Leap In The Dark

Maybe it's because I write so much, but I've always been fascinated with words and languages. Where did they come from; how did different sounds come to represent words for different people, and why? I think it's amazing that so many people have come up with different ways of being able to communicate ideas, emotions, and abstract concepts.

There's so much you can learn about a culture from its language based on the ideas and concepts they are able to express and how they utilize the words at their disposal when doing so. In English we may be able to call an object a television and understand what that means, but another language may have to string a couple of words together that will describe the function in order to communicate the same meaning: the box which brings people to life.

English of course is itself a mongrel of a language, being made up of bits and pieces from all the peoples who ever invaded the British Isles dating back to the Romans and earlier. If you look at the earliest texts written down in the English language, Beowulf. Sir Gawain And The Green Knight, or Chauser's Canterbury Tales you wouldn't recognize it as being the same as what we speak today. Even today the English language continues to evolve depending on where its spoken and by whom. The English spoken in India differs from that spoken in Australia, which differs from what's spoken in Canada, and that in turn is different from the form it takes in the United States.

Yet, in spite of all that's different between us, and all the distinctive flavours that our languages have, there is one thing it seems they all have in common; the ability to rip the flesh off someone's bones with a few well chosen words or phrases. According to Curse + Berate In 69 + Languages published by Soft Skull Press every language from Afrikaans to Zulu contains the means to be rude, crude, lewd, and just downright insulting.

Assembled by the staff of the international literary review, the The Gobshite Quarterly and edited by R.V. 
Branham, editor of the same publication, Curse + Berate In 69 + Languages contains an A - Y(abnormal - Yuppie/snob: apparently no curses they have found in the English language begin with Z) listing of English profanity translated into as many languages as possible. A second section contains a selection of choice phrases for use in specific circumstances. "Corpus Politic Or What Would Caligula Say/Do & Variations" for instance contains a list of things that one culture might say to another in a moment of pique, or aspersions you might want to cast upon your political enemies in times of undue stress.

In his introduction to this compendium of invective, Mr Branham makes no bones about his intent. He's appalled at what he considers our cavalier attitude towards swearing. We now toss off words, that even a generation ago would have caused consternation among the masses, without a second thought and they have lost their power to inflame or incite. By opening our eyes to some of the truly inventive means others have found for utilizing what we have managed to trivialize through overuse, he hopes to instil in us a new respect for the profane and encourage his readers to breath new life into that which has been allowed to become moribund - swearing.

Now I won't say that I've read every listing, but even a sampling of the offerings under the various headings in this dictionary (the majority of which if published here would probably result in this site being blocked by parental locks on servers around the world) is enough to make a reader realize how much we have been limiting ourselves. The Spanish, for example, have a way with a descriptive phrase that makes the rest of the world seem like innocents, and I doubt that anybody can match certain Mid Eastern languages for inventiveness when it comes to curses.

Curses are of course a different matter all together from cursing, and it's interesting to note how some cultures make use of one over the other when it comes to wishing a person ill. I have to admit that until now I hadn't given the matter much thought, but after what I've read here, I can see the attraction of a good hearty curse as compared to cursing. A curse has the power of momentum behind it, and as it builds up a head of steam to its denouement it gives you a wonderful opportunity to let someone know the depth of your feelings towards them. It's definitely an area where the English language has been lagging behind the rest of the world, and Curse + Berate offers up some wonderful choice examples that surely will provide fodder for the inventive mind.

The other thing that becomes abundantly clear from reading this book is how much we all have in common when it comes to our source material for swearing. Body parts, bodily functions, and religion are at the top of the charts for almost every single language on earth when it comes to cursing. Animals feature high on the list too of course, but usually only when combined with human activity - generally sexual for some reason.

Sex: there's no getting away from it when it comes to swearing it seems. Somehow being able to work the subject of sex or sexuality into your invective makes it all that more potent. What that says about most cultures attitudes towards sex isn't very complimentary, as it means that the subject is still obviously taboo or considered somehow dirty, but next to references to God, I'd have to say that sexual activity and defecation are the most prominent features of cursing across the board. (Being able to combine the three into one curse is the sign of an extremely inventive mind and obviously an ideal to strive for in your own attempts.)

Aside from the obvious benefits of attempting to build bridges between cultures that a book like this strives for by showing the reader that no matter where we live we have so much linguistically in common, I'd be remiss in mentioning just how much fun this book is. If you don't have any hang ups about swearing - and if you did I doubt you'd even open the damned thing - Curse + Berate In 69 + Languages will have you laughing so hard that it will hurt.

Some of the funniest parts of the book are the literal translations of other languages' expressions. While an idiom taken as a whole will have one meaning, and that can be funny enough - when translated word for word it becomes even more outlandish and hilarious. Some of the best examples for this are some of the Chinese dialects - check out the Mandarin slang for breasts and you'll see what I mean.

Curse + Berate In 69 + Languages is one of the funniest, most intelligent, and inventive books on language that you will ever come across. If this book doesn't give you a new respect for the wonder of words - nothing will.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:08 PM | Permalink

Aside from the simple act of beating out a rhythm by hitting something hollow with a stick, the other most universally common form for creating music is the blowing of air through a hollow tube to create a sound. Variations of the the six holed flute, either played transversely like today's modern flutes, or by blowing down into the shaft like a recorder, have been found in cultures all over the world.

While relatively simple to play at its most basic, it takes a highly skilled player to play music of a more complicated nature because with only six holes it takes amazing breath control to push the flute's range beyond the octave it was built to play. In recent years it has been modified to include a seventh finger hole in order to facilitate a player's ability to meet the demands of more complicated music. Even though the instrument was not designed originally to play these styles of music, with this modification, and in the hands of a skilled player, its unique sound can bring a new life to familiar pieces of music.

In India this type of flute has as many name as there are dialects spoken, but it is most commonly known as either a Bansuri in the north or a Venu (an eight holed variety) in the south. No matter what name is used to refer to this flute it's roots run deep in Hindu culture as the God Krishna is often depicted as playing the transverse version. Despite its history, the Bansuri's limited range has caused it to receive short shrift until recent times, as it was considered inadequate for performing anything but folk music. Now, especially with the addition of the seventh fingering hole, it is common to hear it used in both the classical and popular repertoire.

It's also only been in recent years that attempts have been made to cross pollinate Western and Eastern music with instruments of the other culture. While a lot of platitudes have been said about music being the universal language, the truth of the matter is that music can be as specific to a culture as a language and a belief system and can prove very difficult for someone outside that culture to reproduce.

Indian flutist Deepak Ram has, with the help of some friends, chosen to try and bridge the gulf that separates Indian and Western music by recording a disc of American Jazz music. Steps, released on Golden Horn Records is a diverse collection of Jazz music ranging from "Standards" like "My Funny Valentine" by Rodgers and Hart and "Summertime" by the Gershwin brothers to the more technically advanced sounds of "Giant Steps" by John Coltrane and "All Blues" by Miles Davis.

While the flute is nowhere near as common a lead instrument in Jazz as say the saxophone or trumpet, it has in recent years started to gain in popularity. Yet in all those cases the players are utilizing a concert flute that gives them the same range as any other orchestral instrument. Deepak Ram, on the other hand, is attempting to play these pieces with an instrument designed to play only one to one and half octaves. Even the inclusion of the additional finger hole only makes it easier to do what's called "overblowing" which means using increased amounts of breath to achieve a higher note. So not only does Deepak Ram have to worry about playing the songs, he also has to worry about being able to form the notes necessary to play the songs.

All things considered therefore it would be quite an accomplishment for him to be able to even get through the songs that he's chosen to play with a degree of competency. The fact that he does that, sounds like he's been playing Jazz all his life, and makes it appear as if little or no effort was involved in the whole production, is testament to his amazing musical ability and talent as a flautist.

Like all good musicians he's not just satisfied with reproducing a song note for note in imitation of how somebody else performed it, but strives to give each of the numbers he's chosen his own interpretation. Of course the very element that provides the challenge for performing the pieces, his instrument, goes a long way to helping him create a distinctive sound. Wooden flutes have a fullness of sound that gives them a warmth that I find too often absent when listening to the metal flutes and that brings a whole new feel to each of the songs.

On a piece like "Summertime" it helps to recreate the sense of the sultry conditions that the song is so redolent with. The heat of a lazy Southern American summer afternoon, when time slows to a crawl, can be heard in the opening bars played by the flute, as can the warmth of a mother's love for her child. The song fairly vibrates with the resonance of the low notes formed in the body of the bamboo flute, and it's the echo of that carried to us listeners that conveys the depth of feeling felt by Pandit Ram as he plays the song.

I think it has something to do with the fact that when playing these types of flutes the musician has to take a more direct involvement in the creation of each individual note that it feels like more of a personal statement then it might in another instance. When you consider that Jazz by it's nature is very much a personal message from those playing to those listening, this makes Pandit Ram's playing all the more effective.

The rest of the musicians involved take their cues from Deepak Ram, and the result is these pieces are given as probably an elegant and eloquent reading as they ever have. The three other members of the quartet; Vic Juris on guitar, Tony Marino on bass, and Jamey Haddad on drums and percussion; have geared their performances to accompany and accent Deepak's flute. This is especially noticeable in Juris' guitar solos in that he attempts, and succeeds, to replicate the gentle persistence of the flute's approach to the music.

What I think is the most amazing thing about Steps is not the fact that Deepak Ram has taken an instrument not normally associated with Jazz music and been able to play a wide variety of Jazz tunes with it, but that I never once noticed that's what he was doing. From the opening track to the last song's final note, all I heard was a wonderful collection of Jazz tunes being given interpretations that I wasn't familiar with. If that's not brilliance I don't know what is.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:42 PM | Permalink

It took what seemed forever and a day for the boys in blue to get finished with me that night. I guess I was lucky it was only the local boys and the R.C.M.P. didn't think it worth getting down off their high horses for a simple bar knifing. Probably if they had known what was behind it all they would have pried their saddles loose from their butts, but I'd been playing it close to the vest so far. As far as anybody could tell I was only another witness to a senseless act of random violence.

Well that's what I thought it looked like, but Ottawa's finest must have had other thoughts. The obligatory uniform had shown up twenty minutes after the first screams and in the meantime the bar had emptied quicker then a tourist's bowel in Mexico. By the time the boys from Homicide made it to the scene it was only me, the peelers, the girls who served the drinks and the bartender.

The bartender hadn't looked at all happy when I suggested we call the cops, but even he couldn't think of a way of disposing of this problem. While I had been phoning 911, he had been on the other line to his boss. The type of guy who owns these bars likes to know when the police are going to be visiting his premises just as a matter of principle. Usually it's to check whether the paperwork for the Eastern European girls' will be needed or not.

Sometimes the owners will give these girls an incentive for working by "holding" on to their documents for them – to keep both the girls and the documents from getting lost. Those girls usually have had someone do them the great favour of buying them a ticket out of their shit hole village in the Balkans and offering them a job in the "Entertainment and Hospitality" business. If they were lucky it only meant stripping.

But they didn't have to worry, the homicide dicks took one look at the seven inches of steel (it only looked like three to me, but the guys who write up the reports think the bigger the better, although I've always thought it's not the size that matters; dead after all is dead) sticking out of the guy's back and are immediately on to bigger fish to fry. Me.

McIntosh and Gates might have been nice people off the job, hell they probably were kind to widows and orphans and all that other good stuff too, but being homicide cops for twenty years can make you pretty jaded when it comes to the job. Thankfully they didn't dislike me personally, only on principle. Detective work should be left to the cops and private dicks should stick to ruining people's marriages was how Gates had summed it up the first time he met me. (I don't think he ever found out about the manila envelope full of prints of him and the little Russian stripper that his ex – wife had paid me two thousand dollars for)

"Look who it is Mac, the big time private detective holding up a bar with a corpse leaning on his size elevens. That's a sight to warm the cockles of a person's heart, providing of course they have one." He was a skinny little guy who looked like he should have a cigarette dangling out his mouth as he was always talking out of the other side.

"One what? A heart or a cockles?" was McIntosh's humorous reply. He was a regular laugh riot that guy. He was an average build sort of type; the kind whose clothes hang around them to see if anything interesting was going to happen to the body and gradually lose what ever shape they might have had as they give into the inevitability of gravity.

They were both eyeing me in that appreciative manner that lions have for fresh meat, and Mac mimed flipping a coin. Nodding in an unspoken agreement Gates moved off to talk to the girls and the bartender while Mac figured he'd keep me company in case the body started to scare me.

It was one of those awkward moments between two men in a bar ever since they had banned smoking in public places. When you don't have the action of lighting a cigarette to use as cover for starting a conversation you can feel mighty exposed. To cover he fished in his jacket pocket and brought out his little flip-top note book and cheap chewed pen and began scanning the notes he had taken down from the preliminary results given him by the scene of the crime boys and the uniforms who had got here first.

After that little show he looked over at me, nodding his head imperceptibly to give me permission to talk. He knew that it as a matter of course I would be telling him as little as possible about any case I was working on and the only information he was going to get from me was stuff he already had. This was just their way of letting me know what was what.

So I told him I'd come to the bar to meet a contact who had called me over the phone, and that while waiting for him to show up this guy had fallen down dead at my feet after trying to swallow a sword with his sternum. McIntosh obviously had something up his sleeve that he was waiting to drop on me like an Acme anvil taking out the Coyote. He was just letting me play out some line so that he could see if I'd let slip with anything he was going to be able to use to string me up with.

When he played his trump card it wasn't anything that I wasn't prepared for, it was all just part of the game we played. The corpse was my contact it turns out, or the fact that he had my business card, with the time of our meeting and the bar's address scribbled on the back of it would have to rank up there with one of the largest coincidences on record.

