Leap In The Dark

Can there be no more inspiring a sight then a brave young captain of the hussars atop his charger leading his men into battle? His uniform gleaming white in the sun as his charger ploughs a furrow in enemy ranks and his sabre reaps its deadly harvest scything from side to side, separating a head from its shoulders here, cleaving another like a melon, while flashing like God's own thunderbolt brought down upon in retribution on heathen heads, he can not fail to stir the passions and the blood of any true Russian.

Is there no sight more likely to crush the heart to see his proud body brought down by a seemingly insignificant hole in the sacred white of his tunic? The new scarlet ribbon will be his final battlefield decoration - and although it attests to his courage as surely do all the other gilding upon the white canvas of his cloth combined - is not the cost paid for its awarding too high? One among the thousands of lives spent on the empty and endless road to Constantinople; a road that is destined to be denied Holy Mother Russia by either Turkish arms or European deceit.

Why even now, the Europeans are plotting ways to take away the gains that the blood of that brave hussar paid for. After eight hundred years of living under Turkish yoke the Christian states of Romania, and Serbia were liberated and guaranteed independence, and a new principality for Bulgaria has been established. But instead of celebrating the deeds of their brothers in Christ, the duplicitous Europeans - led by the nefarious British - are even now plotting to overturn the victories their armies had failed to accomplish in crusade after crusade.

But I see from the confusion that clouds your visage that I have jumped to the conclusion without giving you the benefit of the story that led up these events. As the full details are available for all to read in Boris Akunin's famous recounting The Turkish Gambit I will offer a truncated version here and encourage you to seek his detailed accounting at your leisure.

As is the case with all great histories this one has innocent beginnings; for what could be more innocent than the love of a woman for her betrothed? It's 1877 and all those who believe in the greater glory of Russia, be they reformers seeking rights for peasants or nobles of the court, know that their duty lies with the army fighting the infidel Turk. Young Varya Suvorova, whose heart overflows with her love of Russia and her desire to bring democracy to the people in equal measure, takes it upon herself to travel from St. Petersburg to the front so that she might rejoin her fiancee.

Disguising her womanly charms within the garb of a young man, she almost succeeds in making the journey without trouble, but fate in the shape of a dishonest guide finds her stranded, penniless in a roadside tavern of the worst sort in Romania. If not for the intervention of a mysterious young Russian she could have met with the sort of fate she had hopped her disguise would prevent. When she discovers that the mount he secures for her was won by betting her against it she is furious; a fury that is only doubled when she learns the identity of her saviour.

He is none other than Erast Fandorin, the hero of an earlier adventure recounted by our narrator in The Winter Queen where he uncovered a nefarious plot to place spies in positions of power and influence in governments around the world, a member of the special police assigned to protect the state from forces that would seek to do it harm. To Varya's way of thinking this makes him a lackey of the throne and an enemy of those like her who seek to change the system for the greater good of the people. So in spite of the fact that he saves her honour not once but twice before they have even reached her destination - she takes a decidedly frosty attitude towards the diffident young man with the stammer and prematurely white temple hair. (Those of you aware of the sad end to Erast's previous adventure, on what should have been the happiest day of his life, know full well the cause of those two slight imperfections to his appearance and manner)

While Varya is at the front in order to follow her heart, Fandorin is there to continue the hunt that started his career. The master mind behind the Turkish strategy both on the field of battle and domestically is the mysterious Anwar-enfendi, one of the spies who had infiltrated the highest reaches of government. Fandorin's mission is complicated by the fact that no one in the West knows anything about him save reputation and name; finding him might well be a task even beyond our hero's talents.

But when Russian battle plans are first tampered with, and then betrayed Fandorin knows that there can only be one culprit responsible. When Varya's betrothed comes under suspicion and is arrested, Fandorin knows he is innocent but will have to prove it to save an innocent man's life. But he now has a willing assistant in the shape of Varya, who is desperate to free her fiancee. But is Varya, who prides herself for her intellect, willing to take advantage of her comely shape, one that has already attracted much comment and attention from the flower of Russian manhood far from home, hearth, and female companionship, in order to investigate the matter?

Already she has felt herself be torn between being flattered or insulted by the attention, and indeed has been forced to remonstrate with herself quite fiercely after each occasion that she has been the cause of a duel (one which resulted in the death of a suspect) and been mortified at finding her modern mind unable to prevent her heart from being thrilled and flattered by the attention. But who she wonders, would not be made weak at the knees from the examples of male pulchritude on display.

While Varya is lamely fending off admirers with increasingly feeble reminders of her status as a woman already spoken for, she also observes how her benefactor Fandorin conducts himself in the course of his enquires. What puzzles her most is while quite naturally she continues to loathe him as an enemy of the people, and feel nothing but the deepest of devotion for her fiancee, how is it that she looks forward to Erast's return when he is absent, and indeed is forced to restrain an urge to fling her arms around his neck upon his return from a particularly protracted absence.

As narrator of the events contained with The Turkish Gambit Boris Akunin (alias for Grigory Shalvovich Chkhartishvili) once again has proven himself not only a master raconteur with a deft hand for developing character and a devious mind for plots, but also a fine eye and ear for style and caricature. While those who populate the pages of this story at times might appear larger than life in gentle satire of 19th century Russian literature, he never once lets them descend into the pit of buffoonery. At any time one or the other of them might rise to an occasion magnificently, proving that behind what appeared to be bluster was in fact an open heart, a brave soul, or a superior intellect.

I'm sure that at some time in our lives, all of us have been touched by the romantic illusion generated by the gallant figure of a cavalry officer perched atop his rearing horse urging his troop onward into the valley of death with cannon to the left and cannon to the right. Somehow their uniforms and courage rendered them in our minds invulnerable to bullets and the gore of war. Akunin has turned that image into a human being, not letting their charm or uniform serve as a barrier to musket fire or cannonade.

The second book of the adventures of Erast Fandorin is easily as enthralling as its predecessor, and we gain a different perspective of our young hero as we see him through the eyes of another character for the first time. The cloak of sadness that he wears reminds us of his recent sorrow without once having to bring it up in detail, and offers sufficient motivation for his behaviour and his zeal in tracking down the elusive Anwar-enfendi.

The promise that was shown with the Winter Queen of a series of books that would be both fun and insightful has more than been matched its sequel The Turkish Gambit. I can't help looking forward now to the next instalment in the adventures of Erast Fandorion.

Canadian wishing to purchase a copy of The Turkish Gambit may do so directly from Random House Canada or through an online retailer like Amazon.ca

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:39 AM | Permalink

North Americans of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century have grown up with a horribly skewed impression of Russia. Years and years of indoctrination have caused us to dismiss one the oldest and most complex civilizations in history as simply the enemy without knowing or even attempting to understand its history or culture. Ever since the Western powers conspired to overthrow the popular revolution of 1918 by sending in troops to try and restore the Tsar to power, it's been an us and them situation that's only ever briefly abated.

The time it did abate was the one period in the last century when it appeared Russia was willing to bend its knee to the will of the west. But the moment the current government began to think for itself, to put its interests ahead of the interests of the West, the assault upon their character began again. Fear of the old Soviet Union shaped American foreign policy for fifty years, causing them to overthrow legitimate governments, prop up dictators, fight unpopular wars, and forge alliances that have since come back to haunt them. It's to be hoped that their reaction to the new Russian national pride won't be as extreme and they won't be as quick to judge Russia by their own standards.

But even back in the days before the Revolution, and all the crowned heads of Europe were still related to each other, Russia was considered different. Being on a different calendar, the Russian Orthodox differed by twelve days, practising another form of Christianity, and speaking a language with a different alphabet was enough to make them as alien to most Europeans as if they were from the Ottoman Empire of the Turks.

The oddity was the result this seemed to have upon the character of the educated Russian and the nobility. Where one might have expected an outburst of fervent nationalism as a reaction, instead the trend was to emulate the trends and styles of their cousin courts. It was common practice for the educated Russian to be at least fluent in French, if not German and English as well. Even after Napoleon had attempted to expand his empire into the Motherland, capturing Moscow in the process, a knowledge of French was considered de rigour for acceptance among the sophisticated and the elite.

So the fact that Erast Fandorin, a lowly clerk in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Russian Police in the 1870's, would speak fluent French, English, and German would not be considered too out of the ordinary. If there is anything out of the ordinary about Fandorin, it's the fact that he is a character in a book written by contemporary Russian author Boris Akunin and not someone brought to life by Tolstoy, Gorky, or Checkov during the nineteenth century.

Written in Russian in 1998, and translated into English in 2004 by Andrew Bromfield, Akunin's first Fandorin novel, The Winter Queen, could easily pass for the work of one of those great masters in tone and sensibility, while at the same time possessing a uniqueness of character and voice that sets it apart. Much like Spanish author Arturo Perez-Reverte's Captain Allatriste novels set in seventeenth century Spain, The Winter Queen pokes affectionate fun at the quirks of style and the modes of expression used in his predecessors' masterpieces.

Akunin, (Boris Akunin is the pseudonym used by Grigory Shalvovich Chkhartishvili) aside from being a novelist is a translator of Japanese, a critic, and an essayist in his native Russia. Since he began publishing the detective novels that feature Erast Fandorin in the central role, he has become the most widely read author in Russia and enjoys almost legendary popularity. So far ten stories featuring the adventures of the young hero of The Winter Queen have been published in Russia, of which four have been translated into English with the fifth due out in February of 2008.

But every hero has to have his or her origins, and in the case of Erast they are of the humblest. Although born into a genteel family, his mother died during his infancy and his father had squandered the entire family fortune and his life in such timely a fashion as to leave young Erast an orphan at nineteen, forcing him to seek gainful employment instead of continuing his studies at the university like other's of his generation.

Having sat his exams for government service, and passed with flying colours, he was appointed to his current position at his own request. Our first impressions of him as a romantic, ignorant of the workings of the criminal world, is based on the opinion of his superior. While it may be accurate based on his relaxed and old fashioned view of the world, we quickly realize that it was biased and unfair when Fandorin takes the lead in investigating the mysterious public suicide of a young aristocrat.

