Zedashe Spotlights the Traditional Sounds of the Republic of Georgia

ZEDASHE

Intangible Pearls

Multaflora ECR-710

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Folk music scholars generally divide those performing traditional songs and tunes into two categories: tradition-bearers and revivalists. Tradition-bearers are those that grew up within a specific folk culture and learned the music in customary and informal ways; revivalists are those that professionalize older music–it’s part of their repertoire, not their identity, if you will. Where one classifies a group such as Zedashe renders such distinctions problematic.

This ten-member group hails from the Republic of Georgia and specializes in music from loads of small villages wiped out by war, Soviet cultural hegemony, and modernity. Some of them grew up with memories of the old ways, though most are too young to have grown up in them. I suppose technically they are revivalists, but their approach to the music is more folkloristic than commercial. It’s certainly not like anything you’re used to hearing. Traditional Georgian music is polyphonic, meaning there are two or more dominant melody lines going at the same time, not just the one found in most Western music. This gives the music a primal, raw quality, a mood enhanced by various voice modulations, keening, and the chant-like structure of many songs. The closest thing in American music is shape note singing in that both styles are stripped down, feature unusual harmonies, and sport unexpected tonal shifts. A lot of the songs are rendered a cappella and what instrumentation there is trends toward sparse and spare. You will hear the chongur, a sort of ukulele/lute hybrid and a button accordion called a garmon that’s often used for its drone-like effects. The garmon serves drone duty because the region’s bagpipe, the chiboni, is a double-chambered affair with a bell-like chanter that has no drones; instead it produces a shrill sound whose sound is roughly like that of a Breton biniou. North American audiences will thus find that even dance tunes such as those heard on the track “Ajarian and Khorumi Dance Melodies” challenge the ear more than the feet.

When encountering music so far out of one’s own tradition it’s important neither to romanticize nor exoticize. You can rest easy on the first score–even casual listening reveals that Zedashe is made up of enormously talented musicians. As for the second, the music is indeed exotic and unusual for Westerners. The CD is 25 tracks long and that’s probably too many for most listeners for one sitting. I recommend that you dip in and out of this one so that you can appreciate it more thoroughly. And it doesn’t hurt to Google some of the things you encounter so you can learn about Georgian history and culture as well. --Rob Weir

Rand Paul: The Worst Politician in America.

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Rand must get some of his ideas from beyond the galaxy! 

A few years ago I was in Amsterdam, where I struck up a conversation with a young Dutchman named Hans. I enjoyed his animated observations of peoples from around the globe and his razor-sharp political analyses of world events. Out of the blue, Hans uttered this observation and question: “In the Netherlands, we pass laws to control corporations, but we let people do what they want. In the United States, it looks to me like you let corporations do what they want, but you control the people. Is this correct and, if so, can you explain to me why?” What more could I say beyond,  “Yes, and no I can’t.” The Dutchman nailed it.

I mused on this encounter recently when I was at the gym and a friend asked me who got my vote for being the biggest disappointment in all of American politics.  Now that’s a loaded question! Where does one even begin? American politics is filled with loathsome, inept, and deplorable creatures. Look up the word “buttocks” and the first definition is Eric Cantor. Harry Reid is a synonym for ‘sclerotic.’ Mitch McConnell is to the right of Mussolini, David Vitter is dumber than gravel, Michele Bachmann escaped from the asylum, Rick Scott is why the word “creep” was invented, Anton Scalia represents the Vatican with such naked fervency he’s in danger of losing his U.S. citizenship, and Clarence Thomas is rumored to be a fully owned subsidiary of Scalia, Inc. Then there’s the American Svengali, Barack Obama, who has mesmerized millions of liberals into believing he’s one of them without actually having paid any attention to them whatsoever.  But in the end, my vote goes to Rand Paul. Not because the most corrupt, amoral, or dumbest politician in the land, but because he fails the simplest task of all: he can’t even do nothing.