Mac stood there waving the familiar card with the unfamiliar writing on the back in it's little evidence bag, as if dangling it in front of my face would make me all of a sudden break down to confessing the killing of all my clients. But I was made of harder stuff than that and came right back with my own question.

"Since you seem to think this guy must have been a client, why not give me his name. I hate it when they die on you before they've introduced themselves. It really puts a damper on future relationship possibilities and collecting from their next of kin"

I could see him mulling it over, wondering how much it damage it would cause his reputation if he were just to give me the name. At the same time I could let something slip that might just tie me a little bit tighter to the corpse. Finally he cleared his throat and recited what little information they did have. "His name was Dr. Samuel Magnesun, but he's not the sort of doctor you go to when you have a sore throat. He works, well worked for I guess you'd say now, the National Research Council here in Ottawa. We haven't been able to find out what he'd been working on yet; we're still waiting to hear back from his section head at the Council. I hadn't said more then dead in a bar, when the words National Security came whistling down the line, which than went deader than a dodo."

He eyed me even more expectedly now, to see if I could add to anything to the sketch of information that he had gathered. Even if I could give him something more, I think we both had the feeling of inevitability that strikes you when something is going to be swept under the carpet. National Security could explain away everything from not accepting tenders for military equipment so you could award the contracts to your buddies or those whose support you, to explaining the paperclip shortage at the Revenue Canada offices.

Truth be told I was thinking of a particular Nordic looking blonde and wondering what her relationship was with this middle aged chap laid out on the floor with a rib separator jammed into the area of his heart from the back and whether or not she'd require some consoling, when a loud throat clearing brought me back to reality.

Reality in the shape of Gates glowering at me from McIntosh's shoulder and saying, "Dick head are you listening to me? Unless you got something important to say, you've got to clear out. I've just got the word that the men in the grey suits are on their way to check out the body before we can take it down to the morgue. I only hope they hurry it up as this guy is starting to stiffen in that shape. Families hate it when they have to bury the corpse in pieces cause we had to break it to fit it into the bags."

I don't need to be told twice to vamoose when the feds are going to be making an appearance, but their appearance started to change the whole completion of this little exercise. What did my friend the corpse, the late Mr. Magnesun have to do with the Kyoto accord? Had he made some sort of breakthrough that certain bodies wanted silenced? Or was it just he had knowledge that ran contrary to what the government and its supporters wanted the public to believe about the accord's necessity?

Stopping on my way out of the bar, I checked the least vandalised pay phone for a directory and as I suspected there was only one listing for a Magnesun in the phone book. It wasn't that late yet, so I figured I'd swing by the address listed on my way home and see if a certain ash blond head was around to talk to.

I could offer my condolences, maybe some comfort, and hopefully pick up a few answers about the good Doctor's work and how or if it related to the Kyoto accord and what it was she was doing in the bar earlier that evening. With the feds swooping down on Magnesun's corpse like so many vultures, it would only be a matter of time before they had everything about him and the Kyoto accord under lock and key where they would never see the light again.

I still had far more questions then answers, but at least I was beginning to know which questions to ask. Like why were the feds so keen to keep the information about the Kyoto accord quiet? One way or another I was going to find me some answers, and I didn't care who I had to walk over or sleep with to get them. Although as far as the latter is concerned my preference would be for a certain ash blond.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:48 AM | Permalink

By the time I heard my first Joy Division song, the compelling and chilling "Atmosphere", lead singer Ian Curtis had been dead for almost a year. After only two years as a band, two studio albums, Unknown Pleasures and Closer, a twelve inch single version of the song "Atmosphere", and the day before they were to start their American tour, Ian Curtis hung himself May 19th 1980.

I'm sure many people have spent hours, days, months even, pouring over the lyrics and song titles, looking for any indication Ian might have given that he was planning on killing himself, and with power of hindsight have no doubt been very successful. Considering the fact that the band's lyrics were fixated on exploring the darker recesses of the soul, I'm willing to bet that if you were liberal enough in your interpretations, you could not only find the reasons for his suicide within the lyrics, but the exact time and location as well!

There were far too many people that I knew that liked the band for all the wrong reasons, as a kind of death cult sprung up around the memory of Ian Curtis. It was like the band had ceased to exist as a musical entity, and became a vehicle for worshipping suicide. After all wasn't suicide the ultimate expression of the nihilism that Punk and then subsequently New Wave music was all about?

That attitude never sat well with me, as I always found something rather life affirming about most of Punk rock, Johnny Rotten's rants about no future notwithstanding. You can't sing about resistance with the amount of energy that the Clash did and not have hope for the future. That's not to say I didn't like Joy Division, because I did. They had a unique sound, and their lyrics, while somewhat melodramatic, at least made a stab at emotional depth and itelligence.

So when I saw that Paul Morley who had been the New Music Express'(NME) Manchester stringer (Manchester England being Joy Division's home city) had written Joy Division: Piece By Piece I was intrigued enough to want to check it out. What Morley has done is gather together the articles he wrote about Joy Division and the Manchester music scene from when he first started writing for NME back in 1976/77 up until a voice over he wrote for a 2005 radio broadcast about the band in commemoration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Ian Curtis's death.

Thankfully he's done more than just put together a book of old articles, scripts, and liner notes and called it a history of the band. Instead he has created a narration that recounts the background surrounding the writing of the articles, and places them in their context both professionally and personally. One of the things he makes clear is he was just as raw and untested as the bands he was covering.

Now anybody who followed the new music of the late seventies and early eighties will remember that seemingly out of nowhere Manchester became a hot bed of pop music. If London had been the home of Punk in England, than Manchester was where the Post Punk movement was created. Being one of the few cities where the town council didn't prohibit the Sex Pistols from playing, Manchester ended up being a stop on the "Anarchy In The U.K." tour twice.

According to Morely it was these two visits that were at the root of the explosion that not only saw the creation of Joy Division, but The Buzzcocks, Howard Devoto's Magazine, The Fall, and maybe most importantly of all was the impetus for the creation of Martin Hannett's Factory Records. Not only did they record and produce most of the above, they were responsible for Manchester's second wave of Post Punk performers in the early 1980s with bands like A Certain Ratio and Duretti Column.

In the mid to late seventies Manchester was struggling through a recession caused by being an industrial city without industry and in desperate need of an infusion of some type of new energy. As Morely was writing his first article for NME about the Manchester music scene he was also dealing with the fact that his father had just committed suicide. Morely makes it clear that his father's suicide and the state that Manchester was in at the time were definitely related. He's also honest enough to admit that it obviously coloured what he wrote, and because of that he couldn't write off a quartet of guys called Warsaw, who would become Joy Division, no matter how lost they appeared on stage.

He never claims any precognition; no I saw the greatness in them before they were great. Instead the implication is that on some level because his father had felt so little hope that he wasn't able to continue, Morely wasn't going to be the one to dash anybody's hopes if he saw anything at all that suggested they could be going somewhere.

I have to admit that I found Morely's language a little too grandiose for the topic; popular music is fun, and occasionally intelligent, but is still more reliant on craft than artistry. Whenever I read people who write about popular music as if its of vital importance, I'm left with the feeling that they are working under the following premise: If what I write about is important, than I'm important, so I must make it sound as important as possible. Joy Division were an exciting pop group that were part of an exciting music scene in the late 70s and early 80's, but the real reason they are still remembered as well as they are to this day is because their lead singer committed suicide.

Paul Morely has done a good job of recreating the atmosphere and energy that was part of the alternative music scene during the late seventies when Joy Division were at their peak. He is also able to provide us with an insider's, as much as anybody can be an insider when suicide is involved, view of the turbulent and sad history of the late Ian Curtis. Yet in the end, no matter how hard he tries to make a case for it, there's nothing really earth shattering about the subject matter and nothing about the book justifies its 380 plus pages.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:14 AM | Permalink

I'm not one for using sports analogies very often, yet when I think about the role played by the drummer in most bands it's hard not to think of the equally vital, but unnoticed until they make a mistake position, of goalkeeper in soccer or goalie in hockey. Situated in behind the rest of the team ( um sorry band) the drummer is seemingly off in his own little world. Like goalies they are often seen as individuals in what is otherwise considered a joint effort, and usually allowances are made for their eccentricities.

If a drummer ( or a goalie) does something that's just a little off, people will shrug and say, well he or she is the drummer, and somehow that is considered an adequate explanation for everything from afternoon naps to seeing how high a television set will bounce when chucked from a hotel room window on the fourteenth floor. It's rare for a goalie, in soccer especially, to obtain the status or stardom of their team mates on the front lines; the glamour after all comes from scoring goals not in stopping them. The same holds true for drummers, as aside from the occasional solo that's tossed their way during a live gig, the majority toil away in relative anonymity while the lead singer and guitar players attract all the attention.

Of course there have been exceptions over the years both in sports and in music, as occasionally goalies - more often in hockey on this continent than soccer - and drummers will step out of the shadows and into the limelight. Those that do are either possessed of a talent so singular that's it impossible to ignore or through sheer force of personality forge an indelible impression on all who observe them. There are also those very rare individuals whose combination of talent and charisma ensure that they not only get their share of the spotlight, but they are also considered leading lights of their profession.

In the world of music they are usually the drummers who have been willing to serve their time playing in bands supporting others as a time of apprenticeship before they start carving out their own niche. Steve Reid began his professional career behind the drum kit at the age of nineteen when as part of Quincy Jones' house band at The Apollo Theatre in Harlem New York he appeared on his first recording, Martha & the Vandellas' 1964 hit "Dancing In The Streets" for Motown Records. At the time he was working his way through collage playing Jazz gigs six days a week, and graduated in 1965 with a B.A.

After graduation Steve followed in the footsteps of the man he refers to as his first inspiration, Art Blakey, and travelled to Africa. For three years he continued his apprenticeship in music, travelling around West Africa performing and learning from musicians in Ghana, Morocco, Ivory Coast, Senegal, the Congo, and Egypt. The seventy-five dollars he paid as his passage aboard a tramp steamer carrying diesel engines across the Atlantic Ocean not only carried him back to what Blakey referred to as "the root" of their music, but into a world of new found freedoms for Black people as many of the countries he visited were gaining their independence from former colonial masters.

Unfortunately for Steve returning to the States saw him lose his freedom, as the FBI busted him for being a draft dodger and he was sentenced to four years in jail. Upon his release he chose self-imposed exile and moved to Europe where he now calls Lugano Switzerland home. Needless to say, after having had his taken away from him for refusing to fight in a war he didn't believe in, freedom in all shapes and sizes has become central to his being.

Listening to his newest release, Daxaar, traditional name of the Senegalese capital Dakar, where the disc was recorded, on the Domino label it's hard not to notice how that commitment to freedom is expressed in the music. Steve and long time collaborator, electronic music whiz Kieran Hebden were accompanied by keyboardist Boris Netsvetaev on the trip to Africa. Once there they joined forces with five African players; Khadim Badji percussion, Dembel Diop bass, Roger Ongolo trumpet, and Jimi Mbaye guitar.

It's only natural that as a drummer Steve uses rhythm as the starting point for his music, and the idea behind this album was to create the music from a series of spontaneous jams around various rhythmic constructions. The results are something quite awesome. Daxaar starts off sedately enough with "Welcome", featuring the high, clean vocals that have become the hallmark of Senegalese sound. Isa Kouyate provides the vocal and plays the korah, a type of West African harp, that opens the door for us to enter into Africa via Steve Reid's vivid imagination and love of rhythm.

For the rest of the disc, while of course Africa remains firmly in the mix, the seven piece band sets out on an exploration of rhythm and melody in order to express themes or capture an image that Steve has in mind. For example on the title track "Daxaar" Reid had an image in his head of the people he had seen running on the beach when he first came into town from the airplane. That sets up an interesting contrast with "Dabronxaar" which mixes Steve's old "Da Bronx" neighbourhood and Daxaar into a sort of exotic funk stew.

The songs are built in layers of rhythm, so that they each develop a unique texture to the point where they become almost tactile experiences as well as auditory ones. "Daxaar" for example, starts out with only keyboard and electronic sounds, which are joined by muted conga drum, trumpet and guitar. The near hypnotic affect that's created by their almost loop like repetition, is saved from becoming tedious by the interjection of an occasional crash from Steve's drum kit.

It's unexpected elements like that, or the trumpet solo in "Jiggy Jiggy", that give the disc Daxaar its spice and strength. Those are the expressions of freedom that are so important to Steve Reid, because while rhythm is the pulse that lets us know a piece of music has life, there's more to life than just making sure your heart is beating. There has to be the highs and lows of emotion and thought or else the body will just lie there inert and unfeeling.

Steve Reid's music is the furthest thing from being inert and unfeeling that I've heard in a long time. Unlike other rhythm based contemporary music that repeats itself in an endless drone causing listeners to shut down emotionally and intellectually. Steve's music has sparks of freedom blown into it that break through the walls of the rhythm stimulating your heart and keeping your mind ticking over.

I have to say that at first I found the use of electronics sort of disconcerting, but Kieran Hebden isn't just after making "neat sounds" or creating a single effect. He creates another instrument that works and responds to the acoustic instruments around him just as if he were playing a saxophone instead of "electronics". The only other group I've heard incorporate electronics into Jazz based music this seamlessly has been The Chicago Underground Trio.

Steve Reid is quoted as saying he writes his music after its been played, and that when they started work on this disc and his fellow musicians asked what he wanted them to do he told them "just play". Working at that level of improvisation can be the equivalent of giving yourself enough rope to be hung with if you don't know what you're doing or don't have a solid foundation to build from. For Steve Reid, the clues all reside in the rhythm, and he is a master at deciphering the clues that live in a particular rhythm to bring it completely alive.