Fandorin's worth seems to become apparent when his first boss is replaced by an official from St. Petersburg who immediately promotes our hero and lets him carry the investigation abroad when he discovers a trail that leads to England. Through chance and his own ingenuity Fandorin uncovers a web of intrigue and betrayal that leads into the highest chambers of powers in capital cities around the world.

But will he survive long enough to get to the bottom of the mystery and uncover the true mastermind behind the deceit? Twice he has escaped death at the hands of the villains, and that was before he had even come close to pulling aside the curtain to reveal the hands controlling the levers. Who knows what lengths they will go to in order to prevent our stalwart from reaching the final stage of the investigation?

While readers who are not accustomed to the style being emulated by Akunin in The Winter Queen may be slightly nonplussed initially, once they accustom themselves to it they will find it quite enjoyable. Personally I've always had an affection for the naturalistic style of the nineteenth century, having some of the same predilections for adjectives and descriptive phrases, but I know most modern readers have grown used to terse texts that deliver just the facts at the expense of colour and may find the prose a shade of purple not quite to their liking. But I say to you persevere; put aside your prejudices and let yourself be seduced. A world of pleasure awaits you that you may never have experienced before.

Don't let memories of struggles to read War And Peace hold you back, Boris Akunin's work never descends to that level of turgid immobility. (And nobody has more then two names thank goodness - I spent the first half of War And Peace under the impression there were twice as many characters in the story as actually existed because of Tolstoy's propensity for diminutives, and even worse, second, third and even fourth names for some characters) He may have stylized his work in the manner of the nineteenth century but his pacing is pure twentieth and twenty-first, meaning the action moves along briskly and with enthusiasm.

If The Winter Garden is any indication of the type of fun that's in store from the rest of Boris Akunin's novels featuring Erest Fandorin, then there are hours of pleasure awaiting readers. He has somehow managed to balance the floweriness of nineteenth century naturalism with enough twentieth century realism to create a confection of wit and intelligence that won't set your teeth on edge with it sweetness nor purse your lips with its acridness. It's such a harmonious meeting of style and culture that it could serve as an example to many governments how seemingly disparate elements can coexist with ease.

If you live in Canada you can purchase a copy of The Winter Garden either directly from Random House Canada or from an online retailer like Amazon.ca.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:33 PM | Permalink

It's a strange and wondrous thing that the last twenty years has seen the writing of a woman whose been dead nearly two hundred years be adapted for film and television more often than any other writer either living or dead. During her too short life Jane Austen published only four books, and had two more published after her death. While her books must seem somewhat archaic to a modern audience, reflecting as they did the mores of her time, they would have been considered quite revolutionary at the time of their publication.

In the late 18th century and early 19th century when she lived the majority of popular writing was far more romantic, with the flamboyant tales of Sir Walter Scott being preferred by the reading public over her near realistic descriptions of life and love among the gentry. As is still often the case today, there were not many in her day who preferred to read about their own foibles when they could read about the romantic exploits of King Arthur or other idealized heroes.

Still her work persisted, and unlike the aforementioned Scott and his fellow Romantics, her work has stood the test of time and she is now one of the most widely read female writers in the English language. Even today there are very few authors who have managed to create such beloved characters as those who inhabit Jane Austin's books, with Pride And Prejudice and the love story of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy being arguably the best loved and most famous of them all.

The fact that of all her novels, Pride And Prejudice has been adapted probably more often to the stage and screen than perhaps her other books combined only serves to emphasis the chord that this story has struck with modern audiences. With everyone from Lawrence Oliver to Keira Knightly playing one of the two leads over the years it appears that every generation in the modern era has taken a stab at lifting the characters from the page to wander briefly among us.

But of all the productions, and all the actors who have taken on the rolls of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, the one that seems to have caught people's imaginations the most was the 1995 co-production between the Arts & Entertainment Network (A&E), and the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. At five hours in length this version of Pride And Prejudice was able to develop the dramatic potential of the novel to its fullest. All the humour, pathos, and insight of the novel remained intact as very little of the book had to be compressed or sacrificed because of time constraints.

The first time I watched this production I remember being overwhelmed by the sheer spectacle. The acting was universally outstanding, the sets and locations were not only spectacular, but appropriate for their occupants, and the set dances were immaculate in terms of their staging and for the edge to the energy that ran underneath them. The dances were the one place where the normal restraints of society were loosened and individuals stole what chances they could to exchange messages with those who were objects of their affections.

It's funny to think of supposedly staid Jane Austen as having sexual tension, but during the dances - where partners barely even touched each other - it was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife. The energy that crackled between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy was so strong that you could almost see the charge connecting them and it was amazing that anyone who moved between them wasn't charred to a crisp. Of course it wasn't just them starting fires as the whole room was charged with the energy of passion too long held in check.

Watching it again, more then ten years later, I was once again struck at how astounding the production was. In the interim I had seen various other adaptation of Austen's books, and only the production of Sense And Sensibility with Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Hugh Grant, and Alan Rickman had come close to matching it for quality and emotional depth. Even that wonderful production suffered in comparison, as it felt constrained by the time limitations imposed on cinematic releases.

But when it comes down to it, Pride And Prejudice will only fly so high as it's Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy allow it to. In those days Colin Firth was not the household name he is now, it was in fact this production that catapulted him to stardom, and Jennifer Ehle was an unknown. Elizabeth is described as being full of life and spirited, with an independent nature that is in contrast to the normal behaviour for her time. Somehow Ms. Ehle manages to convey that energy and independence while portraying what is ostensibly a dutiful daughter. She appears on the surface a typical daughter, respectful of her parents and responsible in her duties as elder sister, but as Mr. Darcy finds out, cross her at your peril.

In some ways Colin Firth has a lot less to work with in Mr. Darcy, as he appears to be merely another typically emotionally repressed Englishman. Aristocratic by birth, he is far less inclined toward the snobbery and prejudices that typify his class and less inclined to judge people by what they are as opposed to how they account for themselves. This doesn't stop him from being arrogant, or at least coming across as arrogant, in his dealings with others, which is what initially sets Elizabeth against him.

What makes Mr. Firth's performance so astounding is how he lets both the audience and Elizabeth begin to see under Mr. Darcy's mask. It is so subtle that we wouldn't even realize that his attitude towards her is undergoing a change except for a gradual relaxing of his lips and eyes when he glances at her. Of course it becomes even more obvious when he rides to the rescue of Elizabeth's younger sister, from an unwise elopement, in order to spare the family from the taint of scandal before the inevitable can happen and she is left pregnant and alone.

Both actors have created such letter perfect characters, that watching the inevitable unfold has never been so enjoyable. In fact they are both so believable that even knowing what will happen in the end, I was beset with doubt as to the ending up until the final resolution. Of course the rest of the cast are every bit as effective in their roles, otherwise the production wouldn't succeed, but it is Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett who this universe revolves around and they are the stars in its firmament.

For those of you, like me, who believe this version of Pride And Prejudice to be one of the best made, A & E's special Tenth Anniversary package of the series is a wonderful memento of a brilliant piece of television. You not only get the entire five hours of the series on two discs, they've prepared a third disc of special features including the Jane Austen episode of the A & E series Biography, and a special tenth anniversary feature that recounts the making of the series that includes interviews with some of the actors, the producer, the composer, and others who were involved with the production.

They've also included a companion book to the series that was originally published by Penguin when the show first appeared. The Making of Pride and Prejudice is co-authored by the shows producer Sue Burtwistle. Its full of colour photographs of the shoot in the making as well as details of all the nitty gritty that it took to get such a huge operation filmed and to television screens. Unlike a lot of books of this type this is not merely a "fan" letter and it gives the reader a very good overview of the work involved from securing financing to painting props and making sure the extras get their coffee breaks (well maybe not the last bit, but you get the picture).

It's all been beautifully packaged as is appropriate, and you can purchase it directly from the A &E Catalogue. If you have never seen this production of Jane Austen's Pride And Prejudice then you owe it to yourself to see it now, and if you've already seen it, consider that's it's probably time to see to it anew and be amazed at its brilliance all over again.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:49 AM | Permalink

Years ago when I was helping to run a children's theatre company something that really pissed me off was people seeing nothing wrong in asking us to perform for their group or organization, and not expect to pay us anything for our troubles. It would be one thing if they were asking us to participate in a benefit for some worthwhile cause or other, and even then we'd ask for expenses to be paid, but for just an everyday regular performance we'd expect people to pay us for our time.

Still to this day I can't understand their logic of asking us to do what we did for a living for free. Did they think because we worked in the arts we had some special arrangement with life where we didn't have to pay rent, buy food, or any of those things that people with more conventional job worried about? Well, if there are any of you out there who suffer from a similar delusion about people working in the arts you need to get over it in a hurry. It doesn't matter whether someone is a painter, musician, actor, singer, sculptor, dancer, or writer they still have to have enough money at the end of the day to pay their rent and put food on the table.

Unless an artist is incredibly lucky and makes it big, he or she will be leading a hand to mouth existence for most of their days. Artists don't have a pension plan, and, at least in North America, if they don't live in Canada, the chances of them having medical insurance is slim to none. The fact that it is next to impossible for artists to afford any type of insurance leaves them particularly vulnerable in emergency situations. But if you think that artists in general are vulnerable, that situation pales in comparison to the one faced by a particular group within that community.

Predominately African American, the older generations of Jazz and Blues players in North America are at most risk from the deprivations of age, illness and misfortune. Far too many years of creating wonderful music for no money and sometimes little recognition, has left that community in difficult straits under normal circumstances. When a devastation like Hurricane Katrina destroys not only their homes, but their means of earning a living by destroying their instruments, equipment, and the venues for their performances the consequences are catastrophic.

With all levels of government seeming more intent on ensuring they never return to their former homes or their neighbourhoods are rebuilt, the musicians of New Orleans were facing circumstances we normally associate with refugees in countries that don't consider themselves "world powers". Fortunately there are people who recognize the contribution that they have made to North American culture, and are refusing to allow these men and women to be swept under the carpet and forgotten.

