filming in 1980, the joke had worn thin. The Ramones sharing the stage with these pseudo-greasers almost made the Kirshner appearance look normal.

But those two spots were all part of the Ramones experience, and this collection is nothing if not exhaustive and all-inclusive. Where possible the producers have brought the sound quality up to 5.1 digital surround sound and done their best to restore the poorer quality footage into something that's at the very least a valuable historical record.

Even though the Ramones may never have broken through to mass audiences, they changed the face of popular music when it desperately needed a face-lift. Preceding the Punks in England by a couple of years their influence can't be dismissed. Ramones: It's Alive 1974-1996 is a wonderful documentation of their performance history, and anybody who claims to have a passion for rock and roll needs to own this record of the seminal punk band of the early 1970s.

The Ramones were the first champions to take up arms in the name of rock and roll's soul, and for that they deserve a place on the honour roll of music history. The fact that their music was a hell of a lot of fun just makes it that much more appropriate.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 12:34 AM | Permalink

I received an interesting Press Release through the email the other day from an Arts publicity organization in India. It was announcing a special performance of the score to the movie about the life of The Mahatma – Gandhi – in honour of the United Nations declaring October 2nd, his birthday, International Non-Violence Day.

I have to say that I'm having an extremely hard time with that proclamation: International Non – Violence Day. The only thing I can think of is that some bright spark at the U.N. figured they could kill two birds with one stone by honouring Gandhi's birthday and throwing a bone to India in recognition of their new status as rising economic power. Aside from that I can't think of any other reason for even considering such a meaningless gesture.

You don't have to look very far to see how empty the proclamation is. I'm not even referring to any of the wars that are currently ongoing around the globe right now, or the actions of oppressive governments everywhere to curtail the rights of their peoples. Sure they all reflect badly on our ability to live in peace or to be considered advocates for a non-violent life, but they are only symptoms of a deeper-seated malaise.

As a species, our predilection for violence amongst ourselves probably started the first time one group of early men thought that another's hunting territory was better. There was never any thought of seeing whether the two groups combing forces and sharing the territory in an effort to feed both tribes might not be to everybody's benefit. No it's always "us" or "them" with never any thought given to "we".

Of course when the empire builders started up, Phillip of Macedonia and his son Alexander, who were followed eventually by the first great Western Empire –Rome it meant whole new reasons for fighting. Most of them had less to do with the survival of the tribe and more to do with personal glory, although those who fought against Rome would have thought of their war as battles for survival more then anything else.

Once these guys had set the precedent of trying to make the world a better place by giving everyone the present of civilization whether they liked it or not, because we know what's good for you even if you don't, you ignorant, barbarian savages, everyone decided they wanted to take a stab at it.

The Mongol Hordes in the East, under the various Khans taught everyone the value of fierceness and swordplay from the back of a horse. The Islamic world got it's own back for the Crusades by invading and occupying great chunks of Europe and keeping the West out of the Middle East from 1200 until the end of World War One.. While in Europe itself first the Spanish, and then the French took turns in occupying most of Central and Western Europe. And when they fell back the Austro-Hungarian Empire took over until the end of World War One.

Of course that doesn't even begin to cover what was going on outside of Europe when they discovered there were other countries that needed the benefits of a good Christian/Muslim upbringing. From the Western Hemisphere to the Indian Ocean and China, colonial empires expanded and contracted with the passing of the years. There were also the Civil wars that tore countries apart because of differences in opinion on religion and economic issues that left thousands if not millions dead and deep scars in the social fabric that have yet to heal even to this day.

Of course every time there was some sort of minor disagreement between countries they would solve it by meeting on the battlefields of Europe and come to a civilized agreement by killing each other's peasants by the thousands. So people like George Bush and his cronies are simply carrying on the ages old tradition of getting your own way by any means necessary.

It's become such an ingrained part of our social fabric that the majority of us live our lives with the understanding that if we ever want to accomplish anything we're going to have to resort to violence of some sort. It doesn't have to be physical all the time either; emotional and psychological violence can be even more effective in a social setting.

How often have you had to resort to some sort of intimidating action to get what you've wanted from someone who hasn't been willing to follow through on a contract? From withholding payment to threatening court action you are still using coercion or threats instead of trying to seek a peaceful resolution to your problem.