Before you jump on me for bad syntax, let me explain. Paul calls himself a libertarian and says that government should stay the hell out of people’s lives. That’s his main (only?) appeal. Lots of Americans hate government, taxes, and regulations. Paul’s bad-boy libertarianism appeals to the anarchist fantasies of so many Americans that even those smart enough to know better–a smaller number than one might presume–occasionally find themselves nodding in agreement. The problem is that Rand is the Wizard of Oz—all smoke and mirrors. He doesn’t believe what he says; it’s just a ruse to trick people into thinking he’s on their side. Has it escaped the feeble minds of Paul supporters that the Great Libertarian Phony introduced a bill that would outlaw all abortion and define life as beginning with conception? Or that he opposes gay marriage? Or that the guy who says he wants the U.S. to stop giving foreign aid and going to war faithfully votes for whatever military budget that is put before him? Or that he’s against immigration reform because it doesn’t “secure” U.S. borders? How hard is it to shut up and do nothing if you claim that’s what government ought to do?

I suspect that Rand embodies the true spirit of American libertarianism. That is to say, libertarianism as practiced is little more than a temper tantrum, not a serious political ideology. Few self-proclaimed libertarians actually believe much beyond wanting to have unrestricted access to guns and tax dodges.  What would true libertarianism look like? Probably something like the Netherlands, except with more guns. If you really don’t think government has any right to interfere in people’s lives then every woman can make up her own mind about abortion, drugs should be as legal as guns, sodomy among consenting adults is nobody else’s business, government (state, federal or local) should sanction the marriage of anyone who buys a license, prostitution would be legal, workers seeking jobs should freely cross borders in search of them, and the First Amendment ought to be interpreted broadly in matters of appropriate speech, dress (or undress), film, print, web, and music content. True libertarianism would mean a society in which we stop trying to “prevent” much of anything insofar as individuals are concerned, and one sanctions only public harm, not private preferences. In essence, one can be as stoned or drunk as one wishes, as long as one doesn’t go on to drive a car or rob a bank.

Rand Paul doesn’t believe this. I’m not sure I’m in favor of all of this either, but I’ve never claimed the libertarian mantle and he has. That makes me inconsistent, but it makes Rand Paul a charlatan and a hypocrite. All hail Rand Paul–the worst politician in a land of political rogues. His old man must be proud. Too bad Hans is Dutch; he’d be a candidate worth supporting.

The Nines Worth a Video Watch

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THE NINES (2007; video release 2012)

Directed and written by John August

Destination Films, 100 minutes, R (language)

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The concept of the great chain of being is Platonic in origin, but proved so attractive that it became a basis of Christian ontology. In its simplest form, the great chain of being divides all things into an ascending hierarchy. Religions generally place God outside of the reality pyramid and humans at the top of the created order. John August’s clever film­–recently released on DVD–begins with perplexing premises. What if the great chain is wrong? What if God is a ten and humans a mere seven on the creation scale? What if there are some nines floating about the world, beings with the power to create, manipulate, and destroy? What if one of them suffers from supernatural amnesia and doesn’t realize the games he’s been playing? And what if the best we sevens–I won’t spoil the identity of the eights–can aspire to is a Candide-like hope that all things will turn out for the best in this best of all possible worlds?

The Nines uses the theme of “knowing” to probe the various scenarios a nine could unleash. The film takes place in three acts, “The Prisoner,” “Reality Television,” and “Knowing,” with Ryan Reynolds the lead actor in each scenario (and several minor roles as well). He plays, variously, a famous but psychologically unhinged actor that has run afoul of the law (think Robert Downey Jr.); an ambitious TV script writer trying to get his show produced; and an ordinary family man who designs video games. Each act is a triad between Reynolds, Melissa McCarthy, and Hope Davis, with McCarthy variously serving as Reynolds’ agent, best friend, and wife; and Davis as temptress, Machiavellian nemesis, and guide. Elle Fanning also appears in each act, twice as a mysterious mute and once as Reynolds’ daughter. You’ll also see personalities such as Octavia Spencer, Dahlia Salem, David Denman, and Ben Falcone in cameos.

The central dilemma of the film is whether Reynolds will become aware that he has, in essence, become the lead player in his own video game. It’s a relentlessly weird film that falls through the genre cracks–it’s part psychological drama, part science fiction, part tongue-in-cheek spoof of belief systems, part mystery, and part rom-com, yet it’s none of these. It mainly plays like one of those odd Neil Gaiman stories where Olympian gods live in the world and hold down ordinary jobs. The film certainly challenges viewers and did next to nothing at the box office–just $63,000 in the U.S. market and only $131,000 worldwide. I guess audiences don’t want to pay for ambiguity, but I found it a fascinating way to spend a hundred minutes. Who are the nines? Are they angels and demons, Olympian gods, the Greek Demiurge, or something like Star Trek’s Q-Continuum? You take a look and get back to me!