Since its founding The Jazz Foundation Of America has worked to make life more comfortable for the elder generations of Jazz and Blues musicians in America. They have done everything from ensuring people's rent is paid, securing them housing, putting food on their table, to supplying them with new instruments so they can work and make a living. But they haven't just been doling out handouts to tide people over on an interim basis, they've also developed programming that allows the musicians to work for a living, doing what they do best.

So when it became clear nobody at an official level was going to do anything to preserve New Orleans for the people who are the city's heart and soul, and were in fact intent on making it as hard as possible for them to return to their homes (Read the chapter in Naomi Klein's book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise Of Disaster Capitalism on New Orleans for a full description of how local, state, and federal officials are ensuring that the Ninth Ward will not be rebuilt and its former inhabitants prevented from returning) the people at The Jazz Foundation have done their best to take up some of the slack.

Aside from donations and sponsorship from individuals and corporations whose hearts and souls are in the right place ( Note here should be made of the contributions of Dr. Agnes Varis who has donated a million dollars to fund a musician in the schools program that pays for musicians to perform to school children and the corporation E*Trade Financial who run an emergency housing fund that supplies rent and mortgage payments to musicians in dire need) there one main fund-raising activity each year has been a special benefit concert staged at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem New York for the past six years.

This year's A Great Night In Harlem took place on May 17th and raised 1.5 million dollars at the gate, making it their most successful event yet. But the need for funds isn't going away, and will only continue to worsen; people are still living in temporary shelters run by the government as far away from their home in New Orleans as Texas and that can't last for ever. One of the ways that people who want to help can contribute is by purchasing a copy of the CD made of the concert.

This year's A Great Night In Harlem was subtitled A History Of Music as it presented a history of African American music in North America from it's roots in Africa up through to contemporary Jazz, Blues, and the popular music of recent years. I've been reviewing a lot of music from the time period covered on this disc, and what amazed me was how few of the people I had heard of before, and how many of them were truly spectacular.

Track one gives you an indication of the CDs power. Its a medley of music that starts with the insistent and compelling drums of Africa, segues into the New Canaan Baptist Praise Team performing a compelling gospel tune reminiscent of what slaves would have been allowed to perform, and finishes off with ninety year old Johnnie Mae Dunson, accompanied only by her son Jimi "Prime Time" Smith, raising the roof of the Apollo with a version of "Trouble Won't Let Me Be"

Johnnie Mae was typical of the performers that the Foundation worked to support, still vital enough to work for a living if given half a chance, she was on the verge of being made homeless in her eighties if not for the intervention of the Foundation. This was a woman who wrote over six hundred songs, was never compensated for one of them, even though they were recorded by people like Elvis and other equally famous performers. She died on October 3rd listening to the CD of her final performance. The doctors were actually officially declaring her gone when the final track on the CD started to play - featuring her, Sweet Georgia Brown, and Paul Shaffer singing "Let It Roll Baby Roll".

In between Jonnie's tunes on A Great Night In Harlem you'll find everything from Dr. Michael White & The Original Liberty Brass Band playing old style New Orleans Jazz from 1905, Henry Butler playing some quite amazing ragtime and other early Jazz piano, The Duke Ellington Big Band playing some mean swing with "It Doesn't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" and then being joined by Fay Victor for a heart rending version of "Strange Fruit.

The disc turns the corner into harder Jazz next and picks up the pace with Arturo O'Farril and Candido for a burning version of "Caravan", and Roy Haynes gives a clinic in Jazz drumming with an amazing drum solo. Next it's time for the boys with the horns to take the stage, and what could be more fitting then "Straight No Chaser" to represent the bebop era. It's then on into the modern era and Jimmy Norman sings his song "Time Is On My Side" (some guys named the Rolling Stones had a hit with it some time back) and is followed by Davell Crawford singing "Everything Must Change"

Sweet Gerogia Brown, and Johnnie Mae Dunson join Paul Shaffer and others on stage for the grand finale of a Blues Jam that includes the aforementioned "Let It Roll Baby Roll", and sounds just amazing. It's a fitting end to a concert disc that features some truly special musical moments. Making it even more special is the knowledge that all the musicians are performing in order to help out their compatriots who are in dire need, and that all the money raised will one way or another end up in the pocket of somebody who has made the world a better place with their song or the sound of their instrument.

I figure that buying a copy of A Great Night In Harlem: A History Of The Music isn't a matter of giving to a charity, it's a way for all of us to finally pay back the money that's long been owed to the people who wrote the music we've all loved for years, and who were never paid for their efforts. The fact that the disc was considered for a Grammy nomination under the legends of music category tells you something of its quality, but there's no award out there that can match the reward of listening to the heart and soul being poured out on every track of this disc.

You can purchase copies of A Great Night In Harlem: A History Of The Music directly from the The Jazz Foundation Of America's web site and be able to enjoy a piece of history forever. Remember some of these people aren't going to be around for ever, and if we are ever going to pay them back for what they've given us, we should be doing it soon, if not sooner.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:27 PM | Permalink

I've never quite understood why it is that science fiction and fantasy writers ever feel the need to create brand new worlds from scratch. It seems like such a waste of time considering the wealth of material that's at their fingertips if they were only to look into the stories of the various people of this planet. Even staying within our own culture you can find some pretty amazing stuff.

How much more fantastic can you get than a guy dying and then coming back from the dead three days later? And that's just for starters. Of course people have mined the tale of King Arthur until its been bled white, but what about the Vikings, the Greeks, and the Romans? The Gods and Goddesses alone could supply enough material for who knows how many books.

Of course if you wanted something a little more exotic there's always Asia and the far East i. Incorporate a few figures from their stories into your books and believe me you'd have something that's as fantastical as anything that came from the most fevered imagination. Of course you'd have to make sure and do proper research so that you don't use someone else's stories inappropriately or disrespectfully.

One of the best examples of an author who's been able to incorporate bits and pieces of other cultures into his work without it feeling like appropriation or cheap exploitation is the British author Jon Courtenay Grimwood. So far I've read works of his that have integrated Islam, Japanese, and Norse mythology into his stories. (No, not all at the same time) Therefore, it didn't come as too much of a surprise that in his novel 9 Tail Fox, published in North America by Night Shade Books he'd been able to accomplish the same feat successfully with Chinese culture.

Set in contemporary San Francisco the protagonist is initially Sgt. Bobby Zha, whose a second generation Chinese immigrant on his father's side and very British via his mother. When both his parents died young it was his paternal grandfather who took over his upbringing. At the time we meet him his grandfather has been long gone, but Sgt. Zha still retains the fluent, if slightly archaic, Cantonese he learned from his grandfather, and the memories of the stories he had been told of creatures like the Nine Tailed Celestial Fox.

Even so, that doesn't stop him from being surprised to see Jinwei hu of the pure white fur, nine tails, and coal red eyes, as he lies dying, spewing his life's blood onto the concrete floor of the warehouse he'd been ambushed in. After all how often do you find out the mythical creatures of your childhood really do exist, let alone have one appear in front of you no matter what the circumstances? Of course, it could all be just an illusion, and it doesn't really matter as he's dying - isn't he. Still what did the fox mean he has only one more chance to set things right?

Telling you that the main character dies might sound like I'm spoiling the plot of the book, but since it happens in the first couple of chapters, you'd learn about yourself soon after starting to read the story. Anyway in this case death really is just the beginning and the fox was telling the truth and Bobby is being given a one last chance to set a whole number of things right, some of which date back to before he was even born. For in some ways the story doesn't even begin with Bobby Zha but with his grandfather and the early history of the Chinese in San Francisco when the Tongs were more than just crime families.

Of course he's also going to have to figure out what the connection is between what's happening to him now as he's resurrected in the body of a coma patient named Bobby Vanberg, and experiments that were being carried out is Leningrad during World War Two. As Bobby Zha he had been investigating the disappearance of homeless people from the streets of San Francisco and the mysterious shooting of a burglar by an eleven year old girl who doesn't appear strong enough to have lifted the gun used let alone fired it.

Somehow his death ties in with all of these events and even though the trail is as convoluted as a pretzel he has to try and find his way through the labyrinth. He also knows that somehow or other, if he is able to get to the bottom of all this mess, he will also find a way to make things right with the people he'd hurt the first time around - especially his daughter.

One of the wonderful things about any of the books I've read by Jon Courtenay Grimwood is his ability to create a story that exists on more then one level at a time without seeming to try. In the case of 9 Tailed Fox not only has he written a great, action packed detective story full of interesting and unusual characters, he has also written a remarkable book about identity and the different ways people go about defining themselves.

Through Bobby's examination of his own life and his investigation into the crime, Grimwood gives the reader some interesting things about identity to ponder. What makes us who we are; our race, our gender, genetics, or is it something even more ethereal than that? When Bobby awakens in his new body his awareness is still that of Sgt. Zha even though he's as physically different from his former self as a cat is from a dog. So who is he?

Sgt. Bobby Zha is dead, he felt himself die, and he saw himself being buried. Yet, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary he's also alive, it just happens to be in another person's body. His first instincts are to react to people like he always has, but of course he can't because he no longer has that appearance. He has to learn how to be Bobby Zha in the new body, and in doing so begins the process of using his chance to set things right.

In the theatre there are characters in classical scripts who act as catalysts for change or that cause the action of the play to go in a certain way. In 9 Tail Fox the Jinwei hu of Chinese mythology serves that purpose. It not only gives Bobby a chance to expose his murderer and get to the bottom of why it happened - but to also make amends for his own screw-ups. But it's not easy, and he is only able to do so when he begins to change the way he treats people this time round.

For you can't just put on a new body like a suit of clothes and expect that to change who you really are underneath, it has to come from within. Through his examination of the character of Bobby Zha before and after his death Jon Courtenay Grimwood shows how we are all ultimately responsible for who we are as individuals no matter what the circumstances.

9 Tail Fox has all the attributes of what I've come to expect from a novel by Jon Courtenay Grimwood; a great story well told, characters so realistic that you see them in your minds eye right from the start, and a sub-plot that provides thought provoking insights into human nature. A book to savour from start to finish, and almost wish it would never end.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 12:54 PM | Permalink

Something odd happened yesterday, I found myself thinking about the The Plastic People Of The Universe. The Plastics, were a Czech rock and roll band that were born out of the ashes of the failed Prague Spring of 1968. The people of the former Czechoslovakia had tried to rid themselves of Soviet rule merely by changing their government. The Soviets didn't agree with the change and sent in the tanks and armies of the Warsaw Pact to re-establish "order".

