David Newbould: September 2019 Artist of the Month

David Newbould

Sin and Redemption

Rock Ridge Music

Note: This album is not yet supported by any new videos except for the title track. The album version of the other links are different on the album.

Yes, this is a new cover!

David Newbould’s newest album honors its title through vignettes of individuals pushed to the limits and facing moments of reckoning in which staying put is no longer an option. The dilemma, of course, is which direction to turn.

Newbould has faced a few of those decisions himself. He grew up in a Toronto ‘burb he couldn’t wait to escape. His journey took him to New York City and beyond, though he’s lately been ensconced in Nashville. The album’s most biographical song is “RunaroundTown,” in which he admits he chose to follow in the footstep of some of his heroes: Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and Neil Young–who respectively fled Oklahoma, Minnesota, and Ontario. Ironically, the song’s vibe is more Springsteen than any of the folks mentioned in the lyrics. It’s hard, though, to find a particular category that contains Newbould. You can find, for instance, a video of Newbould performing an acoustic version of “Runaround Town” that reminiscent of Springsteen in his Nebraska days; but the album cut is more like Bruce with the E Street Band.

Mostly, Newbould is a storyteller who lets the tale dictate the musical style. “Diamonds in the Dark” is a swampy blues offering that is short on poetry and long on pain. He sings Sometimes a man’s got to move before he knows where to go, yet moments later laments I don’t know where to go. There’s a new version of “Long Road to Barstow,” which appeared on an earlier album. The previous also evoked acoustic Springsteen, but the new one is rocked out with its traveling clothes on. Barstow isn’t necessarily the destination for the story’s antihero whose life on the hard road is fueled by booze, pills, and tragedy. “Sweet Virginia Morn” is another in this vein, with its chilling reminder There’s something that happens when dreams don’t come true. And don’t be fooled by the singalong feel of “Oh Katy.” Its parenthetical subtitle is “Just Getting’ By” and it reminds me of an updated version of The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit. The heavy bass lines alert us that is a dialogue/rant against a life that should be but isn’t working: Running in circles like the hands of time/O Katy this ain’t living life/We gotta find something more.  

Newbould has a big voice that he reels in for sensitive material “Love You Too Much (Henry’s Song)” or the gospel-influenced “Smiling in the Rain.” But if you want to know how much sound Newbould’s vocals can generate, listen to him rise above the electric version of the title track. It’s another hair-raising tale, this one of a sister and brother in a family where the first–as viewed through paternal eyes–could do no wrong and the second could do no right. The latter is the path to sin and, eventually, yearning for redemption. My favorite track is “Sensitive Heart,” about the woman who got away and now looks for love in the arms of another. The arrangement pulses with the plucked energy of a backing guitar and features both a memorable melody line and some serious noise. Newbould booms above it.

Rob Weir

Ian McEwan's Machines Like Me Raises Questions about Sentience

Machines Like Me (2019)

By Ian McEwan

Doubleday/Random House, 332 pages

★★★★

But remember, please, the Law by which we live;

We are not built to comprehend a lie…

We are nothing more than children of your brain!

Rudyard Kipling “The Secret of Machines”

Is artificial intelligence (AI) actually “intelligence” as humans understand it? In the world Ian McEwan builds in his new novel the answer to that question is, “Probably not.” His is a very smart book that blends science, science fiction, actual history, counterfactual history, philosophy, mathematics, and imagination.

McEwan’s fictive tension rests in part on a real problem in AI research, that of P/NP. To the degree that I understand it, P is polynomial (computing) time and NP is nondeterministic time. What happens if a computer quickly identifies a problem, but cannot compute the solution to that problem at the same (if any) speed? Moreover, how does a machine deal with moral dilemmas or situations in which the answer is indeterminate, immoral, or morally ambiguous? My computer science friend reminded me of a central programming dilemma for self-driving cars. What if its cameras detect a child running into traffic and there is insufficient time to brake the car? On the other side of the road there is a group of 10 people waiting for a bus. What decision is made? Should the car be diverted straight and kill its powerless occupant, run over the child, or plow into those waiting for the bus? How can a machine make a decision that is ethics- driven rather than one resolved by an algorithm?