Rob Weir

Andrew Erdman Brings Vaudeville Back to Life

Queen of Vaudeville: The Story of Eva Tanguay. By Andrew L. Erdman. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2012. ISBN: 978-0-8014-4970-9.

Perhaps the name Eva Tanguay (1878-1947) rings no bells now, but a century ago familiarity with the “Cyclonic Comedienne” would have conferred considerable cultural capital. She was the most famous vaudeville star of the early 20^th century and, as Andrew Erdman notes in his fascinating portrait of Tanguay, an ambitious and tempestuous tour de force who was “cyclonic” on many levels. Tanguay was an immediate influence upon Sophie Tucker and Mae West, though in their heydays neither was as renowned as Tanguay. (West’s public persona was modeled on Tanguay’s in much the same way that young Bob Dylan channeled Woody Guthrie.) Erdman also connects Tanguay to Madonna and Lady Gaga in that she was the template for an exuberant female performer who dictated her own terms and built an image centered on sexual innuendo and strategically exposed flesh.

As the late historian Warren Sussman (1927-85) observed, the early 20^th century saw a cultural shift in which one’s character mattered less than one’s personality. This was the very foundation of a celebrity culture that’s often anchored more in likability (or notoriety) than socially significant achievement. Celebrity is also more malleable, and Tanguay was one of the first to understand that it is an invention and, if one seeks to stay in the public eye, a series of reinventions. Erdman presents Tanguay as an unlikely candidate for celebrity. She was born in the English-speaking Eastern Townships of Québec, but moved to Holyoke, Massachusetts, when she was six. The family struggled when paterfamilias Joseph, a doctor, died when Eva was just eight. His death indirectly led to her stage career; Eva entered a Holyoke amateur contest to compete for its one-dollar first prize. She won wearing a dress fashioned from an umbrella, the first of many outlandish costumes for which Tanguay was noted. From that point on, Tanguay was also considered a Holyoke native daughter, and the city reveled in her successes and periodic homecoming performances.

Erdman presents Eva as a girl whose ambition vastly outstripped her talent. By most accounts, Tanguay was hardly the best singer, dancer, or comedienne on the circuit, nor was she beautiful­­—“striking” would be a better descriptor. After 1902, though, she became a full-fledged star, after paying her dues as a soubrette and chorine. She first gained renown as the “Sambo Girl” when she donned burnt cork and sang “coon songs” that came to vaudeville via minstrel shows. In 1909, though, she first sang the number that brought her ever-lasting fame, the mildly saucy “I Don’t Care,” which happened to debut at a time in which the “New Woman” was busy dismantling residual Victorianism. Among the many delights of Erdman’s book is his attention to cultural history and his understanding that the first two decades of the 20^th century saw numerous borders blur. By then, minstrelsy, vaudeville, burlesque, musical theater, and Broadway were often hard to distinguish. Erdman also knows where the walls remained.

Tanguay embodied many of promises and limitations within an era in which the New Woman was still decades removed from Second Wave feminism. Fame came at a cost. Although Tanguay neither smoked nor drank, made enormous sums of money, and dictated terms to impresarios ranging from B. F. Keith to Florenz Ziegfeld, it was still a man’s world. Like Faye Dunaway in Chinatown, Tanguay probably passed off an illegitimate daughter as her sister—the child the product of the first in a series of bad relationships. Male businessmen tolerated Taguay when she filled theaters, but when her looks faded and movies began to supplant vaudeville, she found few willing to put up prima donna attitudes she had honed during her several decades of stardom. In her final days, Tanguay often relied upon the largess of one-time rivals Tucker and West. Timing, in history and on the stage, is everything—Tanguay never made the transition to movies and her star eclipsed just as the Great Depression hit.

Queen of Vaudeville is a wonderful read that takes us inside vaudeville at its height and into its decline. This entertaining biography is at once a work of popular culture, gender dynamics, and social history. Erdman’s book would work well with upper-level undergraduates who can connect the dots between Eva Tanguay and Lady Gaga. --Rob Weir

  

    

Icy Stockholm Octavo a Great Read in any Weather

The Stockholm Octavo. Karen Engelmann. 2012: Ecco. ISBN: 9780061995347.

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It may be summertime, but Karen Engelmann’s wintry The Stockholm Octavo makes for a delicious page-turning beach read.