The Steve Reid Ensemble's Daxaar is a brilliant example of what happens when the potential of rhythm is fully realized. Its some of the most fully alive music that I've listened to in a long time.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:25 AM | Permalink

There aren't many pariahs left in this world as we have become inured to just about everything the world has to offer. Yet in spite of being able to accept nearly everything else under the sun, people who make their living having sex in front of cameras are still looked upon as if they crawled out from under a rock. In fact, in spite of it's proliferation through-out the Internet and elsewhere, most producers and suppliers of pornography are looked upon as being only a step removed from white slavery.

In fact the antipathy towards the business is so universal that it comes in for equal bashing from those on both extremities of the political spectrum. It may be for different reasons, but both the religious right and the radical left condemn pornography and pornographers out of hand. While the one claims it's because they don't like the way women are depicted and the other because they don't like sex, the end result is the same.

Of course North America and sex have always had a strange relationship in that while people don't see anything wrong with depicting a person literally being eaten alive on a movie screen, two people having sex is enough to send half the continent into a state of shock. The sad truth is that for too many people the equation of sex equals sin has made something that should be a pleasurable experience into something they feel the have to be ashamed of.

Yet in spite of that, or maybe because of that (I'll leave that to the psychologists and social workers to figure out) there's always been a big demand for pornography in our society. From the dirty postcards of the early part of the twentieth century to the web sites and DVDs of today, the stuff wouldn't be made if there people weren't willing to pay for it. But who are the people willing to appear in the movies and pose for the pictures? Are they somebody's innocent son or daughter whose morals were corrupted by evil people leading them astray, or even worse, addicting them to a thousand drugs so they will do anything for their next fix?

In all likely-hood it's none of the above, as drugs usually are a detriment to performance, and the mainstream adult film industry doesn't need to coerce people into taking part in their movies as there are always more then enough people willing and able to choose from. If that's the case it must mean, horror of horrors, these people want to be doing what they're doing. Working from that premise, William Walsh has created what he calls a documentary novel that traces the life and career of leading man Wax Williams from his childhood days in Ampersand California to when he throws in the towel and retires from the world of adult films.

Without Waxxx, published by Casperian Books, is more than simply a linear biography of Wax, as Walsh has structured the book like a movie, complete with talking head interviews, flashbacks, and cut-away shots to reflect a characters thoughts. Interspersed within the "footage" about the life of Wax, are various small vignettes that are profiles of Wax's fans. As a type of piece de resistance, he has also included a the script from Wax's first feature, which might be short on dialogue but long on the inventive stage directions unique to an adult film.

Wax hadn't set out to be a porn star, in fact at one point during high school it looked like he had a chance of having a decent career in baseball - at least triple A if not the majors - if only he hadn't had that additional growth spurt. As a child Wax was a slow developer - slow to the point that his parents were concerned enough to send him to a doctor who claimed he had come up with a way to increase a young man's size so he'd have no cause ever to be embarrassed again. The so-called doctor's treatment turned out to include a combination of growth hormones, steroids, exercise, and a stretching devise.

While there's no doubt the procedure was effective, Wax went from being an 98 pound weakling in his first year of high school to being a star third baseman in only two years, it soon became apparent that his extra length was a hindrance when it came to running the bases and playing the field. As one of the directors he worked with commented when asked about Wax - there aren't many other lines of work, aside from the adult film industry, where his specific enhancement could be parlayed into a career, so becoming a porn start was pretty much a no-brainer.

Through interviews with co-performers and technical folk Wax worked with we learn that while there are other equally well endowed performers in the adult film business (nobody in the book refers to it as pornography) Wax had a boy next door quality that endeared him to women and made him far less threatening to men. It was this combination that quickly made him a star in the adult business and allowed his management to market a whole range of "Wax Williams" sex toys.

Walsh has been very careful to write Without Wax in a manner that appears to be faithful to the documentary ideal of objectivity. Every so often while reading I was forced to remind myself that in fact this was a work of fiction no matter how it looked. So, even though it appears the characters are being presented in a non-objective manner, and that the author has no opinion one way or another, he has written each one of them with intent and purpose. We're supposed to feel like we are making up our own minds about circumstances and people, when of course he's guiding us by having created everything we read.

The result of this is that he forces us to look honestly at our own opinions and reactions to pornography. By creating the illusion that it's a documentary the reader feels that he or she is "allowed" to be reading material that they probably wouldn't under normal circumstances. Periodically he will deliberately shatter that illusion by including elements that sound like they come directly from an "adult movie" and forces you to realize that you've actually been reading pornography not a report on it.

When it doesn't stop it from being a good book, and you realize you want to read the book to its finish because you've been enjoying it - what does that say about pornography and what does that say about you? If you're honest with yourself this book will make you reconsider any of your conceptions about pornography and about the adult film business.

This is a well written and thoughtful book about a subject that most people have a knee jerk reaction too. William Walsh's Without Waxxx, in spite of being a work of fiction, is probably the most honest book you'll find written about pornography today. If you're willing to be as honest with yourself as the book is, you might just find yourself thinking about the adult film industry in a different light then you did before.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:50 AM | Permalink

“Congress finds and declares that wild free-roaming horses and burros are living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the West; ... and that these horses and burros are fast disappearing from the American scene. It is the policy of Congress that wild free-roaming horses and burros shall be protected from capture, branding, harassment, or death; and to accomplish this they are to be considered in the area where presently found, as an integral part of the natural system of the public lands” The Wild-Free Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971

It looked liked the bleeding would finally be stopped. In 1971 an American Congress finally put the brakes on what had been an ongoing slaughter for one hundred years. The killing of America's wild horse and burro populations looked like it was finally coming to an end. It was quite a sea change from a hundred years earlier when American governments had advocated the extermination of the wild horse as a means of bringing the American Indian to heel.

Even more important than just stopping the killing was their recognition that these animals needed to have territory to live in. "They are to be considered in the area where presently found, as an integral part of the natural system of public lands" would seem to guarantee both the horse, and their far less glamourous cousin the burro, at least equal standing on public lands as all other creatures. But a law is only as strong as the will to enforce it, and there seems to be plenty of interest groups with money who have the ability to sap the will needed to enforce that law.

Cattle ranchers want the land the horses use because of how little they are charged to use public lands for grazing rights, and have been more than willing to supply the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) with erroneous statistics and misleading information in order to support their cause. The BLM have done their bit for agribusiness by actually ensuring the wild horse population has been reduced by over 50% since Congress passed the 1971 act that supposedly ensured their population would be stabilized.

If the campaign carried out against the horses wasn't bad enough it pales in comparison to the one currently being waged against the humble burro. Not only have they seen the amount of their habitat space gradually eroded until now it stands at less than fifty per cent of what they had in 1971 but herd levels have been reduced to such an extent that most have fallen below numbers considered sufficient to maintain genetic integrity (150) and some herds are so small (50 or less) that inbreeding is a serious risk.

Somehow or other since 1971 the wild burro has gone from being "living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the west" to a exotic feral animal that is interfering with the natural order. It's interesting how this wasn't considered a problem until a few years ago when a move was made by big game hunters in North America to reintroduce the Desert Big horn sheep into the same areas that burros were already grazing.

While it's despicable in the first place to re-introduce an animal into the wild just so you can hunt it, displacing another animal and calling it "Wild Life Management", is hypocrisy of the highest order. What's been happening is a smear campaign that would be worthy of any dis-information program run by the current administration. First start referring to the burros as feral and exotic instead of wild so it sounds like they were a recently introduced species instead of having been here longer then almost all breeds of domestic cattle.

Like the horse, the burro was re-introduced to North America in the 15th and 16th century with the arrival of the Spanish. The burro was especially adaptable to the climate of the Southern United States and Mexico as the breed that came with the Spanish had originated in North Africa. Not only does it require minimal amounts of water for survival, it also can obtain most of it's required water from the scrub brush that makes up the majority of it's diet.

Like the horse the burros were at various points in time released into the wild and vanished into wilderness that could support little other wild life. It's only been since another introduced creature, man, has wanted to make use of its habitat that the burro has become a "Wild Life Management" issue. Unlike horses they weren't even a concern for cattle ranchers, because they lived in territories that couldn't sustain cattle.

However, once State governments became aware of just how potentially lucrative the Big Horn Sheep hunt could be, (with licences fetching up to $100,000 each at auctions), burros became a nuisance creature that needed to be dealt with. All of a sudden we hear that they are a threat to water supplies, their populations are too high, and of course a threat to the precious Big Horn Sheep gold mine.

What's even more disquieting is the fact that many of the Big Horn Sheep are animals being introduced into areas where there was no prior sheep population. In fact the Arizona Desert Big Horn Sheep Society boasts on its web site that over 1000 animals have been introduced and have established viable populations in ten mountain ranges where they didn't previously exist.

Recently I was sent documents that were a record of an investigation into the discovery of burro carcasses in in Big Bend Ranch State Park in Texas. As these documents have not yet been made public my source has asked to remain anonymous for the moment. The documents in question are the transcripts of interviews conducted by an Internal Affairs officer who was following up on complaints of potential animal cruelty.

Park rangers having discovered the bodies of burros rotting by the road in the park dutifully reported the crime to state authorities. The only problem was that the shootings had been carried out by Deputy Director of Texas State Parks Dan Sholly and States Parks Region 1 Director, Michael Hil, with the full support of the State Parks Director Walter D. Danby. When interviewed in early November the three men freely admitted that the killings had taken place, and had only just recently stopped.

According to Mr. Sholly's testimony they had started shooting the burros in April of 2007 until they were ordered to stop on October 23rd 2007 (although he did admit that a final burro was shot on Oct. 26th three days after the stop kill order was issued). According to him they had "kept a running total in our mind, and initially in our reports, the number we had shot was seventy-one burros". He also said that he had shot burros on five or six trips into the park, but not every time he went there - mainly because he didn't see them every time he went into the park.

In his testimony Mike Hill said that July of 2007 was the last record he has of burros being shot, and that Dan told him to keep killing burros and not to write anything down about it after that time. He said that Dan had told him that something had been said in Austin (State government offices for Texas are located in the city of Austin) about the burros being killed. It's interesting to note that in his testimony Dan Sholly claims that he never told any park employee to stop recording the number of burros being shot.

It's also interesting to note that in his initial interview with the investigating officer the dates Mike HIll said the shootings took place contradicted those given by Mr. Sholly, but two days later he claims to have reviewed "contemporaneous notes" to refresh his memory, and changed the dates to coincide to agree with those offered by Mr. Sholly. He had said in his first interview that the killing of burros had started in April of 2006, a full year earlier then the date he came back with of April 2007. Of course he might have simply confused the dates, but than again since Sholly denied telling him to stop recording his kills, I have to wonder.

Both Mr. Sholly and Mr. Hill testified that the killing was necessitated because they were wanting to reintroduce Big Horn Sheep to the park and that they had been told that wouldn't be possible with the burros in place. Mr. Sholly also claims they never went into the park to deliberately hunt for burros, but they were trying to impact on the population by taking targets of opportunity.

I thing the most damming piece of testimony came from State Park's Director Walter D. Dabney. After relaying that he told Mr. Hill and Mr. Sholly that they should kill any and all burros on site, he mentions that no other efforts have been made to control the populations in the park since he started. In other words, they haven't attempted to capture, or relocate the herd by any of the means normally followed with protected animals.

I'm not really sure how always carrying a gun and shooting any burro you see on site differs from hunting burros, but them I'm not a Director of State Parks in Texas so I wouldn't know about such distinctions. All I know is that the burro is protected animal in the wild and is not to be killed or have it's habitat displaced by any other animal. Yet in Texas the people who are running the parks system are guilty of both crimes.

The transcript of the inquiry that I received came complete with the investigating officer's findings and recommendations. The only fault he could find with the indiscriminate killing of a protected species was the fact that the people doing the killing hadn't bothered to notify the park's employees in advance that they would be shooting burros in the park. If they had known in advance that the shootings were taking place they wouldn't have been surprised to find the rotting burro carcasses beside the road, and worried that anything untoward was going on.

He recommended that in the future all park employees be better informed about the parks wildlife management programs and that proper arrangements should be made to deal with the disposal of the carcasses. Nowhere in his findings or in his recommendations does he mention that burros are a protected animal in the United States, or that perhaps they should investigate alternative means of wildlife management instead of killing them.

It took a twenty-five year fight by concerned citizens and wildlife conservationists to get the American Congress to pass the The Wild-Free Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971. Thirty-six years latter officers and directors of Public Parks in Texas are flagrantly disregarding the two major provisions of the act. Not only are they depriving them of habitat desperately needed to maintain the numbers of wild burros in America, they are killing them in order to facilitate their supplanting. Currently there are only five genetically viable burro herds remaining in the wild and if the current rate of attrition of both habitat and animals is allowed to continue it will result in the extinction of wild burro herds in the American West.

Is this how America preserves its cultural heritage?

Facts and figures concerning the relative sizes of burro herds and Big Horn Sheep populations and habitat, unless otherwise stated are taken from "Wild Burros of the American West: A Critical Analysis of the National Status of Wild Burros on Public Lands 2006 by C.R. MacDonald

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:12 AM | Permalink

It's hard to remember by looking at it that a piano is a stringed instrument. Yet under the hood of every grand, baby grand, and upright piano, are wires of various lengths tuned to vibrant to the frequency equivalent of each note in one of its eleven octaves. In fact until the early 1700s when Barolomeo Cristofori created the first equivalent of the modern piano by installing hammers to hit the strings when a key was pressed, harpsichords and clavichords had hooks that plucked the string corresponding to each key.