If P≄NP, one interpretation holds that a machine could never become fully sentient. If, on the other hand, some genius figures out a way in which P =NP, machines might acquire the ability to simulate human thought. That holds the potential to do away with human creativity, intuitive thought, and moral reasoning. The latter is the scenario implied in many dystopian novels in which androids overthrow humanity.

McEwan steers more toward the first assumption. He presents an alt-version of the late 20^th century that’s intriguingly counterfactual. In that realm, Alan Turing refused chemical castration for violating Britain’s anti-homosexuality laws and did not commit suicide in 1954; it’s 1982 and he is an esteemed member of the intellectual community. That’s not all. John F. Kennedy narrowly escaped assassination, Jimmy Carter defeated Reagan in 1980, and Margaret Thatcher leaves office in disgrace after Britain loses the Falklands War to Argentina. John Lennon lives and The Beatles have just reunited. Self-driving cars have navigated British roads for nearly a decade, the Internet is already ubiquitous, and the first human-like robots have just gone on the market: 13 “Adam” models and 12 “Eves.”

The last of these is the hook of McEwan’s riveting tale. An Adam–he had hoped for an Eve but most of them were purchased by Saudis–comes into the hands of the brilliant-but-disappointing 32-year-old Charlie Friend who impulsively spends all of his ₤86,000 inheritance to purchase it. His Adam is a blend of Star Trek’s Mr. Data and Philip K. Dick’s replicants.* Adam is a quick learner and soon Charlie’s equal in the sort of abstracted banter Charlie favors instead of trying to recharge his drained finances through day trading. Even worse, a love triad emerges between Charlie, his 22-year-old grad student girlfriend Miranda, and Adam, who writes Miranda puppy love haiku. (He is also, as Mr. Data once said, “fully functional” sexually.)

If only this were Charlie’s only worry. Adam becomes increasingly secretive, mildly disobedient, and seems a bit morose at times. Charlie will discover–through Turing–that the robots are “not thriving” and that several Eves in Riyadh committed the android equivalent of suicide. (You can read your own politics into that!) Is it because Adam is in “love,” or is it because humans are simply too unpredictable for his P≄NP processors? A major moral dilemma involving Miranda puts both of these possibilities to the test.

Even if your head spins from some of McEwan’s philosophical flights and forays into theoretical mathematics, Machines Like Me is both a provocative and compelling novel. Its content begs discussion of what the title means and its unexpected resolution is surprising on several levels.

Rob Weir

* Philip K. Dick authored Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? which was the basis of the film Blade Runner.

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The Italian Teacher Instructs on Art, Ego, and More

The Italian Teacher (2018)

By Tom Rachman

Penguin/Random House, 352 pages.

★★★★

If the child is the father of the man, as Wordsworth famously put it, poor Charlie has no chance. He is the offspring of Natalie, a scattershot Canadian ceramicist, and Bear Bavinsky, a celebrated but bombastic modernist painter. We first meet Charlie and his sister Birdie in Rome in 1955, and to say that their household was unorthodox is akin to saying that chaos is unstable. Rome just happens to be where Bear has flung his paint pots at the moment. His is an enormous ego and before this novel winds to an end in the 2010s, his residences will have included Toronto, Rome, New York, London, France, and the Basque country. (Charlie’s nickname “Pinch” is an Anglicization of the Basque pintxo, the Basque version of tapas.)