What's truly unfortunate is how difficult it is to come to a compromise with people, and it's not until you offer to escalate matters that some people will listen to you. We've become so used to that sort of behaviour it seems the majority won't do anything unless forced to – it's like you won't be taken seriously until you put a gun to someone's head.

In some instances violence or other forms of non-passive behaviour can't be avoided and a person or a country is left with no recourse but to explore other means. But for far too many of this world's people, and especially our leaders, violence remains their first option and other means are discarded far too quickly.

For the United Nations to come out and say that from now on October Second will be now be considered a day for honouring Non-Violent behaviour as a mark of respect to Mahatma Gandhi is a bit ridiculous. Those who practice non-violent resistance in most societies these days are treated like outcasts and unpatriotic because they don't think what their government does in their name with violence is something to be proud of or to condone.

Oh sure it's alright when people do it other countries against governments we're told it's alright to disagree with, but when people at home do the same sort of thing that's different. Our governments would never deny us our rights or throw us in jail without trial like others do; we're a democracy after all. When we use violence it's all right and not something to be protested against.

When the United Nations was formed in 1945 it was with the purpose of creating a body where the world's nations would be able to resolve their differences without having to resort to warfare. The only problem is that most countries simply ignore the idea of a peaceful resolution, and then proceed to heap scorn of the U.N. for not accomplishing anything.

Until governments begin to practice the type of non-violence advocated by The Mahatma, October second will simply serve as a reminder of how far we as a species have to go before we can really be called civilized.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:04 PM | Permalink

You know sometimes I just wish people didn't feel like they had to label every single last permeation possible when it comes to music. At least we've got to draw a line somewhere don't you think? Jazz/Funk fusion I can cope with; maybe I can even get my head around Jazz/Funk/Blues, but Trip/Hip-hop/Funk/Pop/House/Punk/Blues- Jazz? That's a little much don't you think?

Okay so that doesn't exist, but you could almost believe it can't you? If I had left out House and maybe the hop of Hip-hop you would have bought it for sure. That's not the point anyway; the point is doesn't there come a time when the non-musicians need to shut up and let the musicians play? Every time somebody so much as even thinks about another genre of music while playing, the hyphens start flying. You know it's all in fun until somebody loses an eye kids, and the way hyphens are getting chucked around music these days we're lucky most bands aren't called "So and So and their guide dogs."

You know what makes the whole fusion thing even more ridiculous. Show me one genre of popular music dating back to the early 1900's that's not the result of the fusion of two different types of music and I'll be really shocked. Hell, try to find any form of music dating back as far as you want into human history that's not fusion and you won't be able to. But do we call Beethoven Romantic/Neo Classical/Choral/Orchestral/Chamber/Baroque Fusion? Of course not, that would just be silly. But he did take all those elements and draw upon them for his orchestral works, because they were his musical influences.

Sort of like what Miles Davis must have done when he was creating music in the late 1960's and giving credit to James Brown for his influence. I'm wondering if the problem might lie with Jazz "purists" who don't want their pure blooded Jazz music to be diluted by anything so unsophisticated as Funk. I guess you don't have to know very much music history to be a Jazz purist, do you? Otherwise, they wouldn't be such dumb-asses to not know that Jazz and Funk come from the same source.

It might have been Miles who first started experimenting with combining Jazz and Funk, but it was people playing with him at the time that would go on to be that style's biggest proponents. Wayne Shorter played with Miles before he was part of Weather Report. In its heyday, Weather Report was the predominant modern Jazz band, the yardstick against which all other "fusion" bands were measured.

But that doesn't mean they were the best, or the only band of their type around; they were simply the most consistent and the most durable. In my opinion it was another ex Davis sideman, guitar player John McLaughlin, and his Mahavishnu Orchestra, who were the cream of the crop of all the new Jazz bands forming up in the early 1970s.

Unfortunately he was never able to hold a band together for long enough for them to really establish themselves. Each incarnation of the Mahavishnu Orchestra might be superb, but if there is a gap of more then two years between recordings you might as well have to start from zero again as far as the public is concerned. According to information in the liner notes to the Eagle Rock Entertainment release, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Live At Montreux 1984/1974 McLaughlin disbanded the group shortly after that 1974 concert and didn't reform it until 1983 with a completely new line up.