Neither the harpsichord nor the clavichord were suited to being played in a concert setting as they were invariably be drowned out by the rest of the orchestra. The new instrument took its name of pianoforte because Cristofori's modifications gave it the ability to be able to play both soft (piano) and strong (forte). Nearly as important as the ability to control the volume, the hammers also increased the control a player had over the instrument's ability to sustain a note.

In spite of what must have been a sizeable difference in quality of tone and volume, the new instrument didn't become popular until the rise of the Romantic movement towards the later part of the 1700's. With the movements heavy emphasis on emotions in the arts, the piano's ability for expression made it increasingly the instrument of choice for both performers and composers. If you have ever heard a harpsichord, you'll know that there is nothing it can do to match the emotional power generated by the rolling thunder of a piano's bass keys or the ethereal, delicate tremolo that can be achieved at the other end of the keyboard.

While the emotional extravagances of the Romantic era are a thing of the past, piano players are still utilizing the instrument's diversity of expression as a means of recreating an emotional record of a time, place or situation. Using tone and sound in lieu of words artists have created the equivalent of musical poems in the hopes of creating a more direct emotional connection with their audience than is possible with words.

Sound has the ability to communicate on a universal level that isn't possible with words. For while a sound or a rhythm can be understood by anyone, a word can only be comprehended by another who speaks its language. While it's true that each person might hear something different in the same note, or the same progression of notes, there's no barrier standing in the way of their attempted comprehension. Viggo Mortensen's recent recording, Time Waits For Everyone is a wonderful example of these types of creations.

On previous recordings where he has collaborated with various people, Mr. Mortensen has shown that he has an understanding of how sound can be utilized to created emotional soundscapes. On Time Waits For Everyone he uses the same principles that he's employed on those earlier recordings, but has narrowed the focus down to just what can be created with solo piano.

This is not the type of music that you can just put on in the background and expect to get anything out of it. Yet while each of the eighteen pieces requires the listener's attention, the rewards of doing so make the investment worthwhile. Mr. Mortensen has taken great pains to make each of them unique so there's not a moment anywhere on the disc where you feel like something has just been tossed off or is filler.

The majority of the pieces are tied to either a geographical location or a physical object and the emotional response that these places or things have generated in Mr. Mortensen. Tracks sixteen and seventeen, "munchen morning poem" and "treblinka poem", are good examples of how individual pieces are distinct from each other. They also clearly show how different sounds and tonal qualities are capable of eliciting different emotional reactions on the part of the listener.

"munchen morning poem" is series of notes, tones, chords, and silences taken from an octave in the higher range of the keys. The bright, sometimes sharp, sounds made me think of the clean brightness of an early morning where the light is so clear that everything appears to have sharp edges. Yet, I've always felt rather uncomfortable listening to those same notes, finding their pitch rather jarring and disconcerting. They are almost too clean, too strong, and because of that leave me with a sense of disquiet. It's sort of like the descriptions you read of somebody or something being so beautiful that looking at them hurts your eyes, and in the end you're left with the impression that they or it are something you don't really want to have anything to do with.

Of course I'm quite prepared to admit that when it comes to this piece I could be influenced by my own preconceived feelings for the city in question. Munich Germany has always, unfairly or not, brought Nazi Germany to mind for me, and that can't but colour how I react to anything representing it on an emotional level. Yet, the choice Mr. Mortensen made by utilizing the upper end of the scale, was to use sounds that were cutting and sharp - ones that didn't offer any of the softness that would come with a peaceful or calm early morning.

In contrast to "muchen morning poem", "treblinka poem" utilizes the deeper more resonant end of the keyboard. Instead of the sharp and clean sound of the previous "poem" here we are given a glimpse of darkness. Judging by the sustain of the sound during the opening the dark has been present for a while and might not be in any hurry to lift. Hearing it I can hear the sense of loss that must permeate any region that played host to a death camp during World War Two, and, before it had even a chance to heal, was immediately swallowed by an equally corrupt regime in the shape of Stalinist Russia.

But Mr. Mortensen brings an element of hope to the poem as near the end of the piece he begins to move up the scale into notes and sounds that are clearer. It's as if maybe the clouds, which have covered them for so long, are finally beginning to lift from the city, and the country. As a new generation is born that is untouched by the past and has an opportunity to shape a different future, so the music reflects both a past that should never be forgotten, and the hope that it won't be repeated.

While the listener's reactions can't help but be shaped by the feelings they already have for a subject, the music that Mr. Mortensen creates in each of his pieces stimulates those feelings through the emotions that each of them generates. Without his recording of what he felt, and his ability to transmit those emotions so clearly, the listener wouldn't be given the opportunity to explore their own.

In a book of his poetry Viggo Mortensen referred to what the does with his poems and photography as recording what goes on around him. With Time Waits For Everyone he shows that he's not limited to words and pictures on paper as a means of expressing the record of what he sees around him, and that he's equally capable of doing so with just a piano. Utilizing sound, tone, and even the silences that mark the end of one note and the beginning of the next. he has created a beautiful collection of tone poetry.

Those wishing to purchase Time Waits For Everyone can do so by ordering directly from Perceval Press

Posted by Richard Marcus at 01:55 PM | Permalink

When India was given her independence in 1948 it should have been a time of celebration. After decades of protest and a failed revolution in the 19th century, she was finally stepping out from under the heel of her colonial master Great Britain to be a unified country for the first time in centuries. Instead it was a time of horrible turmoil and sectarian violence, as in their last act of contempt for their former subjects the British arbitrarily split the country into Muslim and Hindu halves.

While in theory Muslims and Hindus could have stayed on in what were to become Pakistan and India, in practice people fled in both directions in fear of their lives. Families left homes that they had lived in for generations with nothing more than what they could carry on their backs. The British troops who were supposed to oversee the transit of people from one part of the country to another somehow or other never materialized and thousands of people died in riots.

Is it any wonder that India's first prime minister, Nerhu, dreamed of a secular state where what mattered was your nationality not your religion? Unfortunately bigotry is stronger than dreams, and it's easier to hold on to hatred than to learn tolerance. People are always going to need someone to blame their troubles on (heaven forbid they take responsibility for their own actions) and there's nothing like the convenience of a readily available scape-goat. So in spite of Nerhu's desires, and Gandhi's death at the hands of a fanatical Hindu must have given an inkling of the obstacles he would have to overcome, India in the years immediately following partition was a powder keg of resentments just looking for a fuse and match.

Manil Suri's recently released novel, The Age Of Shiva begins in 1955, just prior to the festivities marking the 7th anniversary of India's independence. Meera Sawhney is seventeen when the story opens and according to her father, a firm believer in Nerhu's secular state, her generation is the one that will shake off the shackles of religion and the blinkers of tradition and lead India into the modern world. Yet if her father is the future of India her mother is the past. Deeply religious and illiterate she was married to Meera's father at the age of ten, and moved in with him four years after their marriage.

While Meera's father is extolling the virtues of a woman making her own way in the world to his three daughters, her mother fills their childhood with tales of Shiva, his wife Parvati, their son Ganesh, and the rest of the pantheon of Hindu Gods and Goddesses. In spite of their different views on the world the parents agree that Meera's life, as second daughter, should revolve around her elder sister Roopa. It seems her father's protestations of fairness and equality don't play out in practice as well as they do in theory, and it's this hypocrisy, combined with resentment at the bullying she receives at the hands of Roopa that end up dictating Meera's early life choices.

Roopa is enamoured of Dev, the younger son of a poor rail yard employee's family, who has the romantic appeal of being a gifted amateur singer. Meera's first glimpse of Dev is from a darkened balcony as he is crooning a sentimental ballad made popular in the movies on his way to winning a singing competition during the Independence Day festivities of 1955. Listening to a recording of Nerhu's speech from Independence Day, declaiming a future of opportunities, elicits thoughts in Meera of stealing Dev away from her sister and having him sing only for her.

With Roopa all of a sudden engaged to an appropriate suitor, Meera puts herself in Dev's way, with the result that she finds herself having to live her fantasy and marry him. Suddenly she is removed from her comfortable life of upper middle class ease to living in a two room house with her husband's family in the rail yards. She also receives her first introduction to the politics of Hindu nationalism and virulent anti-Muslim sentiments at the feet of her father-in -law.

In many ways Meera's life with Dev; the choices that she is faced with, and the decisions she reaches, are a reflection of the choices and decisions India as a country deals with. Yet while there is much of her life that is specific to India, plenty of what she experiences will be familiar to all women of that generation. I only have to think of women of my mother's generation, who who were encouraged to receive an education, but not allowed to do anything with it. Unlike their mothers they know there is more to life than being a servant to their husbands whims, and are not fulfilled by being a house wife.

With no real job opportunities aside from a menial one translating for a publishing house, and the reality of being married to Dev not coming anywhere near to living up to her fantasy, it's not until the birth of her son that Meera feels any sense of fulfillment. Unfortunately, as happened with so many women of that time with no other options, she pours everything into her son to the point of unhealthy obsession.

The Age Of Shiva is a fascinating study of an individual's desperate search for identity and purpose. While Meera's elder sister Roopa is able to play the game of upper middle class matron, and her younger sister gains identity through scholarship, she is stuck somewhere in between. She can't find solace in religion like her mother or her husband's family, but than again nothing the secular world has to offer brings her any comfort either. The obsessive nature of her love for her son is of course dangerous in that she will be left with no identity of her own when he leaves home.

Of equal interest is tale of India that plays out in the background, a history that I was unfamiliar with before now. I had known about the attempts by Pakistan to invade the territory of Kashmir, and of an earlier war with China, but had not known that the United States had armed Pakistan for it's wars against India as far back as the 1960's. Facts like that go a long way to understanding the feelings of resentment and betrayal that the Muslim countries of that part of the world must feel at the way their former allies now treat them.

The Age Of Shiva is a well told narrative with fully realized characters, that provides insights into the struggles educated women of the post World War two generation faced in many societies. They could see what would it be like to have their own identity, but were not allowed to touch it.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 12:35 AM | Permalink

Saying yes to something is a whole lot different from actually doing anything about it. Even with my rather specialized knowledge of the ins and outs of the backrooms of Ottawa I was at a loss as to where to go on this one. All of my usual contacts, sources, snitches, and blackmail victims had shut up tighter than someone holding back a fart in church.

At the word Kyoto some hadn't even the decency to say anything just left me listening to the click of their receiver echoing in the dial tone. They'd either all been gotten too early and hard or were just scared by what they knew. It's difficult to believe that something as seemingly benign as an accord governing reductions in CO2 would cause everyone I know to pucker shut, but that was seemingly the case.

The only clue, if you could call it that was the mysterious voice that phoned just as tall, intimidating and gorgeous was knocking at my door. But someone who uses call blocking and hangs up after muttering out "Where has all the water gone?" can't be considered much of any assistance.

So I was wrapping up my day by letting the imagination play around with having to console a certain Mrs. marine biologist, which involved quite a bit of page leafing on my part, when my reverie was rudely ruptured by the phones pneumatic clatter. When I had collected my thoughts sufficiently to finally collar the receiver under my chin and against my ear a voice scratched at my eardrums.

"Have you figured it out yet?" At least this time it seemed inclined to wait around for an answer instead of the rhetorical shit from earlier. So I decided to see if could draw it out by holding some cards back. This was my only source and I needed to play it right or it would end up being just another August fishing story.

"The question shouldn't have been, where has all the water gone?" I said stalling for time, "It would have been better to ask why is the water not coming?" I wasn't quite sure what made me say that, but after it came out of my mouth it was just like toothpaste in that it couldn't be shoved back in the tube. On the other hand since it seemed to impress the voice at the other end enough to keep him on the line, it couldn't have been all bad.

"Very good, shamus, very good. At least you listen when the information comes in the right package. We were afraid it might be a little too distracting given your initial reaction, but now we see that it was the right decision." There was a pause during which I took all this in, including the fact my mystery woman may not have been all she claimed to be, perhaps not even married.

I missed the first part of what the voice at the other end of the phone said next as I let my mind drift along lines that had nothing to do with water, but was wet enough in its own right, so had to try and catch up as it went along. The first words that I caught was a mention of a favourite drinking spot and with a bit of the quick thinking I was known for cut in with, "Yeah I know the spot"

The pause at the other end of the line was long enough that I thought maybe I'd blown it. But the voice came back on the line and said "eight o'clock" before leaving me with my old friend the dial tone. I figured that was as good an indication as any that I could hang up the phone.

So three hours latter I was sitting at my seat by the pole with a cold one sweating in my hand and a hottie working the poll causing those around me to sweat, waiting to see who would show up. Part of me was hoping it would be her, I've always wanted to use that line about what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this. Even better would be the one from that Bogie movie: "of all the Gin joints in all the world she had to walk into…"

Damn the heat must be getting to me worse then I thought if I'm starting to go on about some dame like this who I couldn't even say hello to without my larynx swallowing my tongue. I leaned forward to rest my forehead on my hand and brought the cold beer bottle up in an attempt to cool off my head, when somebody bumped into my back moving me forward in my seat.

That's not too unusual in a crowded bar like this, you get drunks staggering around a lot, and everybody takes it for granted and doesn't get their noses out of joint too often. So I was kind of surprised that the reaction of those around me was so extreme. First the guys on either side of me backed away and turned an even paler shade of civil service never see the light of day pasty, then the girl twirling on the pole stopped, pointed, opened her mouth to scream but didn't make it that far as she collapsed in a heap on the counter.

It was only when I turned around and saw the knife, if something the size of a machete could be called a knife, sticking out of the guy's back. If I was to hazard a guess this was to have been my contact for the evening, if only because of the fact he had a picture of me in the hand that wasn't trying to remove what didn't belong from between his shoulder blades. It looked like this missing Kyoto accord was really starting to heat up, and somebody didn't want me or anybody else to know too much about it.

