The Sorry States of Casino Gambling

There are currently 28 states that have casino gambling, and like a drunken man tossing down his last $20 at the roulette table, Massachusetts is rushing pell-mell to become number 29. Here in Western Massachusetts, depressed locales such as Holyoke, Palmer, and Springfield are already battling for the dubious honor or further depleting resources in order to lure a hypothetical casino to their squalid borders. I say hypothetical because no casino has actually been built yet, and only one in the region stretching west of Worcester to the Berkshires will be permitted. Cities are literally betting on red—they are going deeper into debt to toss financial inducements to developers that might be awarded a casino license.

I shall not delve into the morality of casino gambling. I will say, though, that the poorest state in the Union, Mississippi, has 15 casinos and shows no sign of pulling itself above the Inferno's lowest rung. I understand the allure of casino gambling—it’s a lot like the drunken man down to his last twenty. As the Massachusetts’ Lottery—a cash cow in danger of being sent to the abattoir once casinos open—puts it, “You have to play to win.” Cities are like dream-drunk bettors who think they can defy the odds. After all, look what happened at Foxwoods in Connecticut. Funny that everyone looks there, but fail to see; Foxwoods has been hemorrhaging cash for several years and has been quietly moving resources into non-gambling ventures. Funny that people continue to treat the post-apocalyptic landscape of Atlantic City as an aberration rather than the rule. When Holyoke or Springfield boosters speak of casinos as the centerpiece of urban renewal, I wonder why they never invoke Detroit, which has three casinos and remains near the top of everyone’s “Why would I want to go there?” list. They never visit the wastelands of St. Louis, which opened casinos on dry land in the vain hope of raking in money that it thought went to Illinois when riverboat gamblers drifted across the Mississippi River’s state line.

What’s not to understand, folks? The entire point of casino gambling is that the house wins and the rest of us lose. Please refrain from playing the “Casinos create jobs” card because the house is holding at 21. Go online and check out where the nation’s 500 casinos are located. They fall into two categories: places you’ll never be able to afford, or places you’d never want to live. Casinos are simply the latest quick-fix straw at which down-on-their-luck states and municipalities are grasping. When the U.S. economy tanked in the 1970s, lots of places were sure that shopping malls were the answer and built them at the speed at which Henry Ford once cranked out Model-Ts. America got malled/mauled and the only discernible effect was that inner cities declined further. Come the 1980s, it was tourism that was supposed to rescue the economy. Golf course projects got enormous tax breaks, but we didn’t really become a nation of duffers; we simply built lavish playgrounds for the 1%, the ones who never stop at the local visitors’ center to pick up brochures for the area’s historical houses, scenic delights, home-cooking restaurants, or “unique shopping experiences.” Now it’s gambling’s turn to fuel false hopes.

If we actually lived according to the logic of one-fix experts, the America of the future would consist of dividing the masses in halves. A pot of money would be set aside for allocation to the masses. For six months of the year people would work in either the tourist or gambling industries and collect their allocations; for the other half of the year they would be furloughed and forced to spend their earnings at tourist sites and casinos while the other half worked. If my remarks sound as if I see municipal planning as a cynical shell game, that’s because I think it such. Has it not dawned on anyone that we’ve been spinning our wheels trying to substitute a future one-industry strategy (gambling) for the failed one-industry models of the past? (Detroit-automobiles; Holyoke-paper; Atlantic City-conventions; Springfield-machine tools) As a student of proverbs, I know that many of them convey timeless wisdom. Like the one that goes: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Like the one that says: A fool and his money are soon parted.

The drunken man stumbles to the table. His hoodie says Massachusetts on the front.        