Taking their name from a Frank Zappa song title, "The Plastic People", The Plastics performed everything from psychedelic rock to avant-garde Jazz. They never set out to be a political band, but the very nature of what they were doing was the antithesis of state control; creative expression, free thinking, and encouraging that in others is a totalitarian government's worst nightmare. This resulted in the band spending the seventies performing in fields and barns, with concert locations revealed at the last minute, trying to stay one step ahead of the secret police, and spending time in jail for subversion.

It was mainly because of The Plastics that the pro-democracy movement in Czechoslovakia survived and took shape. They became a rallying point for people like playwright Vaclav Havel, who became the country's first President after the Soviet's left, and inspired protests in favour of artistic freedom and freedom of expression. Even with members of the band in jail they continued to perform on a regular basis underground and had a quite a few albums released in the West via tapes of live shows that were smuggled out of the country.

It's a long way from Prague 1968 to Beijing 2007 in terms of distance and years, but when it comes to the spirit behind the creation of pop music, the similarities far outnumber the differances. You see, what brought The Plastics to mind was listening to two discs that former Public Image drummer Martin Atikns has just produced and released of Chinese pop music. Look Directly Into The Sun is a compilation disc of bands, and Martin Atikns' China Dub Soundsystem Made In China is a collection of music that Atikns recorded with musicians while he was touring China and than re-mastered once he was back in the West.

China is still a country where you go to jail if you disagree too publicly with the government, where people work in horrible conditions for little money to provide us with most of the cheap consumer products that we buy at Wal-Mart. It's a country where a million people will die of a disease the government says doesn't exist, and millions of others live in conditions of such extreme destitution that we couldn't even begin to understand what it was like. For all the Brave New Face of China that the pundits and business people like to drool over it is no different from the China that sent tanks into the street against its own people in the late 1980s.

Listening to Look Directly Into The Sun creates a weird sense of temporal displacement as it sounds like listening to punk/new wave circa 1982 when Factory Records in Manchester was churning out album after album of music from disaffected youth being ground under the boot of Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government. I heard everything from the punk energy of the Clash to the high introspection of Joy Division.

The thing is, I never got the impression that bands like Carsick Cars, Snapline, or Rococo were imitating anybody, There was nothing artificial about their sound or their emotions; none of the posing or pseudo cool that I'd expect from youth their age in almost any other country. They sound like they're discovering the incredible freedom and release that comes from playing with abandon and getting lost in that moment.

Like their counterparts in England in the early 1960s, late 1970s, and early 1980s, and America in the 1950s and 1960s what else do they have in their lives to give them that sense of breaking free? A term in the army oppressing their own people or occupying Tibet and other Himalayan countries? A gruelling job in a factory where industrial accidents are the norm, the hours are long and the pay sucks? Or going to school and learning all the official history and skills that will be of use to the state and eventually being sucked up into the party system to become another cog that keeps the wheels moving?

Options in the West were a hell of a lot better then that and it still gave birth to Rock and Roll in the 1950s, Acid Rock in the Sixties, and Punk in the late Seventies - so it's no wonder that young people in China are creating music that's as volatile and exciting as the stuff that's on Look Directly Into The Sun. The wonder to me is how long they will be allowed to get away with it. I'm sure the whole scene is being carefully monitored and it only exists because for now it is tolerated - but if any signs of unrest became apparent - even a whiff of dissent, you can be sure that all the clubs would be closed for health violations and the music would be banned for being in violation of noise regulations.

Made In China is a wonderful cross section of strange sounds, noises, dubs, instruments, vocals, drum machines, and record scratches that somehow or other adds up to being music. I'm not a big fan of anything "dubbed" usually. With a few exceptions all I've ever heard in the past has been a lot of bass and not much else. But on this disc what Martin Atkins has done is really quite amazing. He found pop musicians who are working with more traditional instruments to go along with some of those that were on Look Directly Into The Sun and the mixture works out beautifully.

In some sort of strange way it gives you a real feel for the dichotomy of what life must be like in a country where the old and the new exist in such close proximity. At the same time it brings to light some of the harsher realities of what it's like to record music where the possibility of repercussions far exceed a parental advisory sticker if it doesn't meet with the approval of the authorities.

Track three is called "Tibetans Vs. The Dirty Girl" and it features a traditional Tibetan group overdubbed with a Chinese girl rapping out something or other that Martin found out latter was incredibly lewd (hence Dirty Girl - they had to guarantee the young woman complete anonymity before she agreed to be recorded). On paper it sounds like it shouldn't work, but somehow or other the mixture of scratches and beats under the sound of traditional instruments isn't as incongruous or discordant as you'd think. The contrast between the haunting sound of their melodies and the rough urbanity of Dirty Girl ends up sounding allegorical to the situation of the modern industrial state of China stomping down on the traditional people of Tibet.

You might think I'm reading a little too much into it, but on the day Martin recorded this track he mentions in his liner notes that China shut down CNN's broadcast into the country because of an incident happening at the Tibetan/Chinese border. It's things like that, and Dirty Girl not wanting Martin to even know her name let alone use it in the credits, that remind you about the crucial differences in reality for the bands on Look Directly Into The Sun and Made In China and young bands in the West.

Sure they both are hoping to land recording contracts, perform for lots of people, and hope their music is popular or at least well received. But only the bands in China have to worry about whether or not they will end up in jail, or waking up one morning to find all their venues closed down and them being forbidden to perform. It was only last year that one of them was told they wouldn't be allowed to open for Sonic Youth as originally planned when the group toured China. What's preventing that from becomming not allowed to perform at all?

Almost forty years ago a group of Czechoslovakian musicians formed a band because they wanted to play rock and roll music that reflected how they felt about the world. They found out the hard way how unpopular that can make you in a totalitarian regime. Listening to the bands and the music on Look Directly Into The Sun and Made In China I can only wonder what the future holds for them and hope they can at the least live the title of Rococo's song "We Just Free".

You can find out a lot more about these bands and the music if you go to Martin Atkin's tstouring.com website and Invisible Records.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:39 PM | Permalink

The best thing about reviewing music is how much you learn from the experience. One lesson I should have learned long ago was that no sooner have you made a proclamation about one subject or another, it's inevitable you will be swallowing those words the next day. It doesn't help that I'm occasionally given to spouting sweeping generalities in a field dominated by individuals.

In my defence I will offer up that it seems when it comes to music and musicians, the universe takes great delight in keeping humble. There's no way on earth I'd ever assume that I know even an iota of what there is to know about popular music, let alone a specific genre like Jazz. However, on occasion it feels safe to say things because I'm speaking from the point of view of the uninitiated; the vast majority of people like myself who know so little about Jazz.

Only twenty-four hours ago I was going on about the scarcity of flute players in the world of popular music, and Jazz in particular, and I was feeling like I was on pretty solid ground. How many flute players do you know I asked - challenging readers to come up with a name aside from Eric Dolphy - as a lead in to a review of Nicole Mitchell's Black Earth Ensemble. How was I to know that the very next disc that I would be reviewing would also feature a flute playing Jazz musician?

How was I to know that Ari Brown not only played tenor and soprano saxophones but flute as well? I'd never heard of him before receiving the DVD Live At The Green Mill from Delmark Records in the mail. The cover is a picture of a man, who I assumed was Ari, playing two saxophones at once and gave no clue as to what other things he was capable of. I defy anyone to look at that picture, not knowing anything about the man, and know that he plays flute.

Well he does, making him and Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull fame (I can't believe I forgot about him when I was talking about popular musicians who are flute players) the only male, non-classically trained flutists, I know of aside from Eric Dolphy. Of course once I started to find out a little more about Ari Brown, his ability to play multiple instruments made sense.

He has long been considered one of the most versatile Jazz musicians in Chicago having played in the house band at the Burning Spear where he's backed everyone from The Four Tops, through Lou Rawls and B.B. King. At other times he's also worked with Lester Bowie, Elvin Jones, and is a member of Kahil El'Zabar's Ritual Trio and the Art Ensemble of Chicago.

But Ari Brown is more than just a versatile sideman for other players. He is also a gifted composer in his own right, and judging by the quality of the music and his performance on the DVD Live At The Green Mill, and the CD of the same name, he deserves to be recognized for those qualities as much as the famous people he's played for are.

His compositions are a reflection of his diversity as a player, ranging from straight ahead be-bop free form improvisational, to haunting ballads. I suppose that most people will compose music that will showcase their strengths, but when you have as many strengths as Ari Brown appears to have that might actually present a challenge. The more Jazz music I listen to and watch, the more I realize how little I know, but at the same time I doubt that there can be too many players that can be as comfortable playing tenor and soprano saxophone, and flute as Mr. Brown is.

First off the soprano saxophone is a notoriously difficult instrument to play - I saw a DVD of Coltrane playing once where because of temperature change he had to stop and re-start three times before he could get his temperamental soprano to respond - and not many people play it at all. On the track "Shorter's Vibe" - inspired by Weather Report's Wayne Shorter - Ari plays the soprano sax with the same confidence and style that he brings to his tenor.

Ari Brown doesn't seem to make a big deal out of his instrument selections, he's there to make music and that's what is important, not the instrument he's using to create with. Think about the word instrument for a second when its used as an adjective - it was the instrument of his downfall - for example, and you'll begin to understand the feeling I got while watching him play. The instruments are the instruments of his means for expression, and he uses them according to his need.

Ari talks about creating or recreating the vibration that he associates with another player when he's writing a piece of music. He's not talking about the sound when he says that, he's talking about the feeling the music generates. He obviously knows which of his instruments will be able to create the atmosphere he is after, and appears to use them accordingly.

So on "Two Gun V", written for his wife, when he plays the alto and soprano saxophones simultaneously in a wild explosion of exhilarating sound, he's telling us about the freedom and strength of her spirit and defining the feelings she is able to generate in him. Contrast this with either his flute playing on "Kylie's Lullaby" which is gentle and soothing, or the mournfulness of his alto playing on "One For Skip", a memorial to a friend who committed suicide, and you can see what I mean.