Well I'm like your stupidest cat that way; curiosity has its claws in deep. Bodies starting to fall and people clamming up is just one sure way to keep me interested and make me even more curious. I wouldn't say nothing to the cops about nothing; it's always better not to let them draw conclusions because it usually ends up with you in the frame, so to speak.

It looked like I was going to be on my own for this Kyoto accord deal, which was fine by me, as that's just the way I liked it. I happened to look up at that moment to see what looked like a familiar head of ash blonde hair leaving through the bar's main entrance. Well, maybe I wouldn't be so alone as I thought.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:47 AM | Permalink

The late British naturalist and conservationist Gerald Durrell used to talk about what he called the paper protection of animals. By that he meant governments made laws that on paper claimed an animal was protected but in reality the animal was still at high risk from humans. The greatest risk that Durrell saw was the fact that while there might be laws preventing them from being killed - there was no law preventing the land they lived on from being taken away.

The biggest threat to all wild life, whether it has roots, legs, fins, or crawls on its belly, is the steady encroachment of humanity into habitat. Humans and their farm animals do not mix with wild life under any circumstances. The least amount of contact will cause animals to change their habits. Look at the bears in parks like Yellowstone who beg for food, or ones near human habitation who have taken to foraging in dumps instead of hunting for food as they used to. Of course minimal contact isn't going to drive an animal to extinction, so government run parks or preserves that allow human visitors, if properly managed, are a lesser evil than the complete eradication of habitat.

In Canada a concentrated effort is being made both publicly and privately to preserve habitats where species or unique ecosystems are endangered. Once these areas are established they become off limits to any human intervention, whether habitation, exploitation of natural resources, or on occasion even human visitors. If an area is considered too sensitive to withstand even humans camping in tents, than they aren't allowed to enter the designated area.

The necessity of programs like these was brought home to me again this weekend by the news that a herd of 150 American wild horses is under threat from a lumber company's plans for the Blackjack Mountain of Oklahoma. The herd was established around twenty-five years ago by Gilbert Jones and includes a couple of horses that are direct decedents of those who came to Oklahoma on the "Trail Of Tears" with Choctaws and Cherokees Indians during their forced removal from the Tennessee mountains.

In spite of the fact that American Wild Horses are considered a protected animal by the American government, The Oklahoma Land and Timber Company has been given permission to plant trees to harvest like a crop. In order to facilitate the growth of this "crop" they need to eliminate all ground cover and foliage that might compete with them. The company had signed a contract allowing for a two year period during which the herd could be relocated, but has since reneged and begun spraying the area with pesticides.

Bryant Rickman of the Medicine Springs Ranch, who manages the herd, has been given until February 29th to remove them from the area by the Lumber Company. Only thing is, where can you find room for 150 wild horses to run free anymore? You see the situation in Blackjack Mountain is a reflection of what faces the wild horse population across the United States as they are being squeezed off public land set aside for them by the very agency meant to be protecting them - the Bureau of Land Management.

In 1971, when Congress and Richard Nixon responded to public pressure and enacted the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) was made responsible for the welfare of the remaining wild herds and ensuring that their population was maintained at the current level. At the time the BLM claimed there were only 17,000 animals living in the wild. What this claim was based on is unknown as they didn't conduct a census of the wild horse population for the first time until three years later. The results of that first head count showed them to be off target by more then 50% as the actual total was 42,000.

While on paper the law says that American Wild Horses are a protected species and public lands must be made available to them as sanctuaries for free range, less than half the actual population has been given that protection. In its wisdom, instead of amending the original 17,000 figure when they discovered how wrong it was, the BLM decided that the excess horses needed to be "removed" from public lands. The people who were responsible for preserving the horses have instead managed to reduce their population by around 50% since protection came into place.

The real problem is the fact that the BLM are also responsible for issuing grazing licences to cattle ranchers on the same public lands set aside for the horses. So for every horse the BLM can remove from public land, they can replace it with a fee paying cow. For every horse removed from public land agribusiness gets to graze a cow subsidized by the American government. According to two General Accounting Office reports the BLM was making removal decisions not on the actual numbers of horses that a range can support, but on the recommendations of advisor groups "largely composed of livestock permittees".

So the guys who stand to make the most money from having wild horses removed from public land are the ones telling the BLM that horses are the primary cause of overgrazing and degradation of public lands. The truth is that because horses tend to roam and can find forage in areas where cattle and sheep can't, they cause far less harm to a habitat than any livestock.

When cattle graze they don't chew the grass they pull it from the ground; if the soil happens to be wet they will therefore rip it out by the roots. Horses on the other hand have front teeth allowing them to crop grass as they graze, meaning there is far less chance of them destroying the root system and allowing for new growth. A horse's digestive system is actually beneficial to a habitat, because they pass grass seed through their system and replant as they graze.

As to the BLM's claim that horses are degrading grazing lands; well horse aren't the critter that defecate in their own water supply, while cattle do. Horses aren't the animal that hangs out in one area of land until it's stripped clean of any and all forage necessitating human intervention to move them on to other pastures. Even without any of that information, the numbers don't lie; at current levels livestock out number wild horse by 200 to 1 on public lands. You tell me who is going to have the biggest impact on the environment; two hundred head of cattle standing in one place or one horse wandering around looking for food?

Yet somehow or other, in spite of all this information available to the government and Congress about BLM's record of mismanagement and its history of playing fast and loose with facts and information, their budget was increased by 50% in 2001 and then another third in 2005 to pay for an aggressive removal program of wild horses from public lands. So if the people charged with protecting the horse population in the wild are being funded by the government to remove the horses from the wild it really makes you question the validity of the law that supposedly guarantees their safety.

Back in Blackjack Mountain Oklahoma concerned people have come together to form the The Gilbert Jones Choctaw-Cherokee Conservancy and Historical Land Trust whose immediate goal is to raise $450,000 to purchase the first 524 of the needed 2,500 acres for the Trust to secure a permanent home for these last of a kind horses. The goal is to preserve the original tribal strains of Choctaw and Cherokee and America's Spanish Colonial Mustangs in viable and healthy wild herds for generations.

Return To Freedom, a 501c3 charitable organization has joined forces with script writer John Fusco (Hidalgo, Spirit, Stallion Of The Cimarron, and the upcoming Forbidden Kingdom) the Rickman Family, and others in forming the trust. You can find out more about their effort and what you can do to help by following the link above to the Return To Freedom web site.

In 1971, the single biggest letter campaign outside of protests against war, forced Congress and Richard Nixon to enact the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act to ensure the survival of America's wild horse population and preserve the strains that are unique to our continent. Thirty-six years of mis-management and conflict of interest has done nothing but reduce the population of horses in the wild by nearly 50%.That's not wildlife preservation in my book.

Unless otherwise stated, information in this article was provided by the The American Wild Horse Preservation Campaign web site.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 02:48 AM | Permalink

Ask any writer what's harder to write, a short story or a novel, and you might be surprised at how many would tell you the short story. Sure novels get all the attention, and they take a certain amount of stamina to produce, but writing a short story takes very specific skills that many successful novelists lack. Fully realizing characters, and telling a story from beginning to end in under 10,000 words is far more daunting a task than most novice writers realize until they try.

The short film maker faces many of the same difficulties that the short story writer must overcome in order to be successful. In fact I would say his job is compounded by the fact that not only must he have a story that accomplishes all that a short story does, he or she is also faced with the daunting task of accommodating the needs of the medium.

A good movie needs to be visually entertaining as well as intellectually challenging, and it must be very difficult to accomplish both in a piece that's only eighteen minutes long. Unlike the guy whose shooting a feature film you can't linger over establishing shots or utilize any of the other cinematic techniques to set the mood or atmosphere that are common place in today's movies. Somehow or other you have to communicate all of that to the audience while the action of the movie takes place. It would be the equivalent of a writer somehow writing dialogue and descriptive passages simultaneously.

Bookie, is a short movie from Persistence Of Vision Films directed by Tran Quoc Bao, that was completed in 2007. Set in Seattle Washington in 1963, it focuses on the action that takes place in and around a seedy night-club one evening. The club is owned by a local mobster, and aside from offering the standard music and booze, he also offers his clientele the services of an in house bookie. On this night in particular the bookie is swamped as a championship boxing match is being fought.

The bookie of the title, played by Ken Quitugua, has obviously been doing his job taking bets for his boss Jackson (Lester Purry), for some time now, and has lasted this long by not rocking the boat. He might not like what he sees sometimes, but he knows better than to go against his boss. Bookies don't gamble after all, they know only too well how the odds can be stacked against you. Tonight all that is going to change as "Bookie" will decide that sometimes the risk out weighs the gambol, and there are some bets worth taking.

It's a woman, of course, that brings about this change of heart. Billie (Angela Adto) is a waitress in the bar, who is supposedly Jackson's girl and off limits if you know what's good for you. Still there's only so long that a man can stand on the side lines, and when "Bookie" sees Billie being mistreated by Jackson he wants to help. He convinces her to bet on the upcoming fight, because it's a sure thing that the champ will win, and she can use her winnings to make a clean break from the bar.

When the champ goes down in the first round Billie accuses "Bookie" of setting her up for Jackson, because it's obvious that the boss either had the fight rigged or had known in advance what the result was going to be. Stung by her accusation that he would never do anything without Jackson's permission, and knowing it's the truth, he finally decides to take a chance. When he goes to collect the winnings for the one person who happened to place a winning bet he slips in a claim for Billie as well.

In the wrong hands this movie could have ended up a cliche with a very large C but director Bao and his actors have done a fine job in avoiding letting the movie descend to that level. Right from the start we see that "Bookie" isn't thrilled with what goes on around him when he attempts to interfere with a punishment beating two of the boss' enforcers are carrying out. Even when Jackson pulls him back into line, Ken Quitugua lets the camera see the shame and regret he feels because he gave in.

Throughout the movie, even as he's impassively taking bets for people, there's the impression that "Bookie" only needs the right push, and he will cross that line from safety into risk. In bits of conversation we hear him having with a customer, and his reaction to Jackson hitting Billie - where he begins to rise out of his seat but is stared down by the boss - we see his wish that he was something more than he is.

While the other characters are mainly there as for "Bookie" to play off, Angela Adto as Billie is able to bring a nice touch of reality to her part. While naturally cynical and bitter because of her treatment at the hands of Jackson, she manages to convey something that shows why "Bookie" is willing to risk everything for her. She has a wonderful moment near the end of the film, where she is able to communicate volumes about the true nature of her character with just a smile.

That's really what makes the movie Bookie work; director Tran Quoc Bao's ability to elicit those little moments from his actors and then utilize them to propel the story to its conclusion. There's not a wasted moment in the film with every scene communicating a piece of information that is essential to telling the story. Although the consequences of "Bookie's" actions are inevitable, Bao manages to create a nice measure of suspense, and include a couple of surprises along the way. All in all, what he is able to accomplish in eighteen minutes is remarkable.

As befits its film noir atmosphere Bookie is shot in grainy black and white, and his use of shadow and light add nicely to the gritty atmosphere of the movie. In fact everything from the sets to the live music being performed by the band in the night club all make contributions to creating the atmosphere that gives the movie the edginess needed to make it work.

Like a well written short story Bookie manages to convey a lot in a little time. Its pacing is perfect, and its timing elegant; you couldn't ask for more from a short movie.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:32 AM | Permalink

How long has there been recorded music? Well we know there are wax roll recordings that date back to the late 1800s as we have records of them still either in their original forms or transformed over to vinyl in attempts to preserve them. But the majority of our knowledge of early recordings comes from music that was recorded to be played on the old windup Victrola machines.

I'm sure most of you have seen at least a picture of those old gramophones, or Victrola as they were called, with the huge speaker trumpets that looked like a cornucopia horn. I remember being amazed at how heavy the tone arm on one of those things was, and that the weight of it, combined with a diamond needle, didn't dig holes in the records. Of course if you've ever held one of those old 78 rpm records you'll know they were built for punishment; thick circles of vinyl that could be used as throwing weapons if you really wanted.

Yet in their day the 78 and the equipment used to make them were as much a technological breakthrough as the CD burning process is for us today. While computer technology has allowed anyone who wants to turn their home computer into a recording studio, the 78 equipment not only allowed people to record, it made music available to the general public on wide scale for the first time. While not many people would have owned a wax tube player, a gramophone was another matter.

Rob Mills and Jeffery Taylor are the Seattle Washington based experimental music group Climax Golden Twins. In the past they have composed music for gallery and museum installations, film soundtracks, worked on documentary films, and contributed soundscapes to NPR radio shows. Their latest project, Victrola Favorites: Artifacts From Bygone Days available on the aptly named Dust To Digital label is a multi-media project that celebrates the diversity of music that was recorded for playback on the Victrola.

The two CD set comes in a 144 page 6" X 9" hardcover, cloth bound book, that is crammed full of pictures of memorabilia of old 78 records. Photos of old record labels, are blown up to fill a whole page, while old, full page newspaper advertisements have been reduced in size to easily fit the confines of the page. It's like some sort of strange pressed flower arrangement where the act of preserving the material changes the original image to suit the needs of it's medium.

Therefore an image of an old tin of German made gramophone needles is blown up to a size where only a portion of the image is seen on the page while an old British postcard that included a record (Tuck's Post Cards by appointment of the house of Windsor) has it's front and back displayed in full on another page. Yet the first image in the book, which you might overlook as its hidden beneath the first CD is of neither a record nor the paraphernalia that accompanies them.

Lifting the CD out of its slot you could be forgiven for squirming a bit as it reveals the image of a multitude of insects crawling around. Even though they are by no means realistic in appearance, I still managed to feel like you would when lifting a rock and finding the earth under it alive and moving. Anyway the little creatures revealed are a type of beetle that secretes a resinous substance called Lac. When the substance was purified it was used to make the old shellac records.