Bear’s egoism has no bounds. He deplores contemporaries such as Lucian Freud, Andy Warhol, Robert Rauschenberg, and especially Picasso (“that clown,” in Bear’s judgment) though his lifestyle closely aligns with Picasso’s. That is to say, every few years Bear has a new wife and sires new children, so many that Pinch is later surprised to discover the final tally of his stepbrothers and stepsisters. Charlie/Pinch is our tragic central character. He knows his father is a rogue, yet he admires him and yearns for his approval, a need he nurtures across 7 decades. Think of it as an addiction, as Bear is always all about Bear. He makes promises he has no intention of keeping, expects to be fawned upon, basks in pubic adulation, refuses to sell his art to anyone other than museums, barricades himself in his studios, burns most of what he creates, yet claims Pinch is the only one of his children who “understands” him. He also gives Pinch a few art lessons, then crushes the lad’s dreams by telling him he will “never be an artist”–though it’s not clear he ever actually did more than glance as his art–and rudely dismisses Pinch’s academic desires to study Caravaggio.  

Like a moth drawn to the flame, though, Charlie wallows in the old man’s glory. He even attempts to write Bear’s biography. If you imagine this won’t give rise to a healthy adult, you are right, though perhaps not in ways you’d imagine. Rachman’s sprawling family saga takes us to a lot of places metaphorically as well as geographically. Rachman’s title is deliciously ambiguous. On the surface, it references Pinch’s one unassailable talent: his facility with languages. He is, for instance, Cilla Barrows’ Italian tutor at university. She is Pinch’s deepest love but one of several failed relationships. But maybe the book’s title draws us toward a different kind of teacher: Charlie’s childhood lessons? His artistic desires? An affirmation of his own inadequacies, real and imagined?

If you are an art fan, there’s a lot of “dish” in this novel. It certainly takes the piss out of pompous art critics, fashion-driven dealers, and deceitful gallery owners. There are also provocative observations about art itself. Bear delivers one of many opinions when he expounds that concrete isn’t necessarily less beautiful than a leaf: “Not that nature is better than artifice. Because art is artifice.” Later he opines, “There’s a gap always between what the object is and what the picture isn’t. That gap … is where the art is.” These two quotes alert us that this is also a novel about art, artifice, and whether there is a difference. If you can’t tell, does provenance matter?

Other themes include questions of self-worth, the blurry lines between right and wrong, the complexities of family, the corrosive toxicity of greed, and questions about the purpose of art and how we define an artist. Looming large above it all, both physically and metaphorically, is Bear Bavinsky, as thoroughly an unlikable figure as literature has seen in many a moon. You’ll hate the self-centered SOB, yet he fascinates to the degree that you can’t wait to flip the page to see what he does next.

Rob Weir

The Biggest Little Farm: Evicted from Santa Monica

The Biggest Little Farm (2019)

Directed by John Chester

Neon Films, 92 minutes, PG.

★★★

I think Emily and I may have been the last two people in the Connecticut River Valley to have seen this film. If you live outside of the region, it’s a feel-good documentary about one couple’s decision to leave the L.A. rat race and dive head first into organic farming.

It could have been subtitled “Evicted from Santa Monica.” John Chester is an accomplished figure in the greater Hollywood film industry. In 2011, he and his wife Molly, a private chef, adopted a rescue dog named Todd. Todd was a “barker,” a talent unpopular with neighbors. The Chesters were eventually evicted from their apartment and decided to tap into their savings to pursue Molly’s dream of living on an organic farm. The Biggest Little Farm documents their 7-year struggle to bring Molly’s dream to realization on Apricot Lane Farms, a 230-acre mixed-use holding in Moorpark, California, about 40 miles from Los Angeles.

Before I interject skeptical notes, let me say that I liked this film and I understand why it is so beloved. I admire what the Chesters did and they are right that among the things we must do to save the planet is discover ways to live in harmony with Mother Nature. Bolivian president Evo Morales put it best, “What mankind must know is that human beings cannot live without Mother Earth, but the planet can live without humans.” A lot of young folks here in Western Massachusetts are deeply interested in sustainable farming and distrust the industrial agriculture complex that rapes the land, relies upon toxic chemicals, and is more concerned with shelf life, scale, and profit than resource management, product taste, or consumer safety. I find those youthful values admirable and their efforts heroic.