Live At Montreux 1984/1974 is a two disc DVD visual and audio record of those two extremely different concerts. (Unfortunately, only two tracks of video from the 1974 concert exist so four of the cuts are audio only) The major difference between the two concerts is the make up of the band. In 1974 they were far more like a real orchestra with Jean-Luc Ponty heading up a four person string section; there was also a flute and a horn player, drums, keyboard, and of course McLaughlin on guitar.

The line up in 1984 was far more along the typical jazz combo formation with keyboards, saxophone, bass, drums, and McLaughlin on guitar. The other big difference was the technology available in 1984 probably hadn't even been dreamed of when they were filming the first concert. A bank of four keyboards has replaced the organ used in the earlier concert and McLaughlin has a Synclavier 2 device (a rectangle coming off the body of the guitar) attached to one of his guitars that turns it into a keyboard. A far cry from a wah-wah pedal and whatever else was available for guitar players in the early seventies.

The picture of McLaughlin above might have been taken at the 1974 concert, as that's the guitar he was playing. Double-necked guitars were all the rage in the seventies among rock guitar heroes, but I'm sure none of them could do what McLaughlin could do on his. Then again, I don't think there are many guitar players alive who can do what he can do on any guitar.

Probably because it's all video, the 1984 concert is on disc one of this set. On the first track, "Radio Activity" the first solo goes to saxophone player Bill Evans on a soprano sax. Now that's pretty amazing, because there are not many players who will risk the temperamental nature of a soprano; if the temperature is even a couple of degrees too cold, it won't play, or even worse it will fight the musician the whole time. But, Evans' playing is immaculate, and he does a great solo.

Which makes it all the more remarkable that you forget him after only about two seconds of McLaughlin playing. It's been years since I've listened to him play guitar, but I don't think listening could have prepared me for seeing him play anyway. He doesn't sound like he's playing fast; his music just sounds full and rich. However, when you see him, you wonder how that can be possible. He moves so fast that he seems to barely have time to play individual notes, yet he produces the most beautiful sound I've ever heard from a plain electric guitar.

To be honest I started to get really annoyed with how much he began playing the synthesised guitar. He already had a gifted keyboard player in his band, but he was the only guitar player, and I would have much preferred to listen to him play guitar. In fact, after a while, I found it boring. Now others might not, that's just my preference; I've never been a big fan of electronic imitations when the real thing is readily available and usually sounds better.

Perhaps I don't have the ear necessary to appreciate the nuances of what he was doing, but I felt it took a lot of the soul, that is so important for Jazz to work, out of the music by utilizing the electronics so much. That became especially apparent when he would play a solo after Evans soloed on the saxophone. Going from an earthy sounding acoustic sound to the that of an electronic keyboard being played on a guitar was quite a letdown for me.

If disc one was disappointing because of the electronics used in 1984, disc two's excerpts from the 1974 concert more then compensated for it. First, there was the way in which the musicians around Ponty and McLaughlin created waves of sound that came in and out like a tide. Occasionally, peaking and staying at a high level of intensity as if the tide were all the way in, and then gradually it would subside, back to calm and low tide.

Overtop of this the two front men exchanged leads. Here again they differed from rock players, as the object wasn't to draw attention to themselves with their amazing solo work, but to augment and colour the sound that surrounded them. It was a marvellous example of improvisation and composition working in tandem as everybody but Ponty, McLaughlin, and the bass player, (Ralphe Armstrong) were playing off scores.

It was slightly more difficult to focus on the audio tracks that made up the balance of disc two, but they were more of the same, with the occasional ethereal feel thrown in thanks to some haunting vocalizations provided by Gayle Moran who also played the organ. In many ways, the 1974 concert was more like the performance of new contemporary orchestral works than a Jazz concert. In fact, aside from a Ralphe Armstrong solo at one point, I'm hard pressed to think of any examples of funk being played by anyone in this so-called fusion group.