Orient an Ecumenical Tour of Music, Culture, and Religion

ORIENT NOIR

Orient Noir

Piranha 2645

* * *

If you want a musical tour of Middle Eastern and North African rhythms as they might have sounded in the 1930s when Western grooves etched themselves into the musical landscape, Orient Noir is your ticket. It’s a set of offerings assembled by Dr. Bertram Nickolay, a German scientist, computer programmer, and intellectual who also happens to collect world music, especially “Jiddish” music–Yiddish songs, klezmer, and Sephardic traditions. This collection branches across religious, geographical, and cultural borders. We get Nubian wedding dance music, pop songs, Turkish chants, Lebanese café bands, Serbian songs, New York City musicians…. You name it. Some of the music was on Euro charts back in the 1970s, such as Efendi Garden’s “The Garden,” a stellar example of what was once labeled Krautrock. It also includes The Klezmatics’ “I Ain’t Afraid,” one of the finest songs I know that takes down religious zealots of all stripes. It’s closing refrain line “I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God” pretty much sums up about half of what’s wrong with the world these days. World music aficionados will recognize names such as Watcha Clan and Mahmoud Fadl, but most of the performers are not as well known. Some of the artists package themselves as avant-garde, but a track such as “We Daret El Ayam” sounds as if it’s in search of a black-and-white movie and “Maka Shelishit” as if we’ve been transported to a dusty casbah. Intriguing stuff throughout.

For something more contemporary, check out The Klezmatics singing “I Ain’t Afraid.” 

Waiting to Ex-Kale

Kale chips? Are you freakin' kidding me? 

Summer’s almost over. Among other things this means the offerings from our CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm are winding down. It’s just a matter of weeks until late tomatoes, zucchini, cabbage, and onions give way to potatoes and squash. After that, it’s winter pickup time–sometime around mid November we can swing by for some winter keeping foods such as beets, turnips, potatoes, tear-inducing onions, and giant blue squash that can be hollowed and rented out as student apartments.

There is one silver lining in the bitter drama we New Englanders call “winter;” its impending arrival means it’s at least six months before we have to pretend we’re interested in kale. I want to go on record as saying that kale is to green vegetables what carob is to pod foods–a non-edible weed posing as nutrition. Let’s be honest–human beings are carnivorous mammals that occasionally devour plants. But we are not meant to consume kale or Swiss chard, sorrel, or other such horror stalks. These are the kinds of substances, which, if Rover ingested them, you’d take him to the vet to see if he’ll survive.

Spare me all sure-fire recipes for scrumptious kale. You might as well tell me you’ve discovered Noah’s Ark intact in downtown Atlantis. I’ve boiled kale, sautéed it, steamed it, added it to soups, seasoned it with herbs, and nailed it to the doorframe to ward off zombies. I’ve eaten kale chips, as if somehow these were a substitute for Cap Codders. I’ve tried recipes from every source from Bon Appétit to Worm and Grub Weekly. Thus far I have found a single good use for kale and its ilk–they make excellent compost, which is where they end up every week. I want to tell my CSA–don’t grow this crap; harvest something we actually want, like cheeseburgers.

I have found only one leaf plant that’s choke-downable: collards. I attribute that to African Americans, who brought their Southern foodways with them during the Great Migration. Give me some pork barbecue, some cornbread, thirteen side dishes, and a plop of collards soaked in vinegar and I’m okay with that. Of course, barbecue is a food no kale-o-holic would ever dream of eating. They like to tell me how good kale is for me. Yeah, so are periodic colonoscopies, but you don’t see anyone growing them in fields, do you? Who wants to live forever if it means eating stuff that induces suicidal thoughts?

The leaves are turning and soon the snow fill fly. I will grumble as I shovel my driveway, but I will gaze out at the frozen fields and smile when I think of all the dead kale buried in their white tombs.