Of course Ari wasn't alone on stage for these recordings, and the band that plays with him, including his brother Kirk on piano, are equally adept at creating an atmosphere with their instruments. Over and over again I'm amazed at the number of talented men and women there have to be playing Jazz in Chicago. Every single one of the musicians on Live At The Green Mill appear to have the ability to get up and be the front man instead of Ari Brown.

As for the quality of the DVD, Delmark Records continue to astound me with their ability to produce live music DVDs. Not only is the sound always great, but the camera work is superb. They not only manage to provide close ups of each musician during solos, but have also done their best to recreate the ambience of the venue. The Green Mill is one of the oldest night-clubs in America having opened its doors back in 1907, and the current owners have preserved many of the original features and fixtures. At times, you half expect a camera pan of the audience to show Al Capone holding court at a large central table, and it's a little disappointing to see your typical 21st century crowed wearing standard casual wear.

Ari Brown Live At The Green Mill is both a musical and visual treat, featuring some spectacular playing by a Jazz musician who for some reason has never become the household name he deserves to be. If like me you had never heard of Ari Brown before now, do yourself a favour and get a copy of this DVD, you won't be disappointed.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:04 AM | Permalink

Quick, name another Jazz flutist aside from Eric Dolphy. Did you even know that Eric Dolphy was a flutist? Are you having trouble, okay let us make it a little easier shall we? Name one flutist, no matter what type of music they play. James Galway and Jean-Pierre Rampal are names that might ring a bell with some people, both having strayed into popular music on occasion. Aside from them, there just aren't that many well known flutists, and even they aren't household names. For some reason the flute just hasn't seemed to be able to capture the public's imagination like other instruments.

It's sort of odd when you consider that aside from the drum the flute is one of the most common and oldest in most cultures. Whether made from bamboo, cedar, or in some cases clay; played by blowing into or across a hollow core carved out of the material: with six holes or elaborate set ups like concert flutes to control the air flow, they all operate on the same basic principle of air exhaled equaling music.

The problem with the flute, is that unlike some wind instruments, it requires a great deal of finesse in order to play. For those of you who have ever experimented with a recorder you may have noticed that the harder you blow into the mouthpiece the less likely you are to produce sound. In order to play flutes of any style requires an amazing amount of breath control. To play it with any success you have to learn to synchronize your breathing with the rhythm of any song that you are playing and be able to quickly change from long sustained exhalations to short bursts and back again.

Unfortunately the lack of flutists seems to be self-perpetuating. So very few people play flute in North America that not many people consider it as a solo instrument. Therefore there aren't the examples of flute players out there for people to follow like there are guitarists, saxophone, and trumpet players. When Nicole Mitchell first started playing flute she remembers she chose the instrument before she chose Jazz. Nobody around her considered her instrument of choice to be a Jazz instrument.

It wasn't until she was in her sophomore year of university that she found out there were Jazz flutists. Her instructor took a little piece of paper, wrote the words Eric Dolphy on it, and sent her to the library, and a whole new world opened up to her. She started taking private classes with flutist James Newton, (paying for them by busking on the streets of San Diego), and ended up at Oberlin's Conservatory in Ohio where she studied composition as well as performance.

In 1993 she ended up back in Chicago and has quickly established herself as a presence in a town full of gifted musicians. Novelty wears off quickly, and nowhere as quickly among professional musicians, meaning that Nicole's popularity is due to her talent and not because of the fact she's one of only a small number of Jazz flutists. This is confirmed by the recognition she has received from magazines like Downbeat, winner of their Rising Star award three times, and her status within the Chicago music community where she is currently Co-President of the famed Association of the Advancement of Creative Musicians.

Of course where it really matters is what she does on stage, and now thanks to the good folk over at Delmark Records there are two great opportunities to hear her and her amazing band, Black Earth Ensemble. Black Unstoppable - Live At The Velvet Lounge is a DVD recording of the band earlier this year, while the CD of the same name, (minus the Live bit) are studio recordings of the material performed on the DVD.

I have to be honest, I had no idea what to expect when I popped the DVD into my player; flutes in my experience are an instrument that have long been subject to abuse. They either are used to make airy fairy New Age crap, or been turned into something so shrill and discordant that listening is painful. Nicole Mitchell laid all my fears to rest from the opening notes of the first song on the DVD. She has to be one of the most singularly gifted musicians I've heard in a long time, let alone flutist, and her compositions reflect her ability.

Her technique on the flute is immaculate, the flow of music is never interrupted, and you swear she doesn't take a breath from the beginning to the end of a tune. Notes cascade from the end of her flute to form patterns of sound that are both melodic and exciting. Like other gifted musicians she never lets herself be wed to one area of the scale and in her solos makes full use of all the octaves available to create the richest aural tapestry possible.

Musically she covers the spectrum from the freest of free form Jazz, to Funk, Blues, and pieces that combine all three elements in glorious celebrations of melody and rhythm. One piece, "Black Unstoppable" approaches the very edge of discordance at moments - even slipping over on occasion - but even then, there is a lightness of spirit that prevents it from being completely unsettling.

The ebullience underlying that piece appears to be an extension of Nicole's character that permeates everything she does on stage. It's like she takes the "play" part of playing music literally, and that means you have fun and never take yourself seriously. I don't know if I've ever seen a performer who smiles as much as she does while performing, and seeing that makes you feel like there is no other place she'd rather be than right here, right now, playing music for you.

For the recording of Live At The Velvet Lounge her band, Black Earth Ensemble, consisted of trumpet, saxophone, guitar, bass, cello, and a vocalist. What I found wonderful was that all of the instruments were incorporated into the music with none serving as window dressing. It's not often that you'll see a cellist given the opportunity to take a lead, or even have their instrument high up in the mix, as was the case on this recording.

They are an amazingly skilled group of players, and it was wonderful to see them interacting and reacting to each other during the improvisational parts of the material. They would all automatically attune to the lead's patterns and work to support him or her instinctively. Obviously they have been playing together for a long time in order for that level of communication to exist, but it also shows a willingness to listen that I don't often see anymore even among Jazz musicians.

One of the things that made watching Black Unstoppable - Live At The Velvet Lounge so enjoyable was the effort that Delmark Records has put into its production. Not only do you get the now standard 5.1 dts. surround sound, the filming and editing job is on a par with discs produced by major studios. They used five cameras in filming the concert and were able to get some wonderful, and unusual footage during various solos. The two that stick out the most for me were a close-up on the lower hand of the saxophone player during his solo that was held for over a minute, and a shot of the cello player taken from below the bridge looking up towards her fingers as she plucked the strings during a solo.

Not only did both of these shots give you a feel for what the musicians were experiencing as they played, they created an intimacy that you don't often get in performance DVDs. These types of techniques are becoming a hallmark of concert disks produced by Delmark. I don't think I'd ever hesitate to recommend a DVD produced by these folk in terms of their technical values, as I've yet to see one where the sound or visual quality has not enhanced my enjoyment of the concert.

Nicole Mitchell's Black Earth Ensemble Black Unstoppable - Live At The Velvet Lounge is an amazing Jazz concert. The music is wonderful and the production values are great - what more could you ask for?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 10:30 AM | Permalink

Antoine de Saint Exupery's story The Little Prince begins with the author recounting a period from his childhood when he discovered just how limited an adult's imagination can be. Perhaps he tells us this to explain why he chose to become an aircraft pilot and live among the night sky where anything and everything can be real. When he meets the Little Prince of the title his plane has broken down and he is stranded in the deserts of North Africa.

I'm sure most of us would have been slightly more nonplussed than our author to be greeted by a young boy asking us to draw him a sheep. But Exupery takes it in his stride and learns the story of his new companion. The Little Prince is a beautiful story about a voyage of self-discovery and the nature of love written as a children's tale. Each time I've re-read it I've often wondered about the fact that the hero is a child and how it is told in the language of a story for young readers, yet the content is so incredibly adult.

"What is essential is invisible to the eye" couldn't be more true when considered in the light of an adult parable hiding inside the story of a child as in the case of The Little Prince. Perhaps it is the same element in Yann Martel's Life Of Pi that was responsible for me being continually reminded of Exupery's work as I was reading it, as it too features a young man whose adventures result in some very adult philosophizing. On the surface the stories seem to have little in common, but at the heart of each is the wide eyed wonder of a child experiencing the world for the first time in all it's glory.

We first meet Pi (his parents had named him Piscine Molitor in honour of a friends favourite swimming pool in Paris, and Pi wisely took it upon himself to change his name as soon as possible - there are far too many temptations in a name like Piscine for other children not to take advantage of it) through the eyes of the writer who is preparing to recount his tale. It is in present day Toronto Canada that the story starts, but it doesn't take us long to go back in time and across the Pacific Ocean to the Indian province of Pondincherry.

Pi is the youngest of two sons in a family that has the unique distinction of owning a zoo. While his classmates might receive a cheerful farewell from their mothers as they head off to school, Pi's morning benediction includes the growls of lions and tigers, the trumpet of an elephant, and a wide variety of grunts and squeaks from the animal kingdom. It is easy to see how his awe and delight in the wonders of the world was born growing up in this type of environment. That he also chooses to celebrate his wonder of the world by embracing each of the major religions India, is somewhat odd, but is completely in keeping with his character.

Of course all of the background information, Pi's childhood in India, and the times we meet him as an adult in Toronto, are only preparatory for the main event, his sojourn aboard the life boat with an adult Bengal Tiger named Richard Parker. His family had decided to emigrate from India to Canada, and in order to pay their way had sold the majority of the zoo's animals to the United States. Therefore, instead of flying like most immigrants, they take a tramp steamer to shepherd them to their new homes. It's during this voyage that the shipwreck happens, leaving Pi alone aboard a life boat with a zebra, an orangutang, a hyena, and the aforementioned tiger.