While the sound in 1984 was more refined and less soulful then what was on display in 1974, I would still wonder at its designation as fusion. To me the word fusion was created by folk who wanted to limit Jazz to a very linear definition. Jazz by its nature is supposed to be about improvisation and innovation or it runs the risk of stagnation. If Jazz had never "fused" with other music in the first place, everybody would still be playing it on banjos and washboards.

The Mahavishnu Orchestra of John McLaughlin as seen in the DVD set Live At Montreux 1984/1974 is a great example of just how broad a net Jazz casts when it comes to the types and style of music that fall within its domain. So forget the labels for a while and sit back and enjoy the show – because that's what it's really all about after all, isn't it?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 10:43 AM | Permalink

Have you ever stopped to consider where your thoughts come from, or at least how one thought leads to another until you have an unbroken chain that's taken you from an A to a Zed that have nothing in common with each other? That thing called a brain that's stuck up between our ears can do the most amazing things without us even noticing. One minute you could be talking about what you'd like for lunch, the next planning your own funeral.

In the early part of the twentieth century, James Joyce and Virginia Wolfe began experimenting with a style of writing called stream of consciences in attempts to chart the workings of the thought process. Since then, quite a few writers have followed in their footprints with varying degrees of success. Trying to recreate the continual flood of information that most of process from second to second without it becoming an exercise in tedium is a difficult and painstaking process.

Ideally, the author will utilize stream of conscience at points throughout a novel as a means of letting a character justify his or her behaviour, and to give the reader deeper insight into him or her. Of course, if as the reader we don't give a damn about the character it was all just wasted ink and paper.

Stepping into someone else's thoughts can generate a slew of feelings in a reader. But I must say that David Thewlis' novel The Late Hector Kipling is the first that's made me feel like I was rubber necking at a car accident, trying to spot the corpse as I drove by slowly. Published in Canada by Penguin Canada this brilliant piece of satire, written in the first person, on the world of contemporary visual art and artists, charts the collapse of Hector Kipling's life from successful artist with loving girlfriend to nut-job.

Along the way, we are introduced to one of the most wonderful collections of misfits and dysfunctional characters I've had the pleasure of meeting between the pages of a book in the longest time. There's Kirk who paints pictures of cutlery, Hector's oldest friend Lenny Snook who does billboard campaigns for bottled water in his underwear when he's not doing award winning conceptual art that involves filling a Cadillac with blood and digging a hole in a gallery floor.

But it's the world of contemporary art that is the true eccentric in this book. Hector has made his name by selling huge portraits of people's heads and is able to make a good living from the proceeds. But, he's not the one being nominated for an award. He's plagued with self-doubts about whether giant heads are what the world needs more of, and when a motorcycle accidentally drives through the centre of his first self-portrait, it's like a sign from the Gods.

It hadn't been a good week up then for him anyway, earlier he had broken into tears in the Tate gallery in London England while looking at the "The Scream" by Edvard Munch (a pretty healthy reaction I would have thought). Then he finds out that Kirk has a brain tumour. What's especially disquieting about this is that he finds that he's actually jealous of Kirk.

It's not that he wants to die; but he'd give anything to get the kind of attention that Kirk is getting now. Of course if Kirk were to actually die then that would be different, because he, Hector, would then get some of that pity because he would be the fiend of a person who died of a brain tumour. One can only hope.

David Thewlis is best known for his portrayal of Remus Lupin in the Harry Potter movies, but with The Late Hector Kipling, his first novel, he proves that he is just as adept at writing as he is as acting. He has a wonderful ear for the ridiculous and a keen sense of the absurd that he puts to use with great effect. What's especially gratifying is the way everything comes to its illogical, logical conclusion in the end.

Perhaps being an actor he's used to balancing several thoughts in his head at once, but whatever the reason, the internal stream of conscience monologues he creates for Hector are wonderful examples of a mind that is always thinking. The only trouble is the thoughts the mind are thinking have started to veer away from rational and creative, into the realm of the bizarre and dangerous.

The transition from the eccentric and creative mind of a painter, to the state that Hector is in at the end of the novel is handled so deftly and subtlety that we barely notice it happening. The fact is that for many people who are artists the line between creative genius and mental instability is very thin and Hector is no exception.