Tam Matsumoto Guitar Album Blows New and Tired

TAK MATSUMOTO

Strings of My Soul

335 Records 1208

* * ½

Guitarist Tak Matsumoto assumes four identities, that of a New Age artist, a crunching rock and roller, an introspective jazz innovator, and a Japanese traditional musician. He sometimes wears all four identities in the same piece. So does this make Strings of My Soul a daring blend, or a shepherd’s pie with too many ingredients? To my ear, both. The good news is that Matsumoto avoids the common guitar solo album problem of presenting everything as if it’s cut from the same cloth; he simply doesn’t dwell anywhere long enough for you to feel that way. He’s also highly skilled, as befits the Grammy Award winner that he is. It’s also a delight to hear tracks such as “Hana” and “Koi-Uta,” in which the Asian erhu (a two-stringed fiddle) shares sonic space with Western instruments. The bad news? Matsumoto’s rock departures may go down a storm in Japan, but most seem like decades-old news here in the West. Ditto atmospheric his New Age meanderings, a genre that’s well past its sell-by date. Even with the aid of Larry Carlton, I can do without a cover of “Suriyaki,” and I’ve always hated “My Favorite Things,” so that one left me cold as well.  A reworking of themes from the 1968 soundtrack for “Romeo and Juliet?” Okay, but…  I think Matsumoto is an amazing fret-board wizard, but the material and his arrangements left me hungry for more one moment, and slightly queasy the next.--Rob Weir   

Make Romney Show Us the Paperwork!

Pay back time!!!!

They screamed, “Foul!” and “He’s a Kenyan.” Remember back in 2009 when the Tea Party, the Ditto Heads, and the Assorted Loony Right tried to undo the Election of 2008 by insisting that Barack Obama wasn’t born in the United States? Remember how the Obama administration declared their cries were too trivial to act upon? Remember how the Rightwing Rats kept crawling upon the political deck until Obama finally caved?

Good, because turnabout is fair play. The Mitten (Romney) insists he paid a 13% tax rate over the ten years for which he won’t release his tax returns. First of all, a man as wealthy as The Mitten should be paying 35%. That aside, I don’t believe him. I think Harry Reid is right and The Mitten didn’t pay any taxes at all. Let’s hear from everybody to the left of Attila, “Release Your Taxes! Release Your Taxes!” I’ve seen Barack Obama’s birth certificate and it’s online for Rush and all the rest of his Brown Shirts to see. Now I want to see The Mitten’s tax returns. What’s he hiding? Until he shows us his taxes, I will believe Harry Reid. And if you think that’s unfair, I say, “Here’s a dose of your own medicine. How does it taste?” 

Assuming The Mitten does release his taxes–probably the day after hell freezes over–here’s the next response for those of us who can’t stand the Great Flip Flopper. Breathe in and yell out, “Fake! Fake!” When you tire of that one try, “Let’s See the Cayman and Swiss Accounts.”  If that’s too much of a mouthful, just oink, yell out “Piggie! Piggie!” and hoist signs that ask, “Why did Romney Pay a Lower Tax Rate than My Grandma?” 

Pariah Tackles Important and Personal Subjects

Rees film deserves broader audience.

PARIAH  (2010)

Written and Directed by Dee Rees

Chicken and Egg Pictures, 86 mins. R

* * *

Alike (Andrepro Oduye) is a 17-year-old black girl finishing her high school education in an edgy New York City neighborhood. She’s kind, shy, loves poetry, and is a straight-A student. The problem is that her grades are the only thing straight about her. Alike (pronounced Ah-lee’-kay) knows what she is—a virginal Butch lesbian longing for sexual encounters she’s too guilt-ridden to initiate. She lives with her sister and parents, the latter of whom entrap her in a closet of inner frustration and outer role playing. Her father, Mack (Raymond Anthony Thomas) is a New York City detective with a military-like demeanor, and her mother, Audrey (Kim Wayans), loves Jesus to the point where she is shut down to human affection. Audrey lives a life circumscribed by what she thinks God demands of her—an austere respectability that makes her cold to her daughters, her husband, and her coworkers, all of whom quietly drift from her.