The year is 1789 and if that date sounds familiar, it’s year one of the French Revolution. King Louis XVI has just been deposed, an event that has all of Europe talking–even in faraway Stockholm, where Engelmann’s tale is set. It’s quite the topic of conversation in Sofia Sparrow’s gambling parlor if, for no other reason, Sweden is also riven between monarchists and erstwhile republicans. Mrs. Sparrow is a staunch defender of tradition and monarchy; she’s also an odd bird–a mysterious woman of faded elegance whose establishment falls into the tolerated-but-not-quite-legal category. She also reads Tarot cards and counts Sweden’s King Gustav III among her confidants.

As even the most casual student of history knows, the French Revolution was not confined to France. Before the dust settled, all of Europe was at war. In some places, aristocrats were strengthened; in others, they tumbled from power and grace. Most nobles understood that, in one way or another, their fates lay in the restoration of Louis to power. Plots were hatched in every palace in Europe, including Stockholm.

But this isn’t a novel about politics per se; it’s really a power struggle between Sparrow and a pretentious woman nicknamed The Uzanne, who wants Gustav off the throne and his brother (her lover) in power and not because she finds him a dynamic bedmate. The Uzanne is the fashionable woman we presume Sparrow once was; she’s rich, attractive, and the very soul of womanly arts. In those days, this involved how to use fans to one’s social advantage. The Uzanne not only knows how to encode messages in how she holds her fan; she also possesses Sweden’s largest and most valuable collection of them, including a favorite she loses to Sparrow at the card table. Every fashionable young woman in Stockholm wants to learn the art of the fan from the Uzanne, but are they her pupils or are they accomplices in something more sinister?

The monkey in the middle is Emil Larsson, a carefree playboy and ambitious low-level government bureaucrat (sekretaire) whom Sparrow takes under her tutelage. She lays out an octavo, an eight-card Tarot configuration, which is allegedly Emil’s key to fortune and happiness. All he has to do is figure out who plays the various roles foreseen in the cards (Companion, Trickster, Teacher, etc.). Larsson soon learns that his octavo and Sparrow’s are intertwined and that his personal path is strewn with danger and intrigue involving, among others, false loves, a female apothecary, and a family of fan makers. What is in play? Black magic, or something earthly but more evil?

The Stockholm Octavo is, at base, a complex mystery. It is exceedingly well written, pays meticulous attention to detail, and unveils a cast of unforgettable characters (both major and minor). You’ll want to learn more about late 18^th century Sweden, and I’ll guarantee you’ll never again think of Tarot cards or fans the same way.--Rob Weir

Oana Cataline Chitu: Romania's New Edith Piaf

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OANA CĂTĂLINA CHIŢU

Divine

CD-Arts 3913

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Maria Tănase (1913-63) was sometimes called the “Edith Piaf of Romania.” Like Piaf, she was a diva in the best sense, a singer that mined her nations various influences–gypsy, jazz, cabaret, tango, folk melodies…. Although the soulless apparatchiks labeled her decadent and tried to silence her, Romanians flocked to her funeral in 1963 and mourned her passing. All of this is to say that mortals don’t meddle with her repertoire. Enter the heavenly voice of Oana Cătălina Chiţu, Romanian-born and now a resident of Berlin. Chiţu wends her way through a dozen Tănase favorites by both evoking her idol and by hitting the refresh button. She masters silly songs such as “Train, Little Train,” wrenches emotion from soulful lamentations such as “Oh World, Oh World,” is giddy with café-style love in “If I Hadn’t Met You,” and fans the flames of torchy selections such as “I’ve Put Sweet Basil in My Hair.” Then there are the songs on which Chiţu puts her own stamp. “Pe Vale” has a honky tonk feel that’s more Patsy Cline than Maria Tănase,  “You Have No Idea” is a sexy tango reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich, and “He Who Loves and Runs Away” establishes an experimental and discordant base from which to launch Chiţu’s cover of Tănase’s done-her-wrong song. 

This is a brilliant album for which much of the credit should go to the amazing musicians assembled. Special shout outs go to violinist Slavici Anton, saxophonist Vladimir Karparov, and accordionist Dejean Jovanovic. But above all, there is Chiţu. She is the equal to any jazz diva on the planet and has considerably more spunk than most of them. This is a tribute album, but it’s also primal, exuberant, and original. --Rob Weir

Here's a YouTube sample of Chitu's singing. 