The natural order exerts itself upon the life boat over the first few days as the hyena dispatches the zebra and the orangutang while Pi can only hope he continues to ignore him. It's only when Richard Parker recovers from his seasickness that Pi realizes that it has been the tiger's presence that has kept him safe from attack. Of course that doesn't prevent him from being terrified of his protector, and his struggle to figure out a way in which the two of them can survive in harmony is the crux of the story for the balance of their voyage together.

Life Of Pi was originally published in 2002 and received all sorts of critical accolades, including being awarded the Mann Booker Prize. Now in 2007 Random House Canada through its Alfred A. Knoff imprint has published a lavishly illustrated new edition with beautiful full-page colour plates by Croatian artist Tomislav Torjanic. To select an illustrator for the book, an international competition was held, and out of the thousands of artists who entered Torjanic's work was judged best suited to the needs of the book.

Not having seen any of the other entrants there's not much basis for comparison, but to be honest I can't see how anyone could have done a better job than Torjanic. His work has the lushness of Paul Gauguin's paintings of Fiji, making it ideal for capturing the richness and vibrancy of the South Pacific locations that predominate in the book, combined with an illustrator's capacity for capturing a moment in a story and reproducing it with the accuracy of capturing a frame in a film.

What I found especially rewarding about Tomislav's work was the fact that the illustrations, no matter the size, were always drawn from Pi's perspective of events (The temptation to say Pi -eyed view is too great to resist, I'm sorry) reinforcing the fact that this is his story, while making it easier for the reader to understand what he is experiencing. Of course this also serves to draw us into the story, because when we look at the pictures, we become the object of the subject matter's focus as much as they are ours. So, when the perspective of an illustration has us looking down the length of the lifeboat at the back of a 450 pound Bengal tiger, and his head is turned to look over his shoulder, his one eye stares back at us, not some unknown target.

Yann Martel's creation, much like Saint Exupery's all those years ago, is about the power of faith and having the ability to believe in the invisible bonds that connect us, one to another. None of us have ever seen the love we claim to have for another person or being, yet we are confidant it exists. Why? We have no proof, yet like Pi with Richard Parker, we are assured that the person we love isn't going to do the equivalent of eating us.

In his poem, "i carry your heart, i carry it in my heart", American poet e. e. cummings wrote that love "is the wonder that holds the stars apart." In Life Of Pi Yann Martel brings that wonder to life in his story of the young man trapped in a lifeboat for nearly a year with an adult Bengal tiger. The illustrations by Tomislav Torjanac, in the newly published illustrated edition, not only reflect that wonder, but succeed in drawing the reader into a deeper appreciation by offering us the means to enter into the story as a participant.

For the longest time I resisted reading Life Of Pi because I was afraid of being disappointed by it failing to live up to the expectations of its publicity. The last thing I expected was to find myself reading a book to match The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery in its simple beauty and ability to express awe in the wonder of life. Yann Martel really did create a thing of beauty and a joy forever when he published this story, and I for one will always be grateful.

Canadian readers wishing to purchase a copy of the illustrated Life Of Pi can do so by either purchasing it directly fromRandom House Canada or an on line retailer like Amazon.ca.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 10:22 PM | Permalink

“I remember her well from the Chelsea Hotel” sang Leonard Cohen, about his brief sexual encounter (blow job) with Janis Joplin. Somehow that’s that type of song you’d expect to be written about an encounter between the melodramatic poet, and the saddest woman in Rock History - especially when the Chelsea Hotel was involved.

It’s not often that a building is as famous as the people who have live there, and you have to wonder, who made who famous? Was it the grand old lady whose doors opened 1883 as a luxury co-op residence who made her inhabitants famous - or was it the inhabitants’ fame (and infamy) that gave the Chelsea her status. However it came about, there’s no doubt that even though her time as tallest building in New York City was brief, she will always have her place in history.

It was as early as 1905 that she was converted into a hotel and she catered to the elite of New York’s literary and theatre communities. The forties and fifties saw her still home to her beloved artists, but the body was showing wear and tear and gradually she began the long slow descent into flophouse. Large suites were carved up into small rooms to better serve the down and outs with little money and she would have probably not survived if not for her long term tenants fighting to hold on their own rooms.

For those of you, who like me, have always held romantic notions about certain geographical locations; the Left Bank in Paris for instance, The Chelsea Hotel has probably made herself known to you already. My generation at least knows her as the place where Sid Vicious finally brought his ignoble existence to a finale. However, if you really want to get to know something about anything these days, you need an insider’s input. Legends Of The Chelsea Hotel by Ed Hamilton is your pass key into the past, presents, and some very unfortunate sounding potential futures.

For those of you wondering about Mr. Hamilton’s credentials, well he’s been living in the Chelsea for the past nearly dozen years, which gives him access to the ongoing antics of her inhabitants of course. More importantly, he has been writing about the Chelsea on a regular basis for the majority of that time and is host of Living With Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog.

He has made it part of his life’s work, as he is a writer by trade as well, to become the official collector, repository, and reporter on all things Chelsea. Trolling through the memories of older inhabitants he learns the history of events from the past (The Zombie in the cupboard for instance) that an outsider might not have found out about. It also seems that Ed is willing to give even those with the frailest grips on sanity a listen, meaning even some of the less likely legends are revealed.

But some of the genuine denizens have stories that are even more exciting than any fiction writer could have dreamed up. For instance, Storme DeLarverie; is probably not a household name to most of us, but if it weren’t for this brave woman gay and lesbian rights may have taken years longer to entrench. She through the first punch in what has become known as the Stonewall Rebellion.

The police of New York City were coming down hard on the gay clubs - rounding people up and arresting them for no reason except harassment and figuring no one would ever fight back. That was until Storme threw the first punch and cold conked a cop. That’s when the gays and lesbians threw up their infamous “Stonewall” and fought the cops to a stand still. All it had taken was one person to show they weren’t going to take it and everybody else found the backbone. That one person was Storme DeLarverie - the cross dressing Lesbian.

It’s Ed Hamilton’s introduction of people like this that makes Legends Of The Chelsea Hotel truly invaluable I think. He says at the beginning of the book that it hadn’t been his intent to write about the celebrities of the hotel, but that some of them were just strong of character to be denied. That doesn’t mean you can expect a typical, “So and so did this” while staying at the Chelsea - Ed is far to human a writer for the important people to be turned into gossip fodder.

Two of my favorite episodes concern two survivors of the chaotic Punk years of New York, Dee Dee Ramone and Patti Smith. Dee Dee was an on again off again resident of the Hotel for most of his adult life it seems. He would use her rooms to hole up when he was trying to go clean, or even when he was just looking for somewhere to get away from the world. Ed’s recounting of his conversations with Dee Dee make him sound so human, lost, and sad, that his eventual death by overdose becomes unavoidable.

Patti Smith took a room in the Chelsea for a few weeks to work on a book of poetry, and one night Ed happened to come across her in the halls of the hotel. They didn’t know each other, and maybe still don’t, but from his description of her it sounds like she was out looking for ghosts from the days she spent in the hotel. There was just something beautifully haunting about his description of the whole encounter that removed many of the harsh planes from Patti’s psyche for me.

I think that’s what I’ve enjoyed most about reading the Legends Of The Chelsea Hotel; Ed Hamilton’s ability to keep everything low key and gentle. That’s not to say he can’t be judgmental, but it’s understandable when you spend a good deal of your time trying to keep junkies from shooting up in the bathroom you share with three other rooms on your floor. That would put the saintliest person on edge I would think.

As with so many other wonderful things now the fate of the Chelsea is uncertain. The owners finally managed to maneuver the manager of fifty years, Stanley Bard, out of his job and have started to do their best to rid themselves of all the long term residents. The fight continues today to keep the grand old lady as she has been since 1905 when she opened her doors as a hotel, but commerce and gentrification are tough opponents. Ed Hamilton’s Legends Of The Chelsea Hotel, published by Thunder’s Mouth Press and distributed in Canada by Publishers Group Canada, might just be the punch that’s needed to get people off their feet to save the old lady - but she’ll need some help.

Read Ed’s book, check out Living With Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog, and keep informed. You may find a way that you can help save The Chelsea. The world is in desperate need of originality, even if it comes in the shape of an elderly and care worn hotel.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 01:21 PM | Permalink

"Why do you insist on calling yourselves Indian?" asks a white woman in a nice hat..."Listen" I say. "The word belongs to us now. We are Indians. That has nothing to do with Indians from India. We are not American Indians. We are Indians, pronounced In-din. It belongs to us. We own it and we're not going to give it back"... So much has been taken from us that we hold on to the smallest things left with all the strength we have. Sherman Alexie, "The Unauthorised Biography Of Me" Sovereign Bones 2007

A short story writer, you start to write but are brought up short when you realize you're writing in a foreign language. An Englishman or North American writes in English because that's the language of her people. French, Italian, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, Celtic, Zulu, Swahili, Mongolian, and Russian alike can all write in the language that their ancestors have spoken a variation of for generations.

Your grandparents had their names stolen from their tongues and your parents have the vocabulary of infants, while you are illiterate and mute in the language of your people. The voice you once thought so alive, now sounds dead in your ears as it tell your stories, the stories of your people, in words that have no bearing on the subject matter, and that don't believe in the same things you do.

Sovereign Bones published by Nation Books and distributed in Canada by Publisher Group Canada is a collection of writings by contemporary Native American artists about what it's like to be an artist when your culture hasn't been yours for more than a century. It can't be "Indian" if it doesn't have braids, feathers, and buckskins riding a horse with mournful dignity into the sunset because today is a good day to die.

Anyone who does any creative work at all knows just how difficult it can be without any additional demands being made upon your already taxed brain. Can you imagine what it would be like to put your heart and soul into a painting, and be told that there is no such thing as contemporary art from your people? Artistically you only exist in the past as artefacts picked over by those who know that modern Indians have nothing to say; nothing to say that matches everybody's conception of what an Indian is anyway. Why doesn't your stuff look like other great Indian artists, like you know, Edward Curtis?