Which I guess explains the brittle nature of the old 78 records, they weren't vinyl at all. While it sounds sort of organic and natural to make records from the secretions of an insect, I'm betting the process was not only time consuming and labour intensive, but in the long run very environmentally damaging. Consider that the resin secreted was left behind on the leaves of trees by the insects, and who knows what chemical reactions occurred when the stuff was processed into shellac. Still it's fun to think of the old records being made from what sounds like the trail of an insect as it crawled through a tree.

The music that's contained in the two discs are pretty much examples of every type of recording that you can imagine. You're taken on a journey around the world with stops in India, China , Japan, Africa, Thailand, Persia (now Iran), Greece, Portugal, Hawaii, Mexico, and the US. Everything from sound effects, "Sounds Of London" is a recording of church bells ringing in that city, to the sound of the Chinese Buddhist Nuns "Chanting The Ten Vows" in a recording made in Hong Kong, can be heard.

It really is a case of travelling from the ridiculous to the sublime in some cases, when one second you can be listening to an excerpt from classical Chinese Opera and the next something called "The Insect Powder Agent" which I'm not sure was a commercial or a piece of strange radio drama. Needless to say there are some pieces which will appeal to some people more than others, and in my case I was particularly interested in the recordings of early Blues musicians like Blind Boy Fuller or Noble Sissie and his Orchestra.

Some people might find the seemingly haphazard nature of the music disconcerting as it really doesn't follow any noticeable pattern. Some of the juxtapositions, like the Seven Galleon Jug Band's recording of "Wipe Em Off" followed by the Mozmar Caire Orchestra from Egypt playing "Raks Baladi Hag Ibrahim" are even jarring in their sudden changes of sound and tonal quality.

I don't think there really is any deep hidden meaning behind the way the songs are laid out, anymore than there is a pattern to the arrangement of the accompanying pictures. If you ever have made a compilation cassette tape or CD of some of your favourite music, you'll know that you usually have your own reasons as to why certain songs go together, and I'm sure that's the case with Victrola Favorites: Artifacts From Bygone Days. and its creators Rob Millis and Jeffery Taylor. I can't believe that they would have done anything accidentally. Even a decision to be completely random is a deliberation after all, and they would have known it would result in a certain amount of disorientation on the part of the listener. In any case, part of what made this such an interesting experience to listen to was the not being able to anticipate just what you'd be hearing next.

One thing that is for certain, no matter how confusing the sounds might sometimes become, this is a fascinating musical voyage around the world, and one that anybody with an interest in the history of recorded music won't want to miss.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 02:59 PM | Permalink

Sometimes when an author writes a series of books featuring the same hero he or she gets lazy. In fact in quite a few cases the author merely tells the same story over and over again, but changes the scenery in the hopes that we'll be fooled by a different location or an occasional new character. It may take you a couple of stories to catch on, but sooner or later you'll find yourself being able to predict exactly how the story will unfold.

Mystery stories can be the worst culprits for this, as it seems once an author has found his formula for success she is unwilling to tamper with it. The lead character is worse than the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for their ability to always get their man (or woman as the case may be) with the only mystery being the reader's wonder as to why they bothered to read the book in first place when it was identical to the one before and the one before that.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule and there are some authors who are able to make each story featuring their character completely different from the previous one. What I've found in those cases is that the writer has the versatility to make each scenario that they place their character into unique enough that it allows us to view different facets of his or her personality with each outing.

Such is the case with the stories by Russian author Boris Akunin that feature Erast Fandorin. In each of the four novels that Fandorin has been in to this point, Akunin has yet to allow his adventures to become formulaic. More importantly, in spite of Fandorin's obvious skills and special talents, he is never anything but human, as he is continually proving himself as fallible as the rest of us.

When last we left Fandorin, he had barely escaped with his life while solving the mystery surrounding the death of an old army comrade. After years of travel abroad, serving as an attaché in the Russian Embassy in Japan, he has once again settled in Moscow where he holds the title of Deputy to the Governor of Moscow for Special Assignments. It is his job to investigate those cases considered either too sensitive for the regular police force to handle or that the Governor decides to take a personal interest in. It's two cases of this type that Akunin's latest Fandorin novel is named for.

Special Assignments, published by Random House Canada, contains two full length novella's, each detailing a case of such a delicate nature that only Fandorin can be entrusted with their handling. In the Jack Of Spades he must track down a con-artist who has had the unimaginable gall to not only separate the elite of Moscow from their money, he does it in such a manner as to make them look like fools. Still it's only when Fandorin's boss becomes one of his victims that our erstwhile hero is called in to deal with the problem.

In previous books Akunin has used a third party as our eyes onto the investigation, and he employs that technique again here. Anisii Tulipov, is a young and timid courier in the police department, who can't believe his luck when Fandorin asks him to assist him in tracking down the elusive miscreant. Although he is in desperate awe of his new boss, it doesn't stop Tulipov from wondering at his peculiarities, including the fact that he appears to be living with another man's wife who makes Fandorin's life a living hell with her petty demands,

Of course there's also the fact that he and his Japanese man servant spend a good part of each morning before getting down to work beating each other up, either with their hands and feet or long wooden staffs. Young Tulipov starts his work day sitting in his master's study poring over the prior day's papers and police reports looking for any hint that the Jack of Spades is back in business. (So called because the knave will always leave a Jack of Spades at the scene of his hoax in order to let the world know he was responsible) Nobody knows what the elusive thief looks like as he is a master of disguise; once he was a war veteran confined to a wheelchair, another time an elderly notary, and yet a third time a dashing young nobleman.

Twice they almost have in their grasp, once when they find him running a fake lottery for charity where the prizes are deeds to properties in other countries, and the second when they set an elaborate trap for him and his accomplice. But he is too clever for them, and even strikes back by managing to steal all of Fandorin's temperamental mistress's possessions, guaranteeing a rather frosty work environment for Tulipov and a living hell for Fandorin.

The Jack of Spades may embarrass people, and separate them from their money, but even Fandorin has a sneaking admiration for him and his abilities. The same can't be said for the creature they find themselves up against in The Decorator. A serial killer is loose on the streets of Moscow seemingly intent on doing the same work there as Jack The Ripper did in London, killing the prostitutes.

Akunin chillingly takes us into the mind of the person responsible and it's not a pleasant experience. According to this creature's way of thinking, removing its victims flesh and exposing their internal organs is improving their appearance. Internally we are all pristine, just like our creator made us, it's only on the outside that we are ever disfigured.

Fandorin knows that only someone wiith a knowledge of anatomy and experience using a scalpel, in other words someone with a least some medical training, could be responsible for this butchery, yet there are thousands of medical professionals of some sort or another in Moscow alone - they have to figure out a way of eliminating suspects.

Slowly but surely Fandorin and Tulipov start closing the net, but with each step they take towards the fiend, another person dies, and the bodies are no longer those of strangers, but of people they know. While they desperately try to predict where the fiend will strike next, we walk with the killer and are filled with the helplessness that goes with not being able to do anything about preventing a horrible hurt from happening.

The Decorator is not a nice story and there's none of the lightness of spirit that accompanied the Jack Of Spades. Although both stories feature Erast Fandorin as the central character they are as different from each other as night and day. Like the full length novels that have come before these two shorter stories Akunin has created situations that prevent his character from becoming stale or predictable.

In Special Assignments Akunin once again shows that he is a writer willing to take risks, and not afraid to make his hero look foolish. Well written and peopled with fully realized characters Akunin's stories are the benchmark against which other writers of detective or crime fiction should be set against.

Canadian readers wishing to obtain a copy of Special Assignments can purchase it either directly from the Random House Canada web site or from an on line retailer like Indigo Books

Posted by Richard Marcus at 10:29 AM | Permalink

Misdirection, sleight of hand, and smoke and mirrors are all means said to be employed by stage magicians in order to "cast their spell" of illusion. Most of the time those terms are employed in such a way as to be both dismissive of the performer's talent and to explain how it is possible for someone to saw a person in half or make them disappear altogether. The real intention is of course to deny that anything magical took place during the performance.

Of course that depends on what someone's definition of magic is doesn't it? If they go through life expecting to see someone waving a magic wand and miraculously making things happen, they are doomed to be disappointed. Yet, what is it that they are seeing on stage when the "illusionist" makes someone disappear if it isn't magic? What does it matter that it's only a "trick"? Isn't it still magical to see a body that's been cut in two behaving as it would under normal circumstances no matter how it came to happen?

Magic is where we find it and comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes, it's simply a matter of being able to recognize it when we see it. In his introduction to his collection of short stories Smoke And Mirrors: Short Fictions And Illusions Neil Gaiman talks about the history of stage magicians using smoke and mirrors to change our perceptions. While a mirror can be used to reflect an image accurately, he says, set it the right way and it can show you anything you can imagine, and some things you can't. An illusionist can use one to convince us that a box full to bursting with paraphernalia is empty or that something empty is full.

While some people talk about art holding a mirror up to society as a means for the creator to express his or her opinion on the state of things. There are many forms, that a reflection can take, and sometimes the form is as much a commentary upon the world as is the content. When it comes to writing an author can alter the nature of the reflection in quite a number of ways. There are the genres at his or her disposal, from realism to fantasy, and the option of writing in prose or in verse. But no matter what they do their mirror will hopefully offer a perspective that's unique to them, for isn't that why we read an author, for the perceptions and insights they can offer.

Smoke And Mirrors: Short Fictions And Illusions was first published in 1998, re-issued by Harper Collins as a Perennial Edition in 2001, and again in 2007 with the addition of a P.S. section containing an interview with Mr. Gaiman talking about some of the stories in this collection. While a couple of the stories have appeared elsewhere since, quite a number of them I had never read before. What's also nice about this collection is that there is more than just standard short stories. He's also included poems, short prose pieces under 100 words, and some things that are words put together to tell a story of some sort or another, but what they are aside from that are hard to say; except maybe magic.

For there is something inherently magic about the quality of Gaiman's work. Whether he's writing prose, poetry, short, or long fiction it doesn't matter, there's something about the way he uses words that feels like he's casting an enchantment over you, and that reading him transports you out of yourself. Yet at the same time his writing is about us, even when he's writing about were-wolves and other denizens of our darker nature, the characters are all too human with characteristics and traits that we can see in ourselves if we only know where to look.

The smoke and mirrors of fantasy, horror, and science fiction hide the reality that lurks in his top hat and while we are watching him pull the rabbit out, he's also opening a window into our world. It may not be obvious, you may not even notice it while you're reading the piece, but sometime later something will click into place and you'll realize that odd story about the troll under the bridge was about much more then you first thought.

"Cold Colours" is a long free verse/prose poem that depicts a world where we've sold our souls to the devil for technology - literally. Where the London Underground used to be are the pits of hell. If you look down into them you can always find a demons willing to sell you various peripherals for your system, but you can also see those who have been consigned to the pits of hell suffering their eternal damnation.

There's a chill of true horror that runs through the story, because how different from reality is it? What have we bartered away in our quest for technological perfection as a species? Which of us hasn't made jokes about performing a sacrifice to try and ensure better performance from our technology - but our study's floor is not stained with the blood of pigeons that we've offered up on a daily basis to ensure the quality of our performance. Incrementally, with each step that we take down the road of faster, stronger, smaller, and more of everything, we move further away from our connection to the planet we live on. Selling your soul can come in all shapes and sizes.

Of course not everything has to be about something, and in those cases the magic is the way in which Gaiman's mirror changes the image of a story we are all familiar with. What would you take in trade for the Holy Grail if Sir Galaad came calling? For Mrs.Whitaker, who picked it up for a bargain price at the thrift shop in the story "Chivalry", it would have to be something that would be appropriate for an old lady, and fit on the mantle nicely.

Or how about if, as the new queen in "Snow, Glass, and Apples" discovers, your step-daughter is a vampire - wouldn't you send her off into the woods to have her heart cut out in the hopes that you would rid the world of a horror such as she? When you skried in your mirror and found that somehow she still lived, even though her heart was cut out, and was terrorizing the people of the forest, wouldn't you gather your courage together to hunt her down and feed her an apple that would steal her life in order to protect your people from her?

In Smoke And Mirrors: Short Fictions And Illusions Neil Gaiman shows us just what can be done by a master illusionist who knows how to use the tools of his trade to perfection. Some people may tell you that illusions are only smoke and mirrors and not magic, but perhaps they've never come under the spell of a real wizard.

Smoke And Mirrors: Short Fictions And Illusions can be purchased directly from Harper Collins Canada or another online retailer like Indigo Books

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:56 AM | Permalink

I remember as a child having an illustrated history of Canada whose early pages were filled with images of Native Canadian life. One of the images that still stands out in my mind was a picture of a group of Asiatic looking people struggling against the elements as they made their way along a land bridge across the Bering Straight separating Asia from North America. It was the accepted theory in those days that the first people had only been fairly recent immigrants when the Europeans showed up, having only come here within the thousand years prior to first contact.

It has only been in the last twenty years or so that the migration from Asia theory has been seriously challenged, and is now starting to fall out of favour. Of course if anybody had bothered to listen to the stories told by the people living here when the Europeans arrived they might never have come up with it in the first place. There isn't one story among any of the nations corresponding with people crossing from Asia over into North America. Nearly all the creation stories have them starting life here, not somewhere else on earth and travelling here.

Of course listening to the first peoples was the last thing on the minds of the governments of North America, in fact they did their best to ensure those stories weren't heard by anyone. Generations of children were stolen from their parents in one of the worst examples of cultural genocide ever attempted. Cut off from family, friends, and community they were forbidden to speak the language of their parents and were prevented from learning anything to do with their own people.