If you like your comedy black, your satire pointed, and have a keen sense of the absurd than David Thewlis' The Late Hector Kipling will be your cup of tea. Biting, sharp, and wickedly funny, it exposes and explodes the conceits and pretensions of modern art with an intelligence and skill that is a pleasure to read.

Canadians can purchase The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis through Penguin Canada or an online retailer like Amazon.ca

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:49 PM | Permalink

I have to confess that when I think of Alaska, Blues, in any shape or form, are not something that first comes to mind. Than again there are those endless nights when the sun barely works up the nerve to stick his nose above the horizon line because the temperature is so damn cold. What else are you going to do 'side from singing the Blues?

Have you ever heard Inuit throat singing? Those songs are some of the deepest shades of Blue around. So if the Inuit are singing the Blues and they've lived in the country for thousands of generations, it only follows that transplanted souls from South of the Tree Line are going to be doing the same. It's a full moon, the temperature hasn't been above minus forty in weeks; I don't know about you, but I'd be howling at the moon with the dogs after a while.

Deering Down might have you howling at the moon, but that's only because they play a mean Memphis style Blues that harkens back to the days when country and rock and roll weren't separated by charts and business. If there were ever a Sun Record sound that permeated down through the generations, then this pair from the Northern reaches seemed to have been able to tap into it.

Lahna Deering and Rev Neil Down came to Alaska independent of each other, and came together through their mutual love of the Blues. After recording two critically well received albums on their own, Coupe de Villa and When A Wrong Turns Right, their third album Break This Record has been released on the new Diamond D. Records label. The disc was recorded in Memphis at Yella Brick Studios, and will go on sale in the United States nationwide on October 2nd 2007.

One of the first things you're going to notice when listening to this disc is the "Voice". Lahna Deering sings like she swallowed every great female voice of the past hundred years, mixed them in her soul, then projected them through vocal chords scrapped raw by passions thousands of years older then her twenty some years. Your going to hear a lot about her voice in the days to come, with people comparing her to everyone from Stevie Nicks to Janis Joplin, but that's not going to tell you squat until you hear her for yourself.

At first listen, the hard edged "Finally Found The One" that opens Break This Record, you might be a little disquieted by what you hear. Well that's not too surprising considering how rare it is to hear honesty at all anymore in pop music, let alone in life. But don't worry, like any other new and valuable experience, you'll soon find yourself wondering how you've survived this long without it.

If there is a more perfect accompaniment to Lahna's singing than Rev Neil Down's stripped down guitar wizardry I'd be surprised. Even with a full band behind them, you can still tell how well they compliment each other. There is a fine art to playing sparse lead guitar, instead of playing sixty-five notes a second and hopping to find the right one, you play the right one every time to far more affect. Ry Cooder, the late Zal Yanovsky of the Lovin' Spoonful, and Keith Richards when he's on, are masters of this, and Rev Neil Down is cut from the same cloth.

While Lahna's voice is in full roar, Rev Neil's guitar runs underneath filling in the blanks in a song's melody. It's almost like the guitar is singing along with her, but instead of harmonizing, it works as a counterpoint to emphasise her phrasing and emotion. Not many can carry this off, probably the only reason they succeed is because of all the miles they've traveled together, but when a guitar and voice come together like this, it's a beautiful duet.

Break This Record takes full advantage of this rare combination by showcasing all its possibilities. From the previously mentioned hard edged "Finally Found The One", the soulful "Richard Of Los Angeles", to the Country flavoured Blues of "City Cow Girl", Deering & Down show they can handle anything the Blues can throw at them.

Deering's voice becomes even more effective when she slows down, especially evident on "Richard Of Los Angeles" and "Abbey". The latter is a deceptive song; I was shocked to see how simple the lyrics were when I read them over after listening to it. Deering had been able to suggest so much meaning with her voice, that I heard more then what was actually being said.

To be able to communicate a sub-text is a remarkable accomplishment for any singer, and on reading through the lyrics of other songs on the disc, I saw that this was the case on more than just "Abbey". Not only does that indicate a singular vocal talent, it says volumes about the talent involved in creating the songs and the production of the album. There are subtleties at work that only incredibly skilled people can bring out, and that is a nod to the talents of Rev Neil Down, who took the lead in producing this disc.