For Alike, “coming out” is out of the question, so she lives a double life, leaving the apartment each morning as Alike dressed in costumes picked out by her mother, then ducks into a school bathroom to become “Lee” by donning muscle shirts, a doo rag, hip hop baggy jeans, and a backward ball cap. Her best friend, Laura (Pernell Walker) is both what she’d like to be, but a warning of its cost. Laura is openly Butch and secretly takes Alike to gay clubs with her, but she’s also working on her GED and lives hand-to-mouth with her sister because she left school when she was tossed from her home because of her sexual preferences. So Alike plods on with few friends and no lovers. Audrey blindly foists church, inappropriate clothing, and “suitable” friends upon Alike, all of which add to her frustration—until she’s forced to spend time with a girl from a “good Christian home,” Bina (Aasha Davis). I suspect you can figure out what happens next! Don’t get too smug, though, because there’s quite a bit in this film that isn’t predictable.

Director and writer Dee Rees, who admits that some of the film is autobiographical, serves up a black family drama, the likes of which we seldom see. She uses the character of Audrey to highlight a searing contradiction within the black community—the same churches that led the civil rights movement are among the most bigoted forces in all of American society insofar as acceptance of gays and lesbians goes. Rees also delves nicely into the sometimes catty world of high schoolers, a group that plays with emotions, identities, and each other with a casual and clueless cruelty.

This is an independent film and it has the virtues and drawbacks of such a project. Kudos go to Rees for giving us a fresh look at the inner city, families, and sexual identity. Also bold was her casting choice. Oduye is not a product of New York’s mean streets; she’s Nigerian born and had a very solid childhood. Most intriguing of all, although she convincingly plays 17-year-old Alike, she is actually 33. And Davis, who plays Bina as a cute-as-a-button spoiled teen, is 32. The small budget shows up in a thin script that could use some doctoring, in the claustrophobic sets and cut-rate lighting, and in the stiff acting of secondary characters.

 It’s by no means a perfect film, but it’s a very good one that deserved a far bigger audience than it got upon release, despite raves as festivals such as Sundance. One problem was its ridiculous R rating—cuddling and girl-on-girl kissing is as racy as this film gets. Therein, in my view, lies the problem. The film got an R rating because it had lesbian characters, pure and simple. The film lacked appeal in the black community because it portrays a forbidden topic in a positive way. And most non-whites haven’t seen it for exactly the same reason. You should.—Rob Weir

A Candidate for Worst Beatles Doc Ever

Grab some images like this from Google and you too can maker a documentary!

THE BEATLES: THEIR GOLDEN AGE (2012)

Written and Directed by Les Krantz

MVD Visual, 60 mins.

zero stars

Is The Beatles: Their Golden Age” the worst film ever made about the Fab Four? I wouldn’t go that far. It’s possible there are lousier efforts out there that I’ve simply not seen. If there are, please alert me—sitting through Les Krantz’s film is as much pain as I can take. I will give him credit for one thing: I once thought it impossible to make the lovable Liverpudlians boring, but I was wrong.

I knew I was in for trouble from the opening sequence on. The soundtrack consisted of generic music, some of which was vaguely composed to sort of resemble Beatles’ tunes. I’ve encountered this before and what it means is that the director could not secure permission to use Beatles’ tunes and didn’t have the money to hire other musicians to recreate them and pay copyright fees. This makes for awkward filmmaking; dozens of Beatles’ songs are mentioned, but none are heard. What we hear most is crowds screaming and Kranz’s voiceover, sure signs of no-budget filmmaking. What Kranz did was grab a few pieces of public domain documentary footage and force fit them into a Wikipedia-like overview of the Beatles’ career. (And it’s a truncated version at that, with all of earliest years shoved into a few minutes and no explanation of how Ringo came to replace Pete Best.) You will see the same pieces of surging, screaming crowds over and over, as well as a few fair-use interview snippets, and segments from various films made about the Beatles. In other words, it’s the sort of film that someone reasonably skilled with iMovies could make in an afternoon.

The thesis, such is it is, is that The Beatles quickly became more popular than Elvis. Is there anyone who doesn’t know this? And is there anyone who thinks that you can make a decent film about the most popular band in history without using any of its music? Simply a horrible project. Watching this was my own Hard Day’s Night.