It's a blessing that governments are as inefficient as they are as enough people escaped their nets to prevent the complete obliteration of all the stories. Today there are men and women across North America who have taken on the huge responsibility of keeping those stories alive for future generations either by writing them down, telling them like their ancestors did in circles around a fire, bringing them to life in theatre, or using them as the basis for creating new stories.

Joseph Bruchac is one of those people who have made it his life's work to preserve the stories of his people. A member of the Abenaki nation, one of the Algonquin peoples whose numbers also include the Cree and Chippewa nations, Bruchac has published over twenty-five collections of stories that deal with every aspect of Alogonquin life from how to live a good life to the history of the people. He is also in high demand across North America as a story teller and lecturer, and tours schools and universities bringing the old tales to life.

In the early 1990s he began a series of books set in a North America that none of us would recognize; not only is the time period pre-contact, it is far enough back that the land still remembers the ice age. I read the first book, Dawn Land, when it first came out back in 1993 and was very impressed with the way Bruchac integrated traditional tales, and descriptions of what life would have been like at the time into an adventure story. At the time I had no idea he was intending to make a series of these books, and it wasn't until a short while ago that I discovered he had written a sequel called Long River. Published by Fulcrum Books. Long River picks up the adventures of the hero of the first book, Young Hunter, where the previous one left off.

In Dawn Land Young Hunter had headed out on a journey to defeat an evil race of stone giants - known as the Ancient Ones - who would have rained ruin upon his people if given the opportunity. On his journey he discovered many things about himself, not the least of which was that he had some talent for "far seeing",what we would call astral projection, or the ability to send you spirit travelling to check out the surroundings while your body stayed in one place.

In Long River Young Hunter has returned to his village and is settling into life in the community with his new wife Willow Woman. But he doesn't have much time to enjoy the peace of regular life before he discerns a new threat to his people. A pain maddened Wooly Mammoth, injured by a spear that is stuck in it's mouth, is seeking vengeance against any of the creatures who inflicted the damage on it by seeking out their villages and destroying them and all their inhabitants.

Young Hunter at first only perceives a nebulous sense of danger approaching his people, but with the assistance of his people's elders and wise people learns how to hone his abilities until he is able to use them to devise a means of defeating the menace that faces them. Eventually with the assistance of one of the little people, the Mikumwesu, he succeeds but it is a near thing. In fact if it weren't for the assistance of a former enemy - a lone surviving stone giant - the outcome would have been far worse.

While the adventure part of the story is fun, the true pleasure in reading this book is the way Bruchac brings the past to life. It's not just the myths and the tales of his people that he is recounting, it is everything about their way of life that he has recreated. From their means of creating fire, hunting and curing fish, preparing maple syrup, building shelters, to the rituals involved with naming a child. His attention to detail also includes the moral codes that dictate the way Young Hunter's people treat each other, and the world around them.

We're not just limited to Young Hunter's view of the world either as Bruchac switches between his central character, his wife, village elders, and even the enraged Wooly Mammoth, in order to give us as wide a view of the world as possible. While anthropomorphism isn't something we might be comfortable with, it fits into the native belief that all creatures, indeed all living things, possess a spirit and awareness. In Young Hunter's world, where they thank the fish for letting them eat them and the tree for the bark that makes their shelters, it makes sense for an animal to have a point of view on what's happening around him.

Each character's observations on the world around them, and the way they interact with it, all give us a deeper understanding of how people would have lived their lives in pre-contact days. Bruchac isn't just making this up off the top of his head either, as he substantiates almost everything with a story that explains where the belief governing an attitude came from. (Okay there's no story that offers an explanation for a rational Wooly Mammoth - but a little suspension of disbelief never hurt anyone) Something else to consider is the fact that a culture develops based on the needs of the people it serves. This was a culture that depended on the natural world for survival - and so they developed rituals and attitudes reflecting a need to live in accordance to the rules they saw around them.

If you want there to be fish tomorrow you leave some to breed, you don't kill the predator animals because they eat the sick and the infirm creatures among the prey animals ensuring that they stay healthy enough to reproduce in the future, and you never take so much bark from a tree that you kill it, or there won't be any trees left to provide you with bark in the future. The stories that Bruchac has his characters tell or remember in order to help them lead a good life, are all ones that adhere to those tenets.

Long River is a wonderful book because its a great story to read, with interesting characters and an exciting narrative. At the same time it provides an amazing glimpse into the way life was in North America before the coming of the Europeans. Joseph Bruchac doesn't preach or say that we should all go and live in houses made of bark, he just tells us what it was like when people used to. Although, after reading this book, I'm certain the world would be a lot better if we were to follow their examples a little more when it comes to the way we treat each other and the world around us

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:28 PM | Permalink

Back in the early 1980's I was what you'd call politically active I guess. You know, taking part in demonstrations against things like Cruise Missile Testing in Canada and Apartheid in South Africa. After a while I pretty much stopped, except for once in the late 90's when I took part in a demonstration against the government of Ontario, as the infighting between the factions just started to get on my nerves. All I have to show for those days is a file somewhere in Ottawa classifying me as a security risk, and a healthy respect for the organizational abilities of the right wing.

In retrospect I realize that the real problem with political action on the left is that we were always reacting to what someone else was doing. We're against this and against that, but it's not often we say what we are for. On the few occasions when that has occurred; Henry Morgenthaler's fight for a woman's right to an abortion and the fight to legalize same sex marriages in Canada; when we have stood up and said we are for this, we have won.

Instead of ever starting a campaign and mobilizing forces to propose a new way of doing something in line with our way of thinking, the left continues to let the right set the agenda all over North America on any of the issues we consider important. It never used to be that way, the left used to set goals for social change and work to meet them. From the labour movements of the early twentieth century that secured fair pay and safe working conditions to the voter registration drives of the early 1960's and the ensuing civil rights campaigns in the Southern United States.

Watching the DVD version of the documentary Ballot Measure 9, a filmed record of an attempt in 1992 to pass a ballot measure in Oregon that would have stripped Homosexuals of basic civil rights, brought that all home to me again. It was the same basic story that is played out across the United States every election year, where conservative Christian "citizens" groups work to pass anti-homosexual or anti-affirmative action measures in the hopes of imposing their will on a community.

In 1992 the United States were coming off twelve years of ultra conservative government and the religious right was feeling its oats after having their puppet Ronald Reagan in power for eight years, and his milksop successor George Bush Sr. for four. In that time they had been able to promote an agenda claiming AIDS was just retribution against gays, women were subservient to men, that the church and state shouldn't be separate, and all the other rigamarole we've come to associate with their fascistic mind set . (Fascism is the imposition, by a central authority of a single belief system that all must adhere to)

Ballot Measure 9 was first released in 1995 and Director Heather MacDonald took her camera into the war rooms of both the Yes and the No campaigns interviewing people on both sides of the issue. As an audience member that means that initially you get a fairly unbiased view of each side's presentation. Although since the one side is calling for stripping a group of people of their human rights and the other side is saying no that's not right, unless you're an advocate for the religious right chances are you're not going to be overly sympathetic to their cause.

I have to admit that when the footage started to include speeches by the proponents of Ballot Measure nine, I skipped to the next scene. Listening to people telling outright lies and propagating hate turns my stomach and I couldn't watch it. Besides, it wasn't anything different from what's been said before or since by people like Pat Robertson and Adolph Hitler. Perhaps what was worse was listening to the stories of the hate crimes carried out against people who were working on the No side of the issue. One woman's horse was attacked with a pitch fork, another found her brake lines cut, and quite a few were physically assaulted.

The person who came out looking the best was then Chief of Police, now mayor of Portland Oregon, Tom Potter. He was genuinely appalled that one community within his city was being specifically targeted for violent actions, and he took steps to ensure that their safety was as guaranteed as possible, as the violence escalated the closer it came to voting day. Of course the leaders of the Yes movement refused to see how their spewing of hatred towards homosexuals could possibly be at the root of the violence.

I think the most unsettling part of the movie was the realization of how little has changed since 1992 when that measure was first proposed. I only have to look at Canada and all the hate that was spewed when the Supreme Court of Canada declared it unconstitutional to ban same sex marriage. In fact our current government tried to pass a "Defence of Religion" law which would have allowed people to discriminate against gays and lesbians if their God told them to. They only backed down when they realized even if they somehow managed to sneak it through parliament, it would be declared unconstitutional the first time it was challenged in court.

Included in the DVD of this film is an update that was filmed in 2007 featuring a core group of people on the No side discussing the after affects of the campaign and the current situation in Oregon. These are intelligent people who aren't afraid to be self critical and point out the problems within the homosexual community and the left in general when it comes these sorts of battles. Maybe I appreciated it so much because it echoed what I said earlier always reacting to someone else's agenda and never setting it.

There is a school of thought among minorities that runs along the lines of, if they don't know we're there they'll leave us alone to live our lives. The problem with that is you become an isolated group that nobody knows anything about and people are willing to believe any lies told about you because they've never had any dealings with people like you. In Medieval Europe, when Jews practised this behaviour, the common lie used to incite hatred against them was that Passover matzoh was made using the blood of virgin gentile girls. As ridiculous as that might sound to us today, it was accepted as the truth back then.

How much different is that from spreading the lie that a child taught by a homosexual will become one, or that gay men are pedophiles? Both are equally as ridiculous as the blood and matzoh story, but they are readily believed today by people who don't have any contact with gays or lesbians.

Ballot Measure 9 is about a plebiscite that took place sixteen years ago in the state of Oregon that tried to strip homosexuals of basic human rights. While the original movie is both shocking and uplifting in places, it's the special features on the DVD that make it important for people to watch now. Reliving past victories is as much an exercise in futility as bemoaning past losses if you don't have the courage to learn from your mistakes.

Nothing was really decided in Oregon in 1992, because there are still those actively trying to strip minorities of their basic human rights. In 2007 Oregon introduced a civil union law which allows gays and lesbians to legally formalize their partnerships. The same group who put forward Ballot Measure 9 are currently working to have a measure included on the upcoming election's ballot revoking that law. If minority groups, especially gays and lesbians, continue to isolate themselves from the community at large they will continue to be vulnerable to attacks like this.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:55 PM | Permalink

The island of Sumatra is unfortunately probably best known recently for being devastated by the tsunami of a few years back. Whole areas of the island were devastated with the Aceh province almost completely ceasing to exist as a population centre with the city of Bandah Aceh being completely obliterated.

Darwin didn't need to travel as far as the Galapagos islands to discover mutations of standard species that had evolved to be dominant. Any isolated island environment would have shown him the same phenomena. Sumatra, Australia, New Zealand, or any island of size and initial isolation has developed animal life unique to its environment. Humans are no different than the rest of the animal world when it comes to patterns of development, it's how unique cultures have grown up all over the world.

Indigenous cultures throughout the world developed based on the need for survival. The Hopi of the pueblos in New Mexico and Arizona developed their culture based on the need to be able to grow crops in an area with one of the lowest average rain falls in the world. Rituals, prayers, and life focused totally around ensuring the crops would grow and the people would survive. So although Sumatra is politically considered part of Indonesia, it's not surprising to discover that her people's culture is unique, having developed in isolation on an island.

A newly released DVD from the audio and video collective Sublime Frequencies from Seattle, Washington brings together footage shot on three separate occasions in Sumatra prior to the disaster of the tsunami. The footage focuses primarily on the music of the people and the ways it's been changed by outside influences, while holding on to elements unique to its own culture. While the majority of the footage is taken from snippets of television shows, movies, and shots of concerts and rehearsals there are also scenes of life in the various metropolitan areas of the island.

Sumatran Folk Cinema is a collage of sounds and sights that does it's best to give you an objective view of Sumatran life. Unlike traditional documentaries that come complete with a point of view as expressed by a voice over or through interviews with people, the film makers Mark Gergis and Alan Bishop have elected to allow the imagery to tell its own story. It's a story that's at times funny, at times disturbing, and at other times awe inspiring. Underneath it all though there is a current of sadness, because of the realization that a year or so after some of these pictures were taken the houses and streets we are seeing were destined to be obliterated by the tsunami.

This was especially strong with the scenes shot in the Aceh province. The pictures of the fishermen hauling in their nets, unloading their boats and displaying their wares taken in 2003 on wharfs that no longer exist were particularly unsettling as I couldn't help but look at the people on screen and wonder about their fates. Even worse then that somehow were the shots taken of music students in the local conservatory performing an amazing drum routine.

Approximately twenty young men knelt in a row, each with a round drum with a flat head held straight up and down on their knees. They then began to play in unison, a rolling thunder of sound that would crest in wave after wave of sound. Even more amazing was they began to perform a series of orchestrated head movements. At first it was a simple side to side motion that gradually grew more complicated until finally it expanded to include their arms and torsos.

With no narration or explanation provided I was left to form my own impressions and what I saw made me think of waves coming in and out on the beach. Perhaps it was knowing they lived on an island and the huge role the sea plays in the lives of the people that generated the thoughts, but the combination of the sound and movement was reminiscent of the few times I've been to the ocean and watched the surf pound, unopposed, onto a coastline.

Of course other parts of the movie evoke totally different feelings. The very strange site of a woman gyrating in front of a band made up of older men playing a mixture of traditional and western instruments and singing pseudo psychedelic American pop music in Indonesian. What I couldn't help noticing was the band looked as embarrassed as I felt watching the performance.

Occasionally images from cheap, Japanese type, horror flicks would show up on screen, perhaps as examples of how something other than Western ideals were influencing life on Sumatra. That some of them were juxtaposed with shots of people performing on traditional instruments in accompaniment to others dancing the very formal, and highly stylized dancing that's native to the region only made them appear that much more alien.