If you want to make a film like Biggest Little Farm, it helps to have a filmmaker, cameraman, and cinematographer on board, which is what John Chester was before he also became a farmer. He knows how to build drama, wring emotion from an audience, and cut and sequence raw footage. What we see on the screen took 16 months to edit and assemble. If you think you can’t get nervous about a pig giving birth, shed tears over a scraggly rooster, or get excited by a hand full of worms, see this film and get back to me.

What the film does best is drive home the message that living in harmony with nature is both an act of surrender and one of balance. Life and death are integral to farming; when a coyote kills sheep, you slice away the pelts and move on. Do not get overly attached to that ever-so-cute calf that you will one day butcher and consume. Sustainability also requires a rewiring of standard operating procedure. What’s the first thing most farmers do when coyotes kill livestock? Easy: Load the guns and set out poison bait traps. Problem: Kill all the coyotes and you have a rabbit problem. Solution: Accept that a balanced number of mutton- and poultry- eating coyotes are necessary. Love fruit? So do snails if the trees aren’t sprayed. But there’s an answer; snails are like crack cocaine for free-waddling ducks. Are gophers undermining root structures? Build owl houses.

Once we get past the drama, herculean labor, and ingenuity, different sorts of balance conundra emerge that highlight the gap between what we wish to see and what is left unexplained. First, there are a few internal personnel issues. The Chesters’ role model was the late Alan York, who may have been wise and prescient about all things biodiversity, but comes across as beloved but also like a blissed-out cross between a hippie and a guru. Maybe you have to be from California to get him, but to this Easterner he seemed more flake than prophet. Second, the farm was Molly’s dream, but the movie quickly places John at its center and reduces Molly to the often-peripheral role of worrier and Earth Mother. Finally, there is only an oblique reference to the fact that Apricot Lane Farms has a staff of 60. This makes it a small big farm, not a big small one.

One should also acknowledge that John Chester so skillfully assembled the film that it takes a sharp eye to recognize its Edenic qualities. There really isn’t any drama as to whether the farm will succeed. It is telegraphed in part by the drone shots of the lush concentric circle orchards. It is even more overtly presaged with an early establishing shot of a green pasture in which sheep and other farm animals lie contently in the grass as a venomous snake slithers among them. Check out Edward Hicks’ famed painting “Peaceable Kingdom” and you can infer divine sanction of the experiment.

Here’s the biggest little lie of the film. What you really need to replicate what the Chesters did are deep-pocketed investors. The land wasn’t really as barren as the documentary implies. Yes, the soil needed revitalization, but most of the property was run-down, not dead. Conspicuously absent from the film are specifics about money. Those who’ve looked into this say that the farm’s purchase price was a cool $10.5 million. I would imagine it also cost quite a sum to build the state of the art composting facility that led to soil replenishment. How much more to buy animals, farm machinery, seedlings, feed, fencing, and miscellaneous supplies? There is a reference to crowd sourcing, but that could not have paid the bills. Who are the mysterious “investors” who are merely mentioned? I’d like to know, because we need thousands more of their like before Apricot Lane Farms can be replicated on a significant scale*.

Let me reiterate that I admired John and Molly. I also admired the film. It is an inspiration, but let no one blindly see it as a blueprint. It is where we should go, but not where most can go at this moment in time**.

Rob Weir

*The investors must be in for a really long haul. The farm’s classification is that it makes less than $250,000 revenue per year.

**Here’s something that’s more immediately attainable. As we strolled through the fields of our CSA farm share in late August, every step among the cherry tomatoes raised dozens of birds. Clouds of butterflies and bees were busy amidst the flowers in the adjacent field. Hawks soared above the mountain ridge on the other side of the road. If you build habitats, Mother Nature’s creatures will come.

Small Towns: Chester, Vermont

Have you ever spent time in a big city where absolutely nothing makes you wish to linger? Chester, Vermont is its opposite–a wee place where you drive in, begin to wander, and before you know it you've wiled away most of the day. That's fancy sleight of hand for a place with just a tick over 3,100 people that are pretty well dispersed.