The days of the Gold Rushes to Alaska and the Klondike might be long over, but that doesn't mean you still won't find the occasional treasure buried up above the Tree Line. On Break This Record Deering & Down prove there is still gold up in the tundra, you just have to look for it different places now.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:15 PM | Permalink

I don't know how many people remember when Video Art was first making its presence felt in galleries. It was in the days prior to the proliferation of home computers and DVD players in every house; in fact in the early eighties even CD players were only just becoming de-rigour if you wanted to be a cutting edge audiophile.

In order for Video Art to be seen artists would have to set up viewing booths in art galleries where the viewer could stand in front of a television set and watch about as much as they could stand and leave. This type of set up of course led to various connections being made between peep-show pornography and Video Art, and some of the more intelligent and humorous creators had a lot of fun with that when they created their installations.

Unfortunately, not many of them had such good senses of humour and took themselves far too seriously. Unfortunately a great deal of the content that was being produced at that time was of such a self-indulgent quality that the parallels to porn were also being born out in other ways aside from presentation. Masturbation is masturbation no matter what the medium, and there seemed far more of that on display then any serious attempts to use the technology for artistic purposes.

One of the problems was that because it took no real talent or creative skill to turn on a video camera; anybody and everybody was able to call themselves a "Video Artist". There was also a singular lack of real critical thought about the work as well, which meant that it took a long time for the genre to evolve. Thankfully most of the dilatants faded away after their one and only Arts Council grant, you were after all required to turn in a finished product in order to apply for a second grant, leaving the way open for serious artists to continue without embarrassment.

More then twenty years later the work being done has gone light years beyond what was being accomplished by people whose only tools were point and shoot video cameras. With the advances in computerized audio and video technology, Artists are able to marry the best qualities of sculpture, paint, film, and audio into presentations that are as emotionally powerful as anything hung on the walls of any gallery.

A case in point is the forthcoming release on DVD of Silence by the German duo known as Rechenzentrum. Mark Weiser, a member of the German New Music ensemble Zeitkratzer, handles the audio composition, while Video Artist and illustrator; Lillevan takes care of the visual side of things. As individuals, their talents are obvious, but their real genius comes in the way they are able to work as a single entity to produce spine tingling and emotionally powerful work.

Watching elements of Silence I was reminded forcibly of the emotional power of the best abstract art. Form and shape come together to stimulate an emotional response in the viewer; now imagine a continual shifting of form accompanied by complimentary audio and you will have some idea of the impact their work has.

The first piece on Silence, "Terra Incognita" begins with an overexposed photograph of a path through a rather pleasant appearing woodlands. Then Lillevan gets to work on manipulating the scene. At first, the effects look like they are too obviously effect for them to have any appreciable impact. However, as the scene continued to evolve, with first one part of the image changing and then another with the fluid grace of a dance, I began to get the feeling in the pit of my stomach I associate with fear.

Somehow, they had managed with the changing of imagery and music to turn what had started out as a nice pastoral scene into something that triggered a gut reaction of fear of the primordial forest. The hidden earth all right; that race memory that our genes carry of being afraid of what lurks in the dark woods at night because we know it could damn well have us for supper if we're not careful.

What I appreciated even more was that I didn't once feel like I had been manipulated into feeling like this. They had simply created the imagery and atmosphere necessary to trigger that reaction in a natural and organic fashion. It was brilliant.

Not all the pieces on this DVD appealed to me as much as that one and some others did. But, if you visit their web site you will find that they are continually experimenting with modes of expression to try and be as inclusive as possible. They perform these pieces everywhere from Art Gallery installations to dance clubs in Hong Kong and Berlin. Instead of playing it safe and finding a middle ground that will appeal to everyone and excite no one – they find ways in which they can communicate to each specific audience.

If the pieces they created for the dance club people are as effective as the ones on Silence that worked for me, this is an incredible accomplishment. Silence is like having an exhibit of thirteen separate paintings you can put into your DVD player at home any time you want. Like in any art gallery, you only have to look at what works for you, but now it's in the comfort of your own home – what more could you ask for?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:13 AM | Permalink