Yet, throughout the movie no matter what was being shown on the screen, there was an overwhelming sense of poverty. The stages and palaces where traditional music and dance were being performed and taught were gradually being allowed to fall apart. The paint was faded and chipped, and the wood showed signs of weathering that could only be described as the result of neglect. You also saw the poverty as the camera travelled the streets of the cities in the ramshackle, tightly packed buildings that looked one careless cigarette away from being an unimaginable inferno.

In Sumatran Folk Cinema the film makers have tried to splice together images that gave an impression of the reality of life for the majority on the island of Sumatra. Like everybody they have their pop culture which is a mishmash of imported and local influences, but young people still go to school and learn the traditional music of the island, and still dance the traditional dances. Isolation from the world prior to colonization by first the Dutch and now the rest of the world through mass media, allowed their own traditions to grow roots strong enough that they still remain part of everyday life.

However, the image that I was left with was of an ancient culture dying from neglect. Whether it's the abject poverty the island suffers from, the influx of external forces, or a combination of the two doesn't really matter. What matters is that watching Sumatran Folk Cinema felt like observing the death of a culture. It's not a pretty picture, but it's a reality that's probably occurring all over the planet.

Isolated island environments are considered by naturalists to be some of the most fragile eco-systems on the planet because the balance of power is so delicate. The introduction of one new species of animal or plant could destroy everything. Humans are no different from any other life form, and the end of isolation has meant the death of many a unique culture. Watching it happen in front of your eyes on film is not what you'd call an uplifting experience, but closing your eyes and pretending it doesn't happen would be worse. Sumatran Folk Cinema is difficult to watch, but the truth isn't necessarily pretty.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 02:23 PM | Permalink

Four years ago when the independent rock and roll band Dispatch performed their final concert in 2004 it was only fitting that the 100,000 plus that showed up in Boston from all over the world represented the largest audience to ever attend an unsigned group's performance. This was the band after all that sold 600,000 copies of their CDs without ever signing a record contract with a major label, hiring an agent, or doing any of the other things supposedly necessary to be a success in the music industry.

What they did do was rely on the internet and people willing to download their songs and "share" them through sites like Napstar. While record companies were looking to shut these operations down, Dispatch was using it as a means of getting their music known all across the United States and creating a huge following. Without even having released an album they would show up for gigs to discover that audiences already knew the lyrics to their songs.

Still I think even they must have been overwhelmed when all the tickets for a benefit concert for Zimbabwe at New York City's Madison Square Gardens (MSG) sold out in less then an hour; the hurriedly scheduled second did the same, and a third took less then half an hour. After all it had been three years since they had last performed together, and even longer then that since they had released any new material, but that didn't stop them from selling 60,000 tickets in less then three hours.

Braddigan (the name drummer Brad Corrigan now uses) Chad Urmstom, and Pete Francis formed Dispatch in 1995 when they were all students at Middlebury college in Vermont. One of the first songs that Chad played for them was a piece called "Elias" named for a gardener who he had met during a period spent living in Zimbabwe prior to attending University. It was Chad's connection to the country that appears to have been the inspiration for them to do the benefit concerts.

To be honest I'd never heard of Dispatch before reading the press release that announced they were planning on releasing a DVD culled from footage shot over the three days of concerts as part of their fund-raising efforts. What interested me was they were raising money for Zimbabwe, and I wanted to find out more about the band and their efforts. Dispatch Zimbabwe - Live At Madison Square Garden looked to be the way to accomplish both tasks at once.

As befits their independent status the DVD was released on January 29th 2008 through their own Bomber Records in partnership with AEG Network Live and VDI Entertainment. The directorDanny Clinch and his Three On The Tree production company, have previous experience with music videos and shooting live concerts. including a docu-concert of Pearl Jam's recent Italian tour. The nineteen songs (plus four bonus tracks in the special features section) presented on this disc are more than enough for anybody to understand what made Dispatch so popular. They're bloody amazing.

Okay that's not the most in depth critical analysis but it's the truth. I'm always slightly nervous of rock trios because the first thing it suggests to me is power chords and noise to compensate for the lack of instruments. That's definitely not the case with this trio. Sure they can play loud and fast when it's called for, but their preferred method of approach is to use intricate rhythms and great vocal harmonies to fill out the sound.

As each band member is a multi-instrumentalist there was shuffling back and forth between guitar and bass on the part of Chad and Pete, and with Braddigan coming out from behind his drum set on occasion (unfortunately the press kit sent out with the advance DVD didn't include credits and I didn't catch the replacement drummer's name) to play guitar and contribute lead vocals, the band's sound continually underwent subtle shifts. Musically they sound like they took a quick tour of Jamaica to pick up some Ska and Reggae licks, swung through New Orleans and New York and learned a little funk, stopped off in England to hear electric Blues from forty years ago, threw it all up in the air and grabbed which ever bit felt right for the moment.

On the surface that sounds like it should be a right cacophony, and maybe in the hands of lesser musicians it would have been, but these guys made it work. Now it may sound obvious, but the key is that these three guys genuinely listen to each other while their playing. It doesn't hurt that none of them is the "lead", except in terms of who happens to be singing lead vocal at a particular moment, which means they all take equal responsibility for a songs success or failure.

Yet, what really makes these guys such a joy to watch is the complete lack of pretence or attitude. These guys couldn't do rock star casual, cool if you paid them. It's hard to tell whose more excited about the concert, them or their rabid fans. I don't remember the last time I've watched a band on stage actually look like they are having fun, while at the same time appreciating the magnitude of what they have accomplished. Exuberance seems like too tame a word to describe them on stage but since I can't think of anything else it will have to do.

Of course they were doing those concerts for a purpose those three nights back in July, to raise money for and awareness about the current situation in Zimbabwe. To help them out they had some special guests come in from Africa for the shows. Bongo Love are a percussion group who play traditional Zimbabwe instruments and they did two incredible numbers with the boys. But I think the ones who stole everybody's hearts were the kids from the African Children's Choir. Made up of children from three of Africa's hardest hit countries, Rwanda, Uganda, and Zimbabwe, they joined the band on stage for three songs and led the audience through participatory singing.

I've talked about the band members mainly as musicians to this point, but I don't think they would be half the performers they are if they weren't the people they are. During the special features sections of the DVD, and during the main feature, we get to see them interacting with each other and with others involved with the project. What struck me the most was the way the children in the choir reacted to them - every time they would see one of the band members their faces would light up in absolute joy as if he was the person they wanted to see most in the world.

Now I don't buy into the innocence of children or any of that crap, but I do know that no child will react in that manner, no matter how much you want them to, if it's not genuine. These weren't rock stars who they were in awe of or idolized, these were guys who inspired trust and love and you could see it in their eyes. Remember these children have grown up surrounded by poverty, the aftermath of genocide, and seen their communities ravaged by AIDS and are going to be far less likely to trust strangers than others. Yet they saw something in the three young men of Dispatch that made them feel safe. That says more about Dispatch's character than any accolades that any adult could say or list.

As I previously mentioned the special features of Dispatch Zimbabwe - Live At Madison Square Gardens contained some extra songs, but that's just the starting point. It also included a documentary feature on conditions in Zimbabwe, as well as a history of the country until this point. One of the most important points that's raised is that Zimbabwe is still a very young country. It was only in 1980 that they had managed to overthrow a government every bit as racist as South Africa's, so they are still experiencing the hardship of the transition from minority ownership of the majority of the land to a more equitable distribution. It doesn't help matters that expatriate white Zimbabweans have taken to blaming the land reforms for the current economic crises and seem to be receiving a sympathetic hearing in Washington (The American government has imposed economic sanctions on Zimbabwe and increased them earlier this year)

Thankfully the people involved with Dispatch are independents and willing to chart their own path. Part of the special features also offers an explanation of what Dispatch is intending to do with the money they raised from the concerts and subsequent DVD sales. First of all they've set up a charitable foundation which is where all the money is being funnelled into. The foundation is researching Non Government Agencies at work in Zimbabwe who they think will put their money to best use. They don't want to tell people how to spend the money - instead they are looking for groups who have projects already up and running that could use monetary assistance to help meet their goals.

When the guys in Dispatch decided to do this concert it was with the hope that they could raise some money for Zimbabweans and also inform people of what was going on in the country as well. The concert was the first step, and now the DVD Dispatch Zimbabwe - Live At Madison Square Gardens is the next. One thing is for certain though, whatever reason you buy the DVD for, you're in for a musical treat. For Dispatch fans who didn't make it to the show - you'll want to own this disc, and for those like me who had never even heard of the band before, grab what might be a last chance to see what made them so special. These three guys are quite simply a joy to watch and great to listen too. It's not too often that watching a pop concert can make me feel hopeful about the future, but I have to say Dispatch Zimbabwe - Live At Madison Square Garden did just that.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:35 PM | Permalink

You'd expect a police show about a criminal psychologist to feature some deeply sensitive soul, who because of his deep insight into human nature solves crimes while sitting in a book lined office. Well maybe that's how it would be if the show were set in Los Angeles, or somewhere else removed from reality. But Manchester, England is a dirty, industrial city, far removed from the glamourous life of London let alone California, and no book lined office dwelling toff is going to cut it in this city.

Enter Dr. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald: overbearing, opinionated, egocentric, drinking and gambling problems suggesting a need for some serious psychological help, combined with a questionable faithfulness to his marriage bed, make him the most unlikely and unlovable of lead characters to grace television screens within in recent memory. In spit of his foibles, or perhaps because of them, from 1993 - 1995 "Fitz" ruled TV screens in Britain as the lead character in the police drama.Cracker

While Robbie Coltrane is best known now for his role as the loveable giant Hagrid in the Harry Potter series, he achieved close to iconic status for his performances in the lead role of Cracker. For three years he stalked the streets of Manchester helping the police solve brutal crime with a combination of bluster, intelligence and sheer balls that was a beauty to behold. Along the way we'd also get to watch him play with fire in his personal relationships with his wife, children and occasional lovers on the side.

For those of you who loved to hate, (or hated to love), "Fitz" the first time round, and those who somehow missed out and want to see Robbie Coltrane in a completely different light, you're in luck. The Complete Cracker, from the good folk at the Arts & Entertainment Network, contains not only all three seasons, a total of nine DVDs, but also includes the Acorn Media distributed, television movie A New Kind Of Terror released ten years after the original show went off the air.

From the first moment we meet Dr. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald we know that we're not going to be dealing with your standard police detective. While Manchester's finest are trying to figure out who has been butchering young women on British Rail, "Fitz" has been running up tabs at the Bookies, overdrawing the bank accounts, and burning out the credit cards. At the opening of "Mad Woman In The Attic" he has sunk so low that he has to try and hit his eleven year old daughter up for the money to pay for a cab ride.

Just to make sure that we've get the full picture, he insults friends over dinner to the extent that one of them throws her glass of wine in his face, and when his credit card is declined they end up footing the bill. I doubt anybody watching blamed his wife for leaving him.

But where "Fitz" fails in his personal life, he soars in his professional. He has a brilliant mind, is an impassioned and inspiring teacher, and his understanding of human nature (aside from his own of course) is almost preternaturally scary. Although unwilling to make use of his talents at first, "Fitz" volunteers his services in "Mad Woman In The Attic" because one of the victims was a former student, the Manchester police begin to rely on his expertise when faced with cases that call for insights into the darker workings of the human mind.

As a result the cases we work on with "Fitz" over the years aren't the most pleasant; serial killings of women, serial rapists, pedophilia, and all the other crimes that exist in the darker recesses of the human soul. While some of the references to events in the past might be lost on North American audiences ( the Hillsborough disaster for instance in the 1980s, where ninety some people died watching a soccer match in Liverpool when the stands collapsed), and the language might get confusing at time with it's wealth of British slang, neither should be a deterrent to an audience's appreciation. All of us can relate to the horror and repulsion of the police in having to deal with what they consider the scum of the earth, and "Fitz's" desire to solve the crimes.

As if it weren't enough that these are brilliantly acted by everybody from the guest actors playing villains, (look for a young Robert Carlyle of Full Monty fame in the episode "To Be A Somebody") to the regulars in the roll of police officers, and "Fitz's" beleaguered family, the scripts aren't you're standard who done it fare. Each episode is spread over three fifty minute instalments, which means there's plenty of time for sub-plots to be explored and developed along with the main story line. The writers aren't just content with solving the crimes either, as the scripts question both the methods used by police and their objectives. In "One Day A Lemming Will Fly" they expose how the police will cynically go for results, rather than worry themselves too much about justice.

But this isn't your typical blast the copper show either, it's more an attack on a system, and especially a media, that demands police "do something about crime" than on the police themselves. You get the feeling the police have their hands pretty much tied by circumstances and they do the best they can in the situation. Individually the cops are shown as humans doing a job that quite frankly brings them face to face with the worst humanity has to offer. It's bound to have an effect on the way they see the world.

The Complete Cracker comes with each season in a self contained box with three DVDs, and Cracker: A New Terror, the feature length show, in it's own case. With Dolby Surround Sound and Wide Screen pictures they play beautifully on all regular DVD equipment and look and sound great. Included with A New Terror is a forty-five minute making of featurette, that is about the whole series and takes you through all the characters who ever appeared and gives you all the background you need on the show's creation.

Dr. Eddie "Fitz" Fitzgerald is not your regular police series hero, and Cracker was not your regular television police drama. But if you're looking for something that's intelligent, with doses of biting humour, and insights into human behaviour that you wouldn't normally see, this is the show for you. Cracker was probably the finest police show ever televised on either side of the Atlantic Ocean, and is not something to be missed. You can pick up a copy of The Complete Cracker at the Arts & Entertainment web site or any other on line retailer.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:07 AM | Permalink