It helps that this Windsor County village lies in a valley in the shadow of Okemo and Mount Snow, to which skiers flock when the white stuff is on the ground. In the winter Chester is a popular après-ski destination, which helps explain why it has an outsized number of inns and motels. The village's small shop row spreads like wings from the Fullerton Inn, which dates to 1885 and replaced an even older building. The nearby Inn Victoria serves high tea for those who want elegance with their crumpets. It's easy to imagine after hours thick-sweatered mogul hoppers stretched out before a fire and recapping adventures. But this doesn’t explain how Chester manages to be both quiet and vibrant during the Dog Days of August when we visited.

Architecture lovers tend to drive toward Chester Depot to see the Stone Village Historic District. As advertised, it's a collection of homes constructed of local granite. This was something of an "ooookay" ho-hum experience for me. (Would anyone break out the camera if they were made of brick?) I much preferred the old railway station. During what Vermonters call Leaf-Peeping Season, the ironically named Green Mountain Flyer crawls between Chester and Rockingham, but in the summer only the odd freight train rolls past. There's a time machine feel to standing by the station and looking across to a well-worn 1849 market. That's about all the commercial activity there is in Chester Depot, but it's more authentic than the Vermont Country Store in nearby Rockingham.

We made our way back to the village proper and admired the graceful historic homes along Route 103, many of which have been lovingly restored. There are several stunning Victorians with fancy woodwork and frills and there's even what some claim to be Vermont's oldest Georgian home. The vest pocket downtown has galleries, gift shops, eateries, and one-of-a-kind specialty stores that make you understand why locals fought so hard to keep the Dollar General Store out of the village limits. Don't forget to cross the street and saunter among the old stones in the cemetery. You'll be amazed by the longevity of Colonial and Early American residents. I always like to search for unusual gravestone carvings.  

Chester enjoys a reputation for being a pretty good food town. We gather that The Free Range is superb for dinner, but we weren't there in the evening. Instead, we treated ourselves to a hearty lunch at MacLaomainn's Scottish Pub. How often do you get a chance to quench your thirst with Scottish beers on tap? The pub grub is good and, yes, I did order haggis, neeps, and tatties. I enjoyed every bite. The owner is indeed Scottish and there's a modest Clan Hall for functions in the rear of the pub.   

If you wish to take an excursion to nearby Ludlow, a very easy stroll to Buttermilk Falls takes you to a popular summer swimming hole and a photogenic cascade. We then made our way back to Chester and headed for I-91 via the village of Rockingham. Its biggest draw is the aforementioned Vermont Country Store, where we had decent-but-not-transcendent soft serve ice cream. In the store you'll find all manner of candy, foodstuff, clothing, and toys–much of it things you've not seen in decades. That's deservedly so in some cases, but it's nonetheless a hoot. There's also an old mill on the property with a working waterwheel. Do detour to the 18^th century Rockingham Meetinghouse, a former Congregational Church and town hall that's a National Historic Landmark. It's a tranquil and picturesque spot.

 

We were amazed by how much we absorbed in such a small area. Back in Northampton we learned that two friends whom we assumed married in California where they used to live actually tied the knot at the Fullerton Inn. Small town. Small world.

Rob Weir

Gems from the Strong: Click image for bigger size

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Note the 'wholesome' imagery

Strange fish in tank.

Mr. Trump in the White House with a stilleto

When I was a kid, we used real potatoes!

Steady hand needed. Abandoned MD dreams!

Wish I had this one!

Love me tender, love me true...

This one looks like the goal is to emasculate the cop

Note the connection between play and propaganda

Here's why St. Louis Univ. teams are the Billikens

Early board game

Just love the name!

As a matter of fact, there WAS a Google before Google!