Actor's, writers, poets, painters, sculptors, photographers, film makers, fashion designers, and musicians alike have run into the wall of 'it's not Indian enough to be Indian', no matter how Indian they are. Indian men are noble stoic warriors or drunks who talk in short clipped sentences that are filled with meaning. Indian women are meek, and docile who over the centuries have been exploited by their lazy husbands, or beautiful Princesses waiting for the just the right European they can fall in love with for a little bit of that starred crossed lover stuff that can end tragically for all parties involved leaving everybody older and wiser. (It's okay to have your bit of fun with the pretty Indian girl, but don't bring her home to mother is the moral of that story)

Yet in spite of this, or maybe if they're contrary enough, (it's no coincidence that in many traditions the creator is also a trickster who works in opposition to what makes sense), because of this, it hasn't stopped people from all nations from doing just what they are meant to do. Creating works of art that are about them and their people in the world around them, just like the rest of the world's artists.

Perhaps like Wayne Eagleboy's painting "We The People" near the beginning of this review they will make social political commentary? Perhaps like Shelly Niro's installation at the Canadian Museum of Civilization, (pictured to the right), of "Skywoman", they will tell their traditional tales. But she hasn't used any feathers or buckskin, and what's with the turtle – where's the buffalo?

Buffalo never played any role in the life of the Haudenosaunee, people of the long house, or Iroquois Confederacy, in the woodlands north and south of the St. Lawrence River in what are now New York State, and the provinces of Ontario and Quebec in Canada. Nor did men wear the full headdress of feathers; at least not until the 1950's and they wanted people to pay attention to them as Indians.

No one is surprised when they find out that German and French people have a history of different styles of dress, music, art, literature, and architecture, even though they share a common border. Yet these same people refuse to understand two distinct nations that live over a thousand miles apart can be just as different. From the food eaten, to the clothes they wore, the only thing the Lakota, or any of the other people from what is now North and South Dakota, Montana, and Minnesota have in common with the Six Nations who are the Haudenosaunee, is they were conquered by Europeans.

Sovereign Bones is by turns heartbreaking, life affirming, inspiring, and most of all real. Each artist, no matter what their medium, relate what it is they are trying to do as artists, and what it's like to be an Indian artist today. The burden of recovering what is so close to be being lost forever has been placed squarely on their collective shoulders. To each of them falls the task of keeping alive the collective unconscence of their people in a world that doesn't recognize that differences between their people exist.

Maybe I can think of something that would be as difficult to cope with as an artist, but not right off the top of my head. It's hard enough as it is getting published without having to fight against other people's expectations of what my work should be like for it to be my work.

"Sherman," says the critic, "How does the oral tradition apply to your work?"..."Well", I say, as I hold my latest book close to me, "It doesn't apply at all because I typed this. And when I'm typing, I'm really, really quiet." Sherman Alexie "The Unauthorized Autobiography Of Me" Sovereign Bones 2007

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:06 PM | Permalink

For most people Hurricane Katrina ended when the winds died and the reporters left. For the people who once lived in the Ninth Ward district, and the other low-lying areas that were swamped by the floodwaters after the levees broke; the nightmare lives on. Predominantly African-American, all of them working poor or middle class with little or no safety net for disasters of this kind, they are scattered throughout the United States waiting for the word telling them they can return to their homes.

More and more it looks like it's a word that will never come. It turns out it's far cheaper to house people in temporary shelters and displaced person facilities (most countries use the term refugee camps – but you only have refugees in the Third World not in the United States of America) then to rebuild housing and infrastructure for folks who don't have money. In fact, now that the inhabitants of those areas have been forced to evacuate the governments at all levels are talking about the golden opportunity they have to revitalize the downtown core of New Orleans.

Instead of housing projects, neighbourhood bars, small businesses, and schools, they envision a Ninth Ward of convention centres, condominiums, resort style nightclubs, and fancy restaurants. It will all be lovingly restored for that authentic "New Orleans" feel, so the well heeled tourist will know what it "must have been really like". The only thing missing will be the people who gave New Orleans her heart and soul – her inhabitants.

With the mayor of New Orleans saying, why should we rebuild when no one is coming back to live here, and the former inhabitants saying, how can we live there when there is no place to live, the inevitable will happen. Temporary displacement will become permanent without anyone noticing and another piece of America's heart will be sold to the highest bidder. If you don't think that's possible, why has the Louisiana government already granted private charters to all but four of the schools that formally serviced the former Ninth Ward? They don't expect anybody to return.

(Read the chapter on New Orleans and Katrina in Naomi Klein's most recent book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise Of Disaster Capitalism and it spells out in detail the plans that have been made for the former ninth ward. These aren't secret documents either – it's just nobody is talking about it. With an election year coming up would you want to run for President leading a party that's known for creating America's worst forced removal of her own citizens since the "Trail Of Tears"? Like the Cherokee before them, the citizens of New Orleans have been dispossessed of their homes, because when money talks the people walk.)

James Blood Ulmer hasn't forgotten about the people of New Orleans, as you can tell by the title of his recent release, Bad Blood In The City, on Hyena Records. With five of the eleven songs having titles that relate directly to the Hurricane, and the whole disc seething with barely suppressed tears and rage, it's obvious he's not willing to let anybody forget about it if he has any say in the matter.

James Blood Ulmer has only ever existed for me as a rumour of an incredibly gifted musician who has played everything from avant-garde Jazz, Blues, and Funk. Somehow, I've never picked up a recording of his until now, and this was only by a fluke. A company, Distribution Fusion III Inc. from Quebec Canada, who I'd written a review for a while back, sent me this disc in amongst a pile of others. My only regret is that's it has taken me this long to discover the magic of a James Blood Ulmer recording.

For starters there is his voice; beaten and strained as it is, showing the wear and tear of what appears to be years of trying to get the world to listen to truths that they would rather ignore, it still persists in tackling unpleasant topics, and speaking for those without a voice. Making no effort to hide deficiencies behind technology, James sings with the most abused word in music – soul.

For those who still think what groups like Hall & Oates play has anything to do with Soul, you won't recognise what you're hearing on Bad Blood In The City because the producer knows how to keep his hands to himself. Somebody who sings with Soul will be giving you a direct conduit to his or her heart without the need of soaring strings or production values to pluck tears from your eyes or put a smile on your lips.

Right from the first song on the disc, "Survivors Of The Hurricane", you can tell you're in for a trip that's out of the ordinary as soon as he Mr. Ulmer starts singing. It's a feeling that's reinforced by his guitar. If you can put your mind back to the days of Jimi Hendrix's Band of Gypsies recordings, when he was harnessing his power to the Blues, you'll have some indication of what the guitar work is like. It's said that when Jimi died James vowed to pick up the torch and play the guitar in his honour.

When you hear him tearing up the atmosphere with his solos, you know that it wasn't a promise made lightly. It's not like listening to someone trying to play guitar like Hendrix – far too many guitar heroes in the world already thank you very much – instead it's as if he's taken the essence of what made Hendrix great and distilled it into his own playing. The result is dynamic and electrifying playing matching the comet trail blazed by Hendrix but never overlapping or following directly in his path.

Bad Blood In The City is full of the anger of the dispossessed and oppressed. In the years since the civil rights movement of the sixties, there has at least been an attempt to present the appearance of equality. However, in the last few years, voices have been growing increasingly strident in opposition affirmative action and other programs designed to offset hundreds of years of social imbalance. While some have expressed legitimate concerns, and there are some, the majority have been carefully coded messages designed to create an "us against them" environment.

When people like David Duke of Louisiana talked about protecting the rights of the majority, and ensuring white people get a fair shake, they were fanning flames that used to burn crosses on front lawns. But the more sophisticated, the ones who ensured that all of White America were able to see pictures of black people looting stores in New Orleans on national television (without mentioning that they had been left to die in the Super Dome while governments failed to provide even basic emergency relief) had a longer term goal. Depict them as lawless animals and nobody will give a shit what happens to them.

So now, when they talk of New Orleans rising Phoenix like out of the ashes of the Hurricane, nobody will care what happened to the folk who lived there. They were just a bunch of lawless black people, probably all hooked on crack, and now it will be safe for you and the kids to visit a New Orleans Theme Park because they've cleaned up the city.

James Blood Ulmer's voice might be tired, but he's not done fighting and that particular vision of New Orleans will never live to see the light of day if he has anything to do with it. There's a big lie being propagated about the Ninth Ward and it's up to all of us to combine voices with James. It's about time that government and business realize that human beings, no matter what their colour or race, cannot be considered an inconvenience anymore.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:50 AM | Permalink

This is part two of a look at the supposed differences between the United States and Canada when it comes to the integration of immigrants into our respective societies. Canada has long clung to the designation of a "Cultural Mosaic" while making disparaging comments about the United States being a melting pot. Is that a fair assessment on the part of Canadians, or do they need to watch out for their glasshouses if they're going to throw stones at the Americans. Part Two continues from where Part One left off.

In the year of her centennial, 1967, Canada hosted it's first major international event, The World's Fair –"Man And His World" was both its title and lofty theme. The event was held in Montreal, at the time Canada's largest and most cosmopolitan city. With pavilions from countries all over the world, it was the epitome of a Multicultural celebration, and Canada appeared to be the a leading light in a brave new, multicultural world.

However, Canada is first and foremost a bi-cultural nation – French and English – and in 1967 Quebec nationalism was beginning to crest. "The Quiet Revolution" of French speaking intellectuals and nationalists of the early sixties had divided into two camps. Those who followed the thinking of Pierre Trudeau that Quebec was part of Canada and her problems could be solved at the federal level of politics, and those who believed as Rene Leveque did that only a Quebec separate from the rest of Canada could guarantee the rights of French Canadians.

Bombs set off by the Front de Liberation Quebec (FLQ) had blown up the occasional mailbox in the streets of Quebec since the early 1960s, but had never really been considered a threat to the community. That all changed in the fall of 1970 when they kidnapped Quebec's Minister of Justice, Pierre Laporte, and the British High Commissioner to Quebed, James Cross. When Laporte's corpse was found in the trunk of a car conciliatory talk went out the window and Prime Minister Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act.

A little known clause in the old Canadian Constitution allowed the Prime Minister to suspend the civil liberties of all Canadians in times of dire emergencies and bring the army out into the streets to enforce order. While the authority wasn't abused on the federal level, in Montreal thousands of people were rounded up by the police and held without charges. That some of them were the incumbent mayor's, Jean Drapeau, political opponents in upcoming municipal elections only increased people's anger.