If you didn't know, "yellow journalism" derives from this. Thought to be the first cartoon. NOT an Asian, rather a barefooted Irish kid, Mickey Dugan.https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6304832159039712637#editor/target=post;postID=8182208674137985645;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=0;src=postname

Strong Museum is a Great Excuse to Visit Rochester

The Strong Museum of Play

Rochester, New York

Rochester seldom appears on lists of great tourist destinations. In the eyes of many, it’s just another small played-out postindustrial city with oversized urban problems. In truth, it’s well worth a visit. In late August I posted a piece on the delightful George Eastman House and Museum. Rochester also has tranquil walks along the water-filled Erie Canal, beaches along Lake Ontario, a sweet minor league baseball stadium, a Frederick Douglass monument, and the Susan B. Anthony House. But if that doesn’t convince you, try this: the Strong Museum of Play.

I haven’t had this much youthful fun since I actually was a youth. The museum began life as a monetary and collection donation from philanthropist Margaret Woodbury Strong in 1969. It has grown since then, an understatement if ever there was one. These days we are talking mega big–as in 13.5 acres and over 285,000 square feet of buildings. It’s been so successful that new parking garages and exhibition spaces are in the works that will double the existing size.

It is as advertised, a museum devoted to how Americans, especially children, have played. You name it and it’s there. First of all, it houses both the National Toy Hall of Fame and the National Video Game Hall of Fame. They work like any other Hall of Fame, which is to say there are committees whose members mull over nominations and vote on which toys are worthy of inclusion. You can find the complete list online and you’ll notice it includes everything from Barbie to Mr. Potato Head, the Teddy Bear, Checkers, Big Wheels, Silly Putty, and the cardboard box. All of the winners are displayed in cases within the Hall of Fame area. There’s a separate hall for video games, plus the International Center for the History of Electronic Games.

As the saying goes, but wait, there’s more. There’s also a butterfly garden, an exhibit devoted to D.C. Superheroes, and archives should you tire of fun and decide you positively must do academic research! Okay, I’m being snarky on the last one. Actually, this place takes play seriously and even publishes the Journal of Play. And why not? Why on earth should work be treated more seriously than play and recreation–especially in a postindustrial city? If you want to get philosophical, in a saner society the very point of work would be to secure time and resources to play.

If my previous comment strikes you as trite or naïve, reserve judgment until you’ve strolled among the cases of America at Play. It is the heart of the museum. It is a time capsule of how Americans have entertained themselves from time immemorial. You cannot help overhearing remarks such as, “I had that toy!” and “Oh my, I haven’t thought about that game for years.” Chances are good you will be among those making such exclamations. It’s all there: board games, improvised toys, dolls, sporting goods, model airplanes, novelty banks, sleds, bicycles, and so on. I instantly time warped upon seeing Lionel trains, Operation, and Rock 'em Sock 'em robots. There are more than half a million items overall, including fads that soared like the Hula Hoop and those that bombed such as the oh-so-lame attempt at making an electric football game. The goal of the last, insofar I could ever determine, was to waste time lining up 11 players on each side, flipping a switch that made the board vibrate, and watching the figures fall over. On the other hand, I saw a medieval knights and castle set that I had when I was in first grade that sparked my earliest love of history.

The Strong is also loaded with interactive kiosks and oversized sites where you can do activities such as engage a Rube Goldberg machine, play Twister, send Hot Wheels down a chute and maze, or allow a large Etch-a-Sketch to draw your profile. It’s not just children who squeal with delight at these attractions. If anything, adults need to be self-disciplined enough not to bogart the play stations.

Some might be bothered by the overt commercialism on display at the Strong. The most distressing of these is a Wegman’s where youngsters push carts through aisles and place plastic groceries in a cart before “checking out” and getting their “bill.” This one raised my hackles, but I lowered them while perambulating the America at Play section. The truth is that play has long been commercialized, as you can see in board games that were gendered and class-based. “The Dating Game” should have made Phyllis Schlafly into a feminist, but there have long been games that subtly indoctrinated some children to become tycoons and others to pursue a career as an office boy.

But enough of that. As I remarked to my wife and my friend Tim several times while smiling and laughing my way through the Strong: “It’s impossible to be cynical about this place.” If I’m wrong about that, I shall insist that I don’t know you!

If you want to see more images from this museum, go to the photo file marked "Gems from the Strong Museum"

Rob Weir  

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