It becomes difficult to lay claim to being a multicultural society when the two largest cultural groups are unable to reconcile their differences. It becomes even more difficult when sudden influxes of visible minorities exposes latent racism lurking just below our civilized, multicultural, surface.

In the early to mid 1970's events in the wider world caused an influxe of visible minorities to enter Canada refugee claimants. In 1973 Idi Amin Dada, supreme ruler of Uganda, took it into his head to expel the entire South East Asian community in his country. Thousands of people were left suddenly bereft of homes and cast adrift into the world.

While the Canadian government opened the country's borders to them, her citizens were another story altogether. It got to the point that it wouldn't matter if you had been one of those misfortunate enough to be a refugee or not; as long you were a certain colour you were considered open season by the red necks and other scum.

People were accosted and beaten in Toronto Ontario's subway cars in full view of fellow passengers - who either were too stunned to help or didn't care enough. The "Paki" joke entered the lexicon of the racist and to this day some (half)-wit will crack up the room with one of those disgusting examples of ignorance – excusing themselves with the disclaimer "that it's only a bit of fun".

Bigots are bigots and there is nothing to be done about them but fighting back by making certain it is obvious, their behaviour is unacceptable. In the city of Toronto and its suburbs, where the majority of the attacks took place, credit has to be given to local politicians for taking practical steps to curtail the attacks. They followed that up by implementing zero tolerance policies to racist activities in the school boards under their control, ensuring that it wasn't going to on the unofficial curriculum of any school.

Even more heartening were the reactions from other minority communities, and faith groups throughout the city, who spoke out against the attacks and the attitude behind them. As it became clear that people were serious about zero tolerance – including not being afraid to press alarm strips installed in subway cars to alert the police an attack was happening, and doing what they could to stop attacks while they were occurring – the physical violence stopped.

Unfortunately there is nothing that can be done about what people think and feel, and the ingrained fears of the different and unknown that are the root cause of racism are still as prevalent today as they were thirty years ago. On the face of it, Canada appears to be a shining example of multicultural tolerance, but there too many worrying trends that give lie to that appearance.

If we were truly so multicultural why are conservative politicians able to score political points by playing on people's fears of the immigrant? Not only are all the old lies still being trotted out: "they steal our jobs", "they leach off our social systems", but new ones have been invented. Let there be one incident of strife within a minority community and you can count on a politician to start bleating about "bringing their wars to our streets" and innocent (read blonde blue-eyed, children) bystanders being caught in the crossfire. They don't bother to mention that 99% of people who come to Canada have done so because those wars have made them refugees, and they want their children to grow up in a place where they aren't potential innocent bystanders.

If it weren't so appalling, it would be amazing to hear how so called pundits are able to equate multiculturalism with nationalism. They play on people's fears by asking them if they want their neighbourhood to turn into another Rwanda or Bosnia, as if hundreds of years of history, and the political and social climate of those two countries, had nothing to do with the events that happened there. They take one grain of truth, ethnic violence happened in those places, and distort it to mean that anytime two or more ethnic groups are gathered in one place you are guaranteed a firestorm.

Therefore, immigration equals multiculturalism; multiculturalism equals nationalism; and the result is fire in the streets and dark skinned barbarians raping lily-white girls. The sad part is that though their words are lies – they succeed in fermenting an atmosphere of intolerance that leads to the death of a pluralistic society. Even sadder is the ease with which they are able to achieve this result.

It means that despite claims to the contrary, Canada is no more tolerant of immigrants and cultural differences then anybody else, including our neighbour to the south. Canada has hidden its intolerance behind a facade of happy ethnic groups performing happy ethnic dances one afternoon a year in the community hall. We've lied to ourselves, or let ourselves be lied to, and called that multiculturalism.

When Jacques Parizeau, the former leader of the Quebec separatist political party, the Parti Quebecois, blurted out that immigrants voting no in the last referendum on separation lost French Canada the chance to separate from Canada, he was pillared in the press. Nevertheless, his attitude was an accurate reflection of what appears to be two, very common, sentiments in Canada – immigrants are to blame and have no business in the business of "our" country.

In the United States, the current administration relied on generating fear of the unknown and the different in order to get the backing of the population for implementing their various policies – domestic and foreign. Anti-American Canadians have taken great joy in ridiculing these attitudes and the intolerance they have fostered. That's what happens, they say, when you try to assimilate everyone – intolerance and fear of the unknown dictate your behaviour.

It's time for Canadians to get off their high horses and wipe that smirk off their faces. For all our claims of tolerance because of preaching multiculturalism, we are no different. The same fears and intolerance exist in Canada as they do in the United States. We can blame it on the recent administration in Canada if we want, but that's as much a lie as any of the others we tell ourselves. If it didn't already exist, the current crop of politicians wouldn't have been able to exploit it so successfully.

We were able to pretend otherwise for a while, but when it has come to the test, our multiculturalism has proven no more effective in creating a pluralistic society than the melting pot of the United States. We are both countries that were built on the backs of immigrants, but the race of the original colonial masters still rule and seems intent on never letting go.

In spite of the differences in name that each country adapted toward its immigration policies – there has been no real difference in result. The prevailing attitude towards immigrants, or anybody different from "us" is that of fear and intolerance. Welcome to Fortress North America.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:48 AM | Permalink

There are some performers who become like old friends, you don't quite see them often enough, and it's only when they show up unexpectedly that you remember how much they mean to you. Canadian singer and instrumentalist Harry Manx is one of the best individual performers I know of. Playing his unique style of Delta Blues and slide guitar, his recordings immediately create a calm spot in any storm that my day might have been experiencing.

It's not that his music is, and gods do I hate the word, mellow, nor is it that he shies away from uncomfortable topics in his music, or eschew electric instruments in favour of acoustic to create a "soft" sound. Grace is a difficult word, as it can mean so many different things, but not usually at the same time. Harry Manx not only plays with grace and style, somehow or other it exists within a state of grace that's hard to believe could be found outside a temple.

If you remember as far back as the first paragraph, I referred to his unique style of Delta Blues playing. For those of you not familiar with Harry you can be forgiven for thinking that's the usual sort of hyperbole. The fact is there aren't many North American musicians who spent twelve years being instructed in both the physical and spiritual aspects of playing their instrument. Harry plays an instrument of which only two or three have been built, a mohan veena.

Played like any lap-steel bottle neck the differences start with the inclusion of extra strings attached to the neck of the guitar called sympathetic, which when rung, strummed, or simply allowed to resonate through the guitars natural reverberations bring the sound of the sitar into the mudflats of the Mississippi. They continue with the realization that Harry was trained on the mohan veena as a classical Indian musician, by the man who built by hand the one Harry now plays: Pandit Vishwa Mohan Bhatt.

Mohan Bhatt is known in the West as the guy who won a Grammy with Ry Cooder some years back for their release Meeting By The River. Of course, the rest of the world already knew him as an international recording star, composer, instrument maker, and teacher. If I understand it correctly in the Indian classical tradition a student is not only learning how to play the instrument under instruction, he or she becomes a link in a chain of teachers and students dating back to the first teacher of their discipline.

Mohan Bhatt would therefore have passed on the knowledge that his teacher, Pandit Ravi Shanker had imparted to him, who in turn had learned it at the feet of his teacher. When you look upon in it that light – twelve years seems like barely enough time to learn all that you need to learn. Of course, it's still not the sort of commitment you're going to make lightly. But when you listen to Harry Manx, you hear the results.

Wise And Otherwise is the third Harry Manx disc I've had the pleasure of listening to, and ironically it turns out to have been one of his earliest recordings. According to the liner notes he made this recording only a year after returning to Canada, in 2001, but all of the original material is copyright 2006, and it was re mastered in October of 2006. I do know that it just showed up in the mail this week and Harry's label, Dog My Cat Records lists it as a new release on their web site. I can only assume that it's a re release of an older recording in order to allow the music to reach a wider audience now that Harry has gained in popularity.

Whatever the reason it's a real treat for the new fan and the old friends of Harry as it gives you glimpses of everything the man is capable of; a voice that is literally filled with soul, a harmonica that sings, and, of course, his incredible abilities on stringed instruments.

Of the twelve songs on Wise And Otherwise, Harry has written seven of them and come up with new arrangements for the remaining five. The music ranges in provenance from the old folk song "Death Have Mercy" (which I know as "O Death"), B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone", to Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady". No, that's not a misprint – you read that correctly – Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady". Played solo on the Mohan Veena with no other accompaniment, it probably sounds like no other version you've ever heard. Yet, at the same time it's a fitting tribute to a guitar player whose spirituality was often ignored in favour of his pyrotechnics.

There are not many acoustic players who will risk pitting their skills against people's memories of one of the most flamboyant guitar players of an earlier generation. But I'm sure those thoughts didn't even enter Harry's mind – it's a song he likes and like everything else on the CD he puts his heart and soul into the recording unworried about other people's expectations.

I'm having a hard time talking about individual tracks on the CD, not because none of the other songs stand out, but because it's hard to think of Harry's music in terms of individual numbers. There is an atmosphere created by the sound of his voice, guitars, and harmonica that takes you to a place removed from the world for the time it takes to play. It's not that all the music sounds the same, far from it in fact, as the sound oscillates between blues, traditional Indian ragas, and folk in an ever-changing Kaleidoscope.

That being said, his incorporation of an original raga "The Gist Of Madhuvanti" into a medley with "The Thrill Is Gone" sounds like King had written it for that purpose. As his own songs balance the transcendence of Eastern spiritualism with the vitality of life found in the earthiness of dirt scrabble Blues, his covers are leavened with spirit.

Harry Manx is a performer who really needs to be listened to in order to understand the experience of his music. All I can give you is reassurances that the music is beautiful and deserving of being given a respectful and careful listening. Even if you knew nothing else about his music that alone should tell you how unusual and unique it is. East doesn't meet West in Harry Manx's music – they don't need to because the introductions were made ages ago when we all heard music for the first time.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:09 PM | Permalink