Sexism and Religion: A (Conceptual) Illusion with No Future?

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Alas, this bumper sticker is all too apt.

In 1927, Sigmund Freud penned his classic take-down of religion, The Future on an Illusion. Freud was an avowed atheist and he saw all faith as a form of infantilization, with God playing the role of a collective father in a society that refused to grow up. Much as a single child must symbolically slay his parents to develop his independent identity, so too must society cast off suspicion, dogma, and myth to take charge of its destiny. (To be fair, Freud did see some usefulness in religion, though he thought all faith was bunk.)

I lack Freud’s certainty over such matters, but he may be correct in ways he never anticipated insofar as organized religion goes. Several recent incidents–all related to the enduring sexism of religion–suggest that the women of the world may unite and abandon churches, mosques, and synagogues. If this happens, the center will not hold. The historical record has been very clear: although men have, for centuries, dominated the ranks of theology and leadership, women have made up congregations in much higher numbers than men. It has been their lay work that has sustained religious institutions, both ideologically in the sense of proselytizing family members, and financially in the sense of raising money to support religious infrastructure. Take women out of the equation and you will see a generation of priests, mullahs, and rabbis preaching to empty buildings.

If you want to see an institution that’s woefully mired in the past, take a trip to the Vatican. It’s impressive and contains priceless art, but it has all the future promise of a mausoleum, which is what it essentially is. (The new pope, Francis I, refuses to live in an opulent apartment and has opted for voluntary simplicity in his quarters. Good for him, but is it enough?) Can’t afford a trip to Rome? Take a look in your own town at the former monuments to male vanity being desacralized and put on the market for lack of congregations. The same thing is happening with many Protestant churches. Why? One reason might be that the male leadership of these places spends more time with rightwing politics and anti-abortion movements than with pastoral care.

The recent assaults on women’s right to choose in states such as Indiana and Texas are testament to the refusal of men to respect women’s minds, bodies, equality, or rights. And excuse me if I think that the Catholic Church, which is yet to take full responsibility for decades of child molestation, simply lacks the moral authority to lecture anyone on the sanctity of life. Many male Protestant leaders are even worse; they think communion wafers ought to have G.O.P. elephants embossed on them. All of them wonder why so many women have been leaving the church. And they are–at the rate of about 50,000 per year in England and even higher numbers in the United States. Women also vote for the Democrats in much higher numbers in America. Think that might be because a lot of them figure that supporting organized religion or the Republican Party is akin to having unprotected sex with partners they despise?

Judaism has also struggled with sexism, as recent assaults on women attempting to pray at Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall attests. I’ll give Judaism credit for studying the problem to a far greater degree than Christians, but Orthodox Judaism is still pretty bleak for women. A new generation of female rabbis, mostly among Reform and (often inaptly named) Conservative Jews has taken up the task of putting a more female-friendly reading on the Torah, but this remains a work in progress and, one must face it, the Old Testament is a deeply patriarchal work. Female Jews could hardly be heartened by a recent lecture from a Manhattan rabbi telling them to have more babies. Is this a problem? According to data collected by a Harris poll, just 16% of American Jews attend synagogue and nearly half doubt the existence of God. Ouch!

It needs to be said, though, that Christian and Jewish sexists are practically devotees of Betty Friedan in comparison to the sexist cesspool that is modern Islam. Here’s a statement that speaks volumes: the most articulate voice in the Muslim world in support of human rights is a sixteen-year-old girl. That would be Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani schoolgirl shot in the head by the Taliban for the perceived blasphemy of going to school. She has become an advocate for women’s education and for tolerance, the latter commodity in short supply among the male Islamists who dominate the headlines. Are they a minority? One would hope so, but where the male Muslim voices to counter those of the Taliban and its ilk? Why do we see young men carrying Kalashnikovs instead of exposing terror networks? Why do Muslim men take out their anger on Muslim women? What important male Muslim leaders speak on behalf of women in places such as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Sudan, Palestine, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, or Iraq? Moreover–as this blog pointed out months ago–the Syrian opposition to Assad is now busy killing each other–in the name of Al Qaeda versions of Islam. Call it a vision of a veiled Syria.

Was Freud right about the need for society to put aside childish beliefs? I don’t know about that–it still seems to me that personal faith can produce true beauty, astonishing acts of selflessness, and powerful moral voices. But the loudest voices simply cannot be ones of hatred or sexism if the faiths they represent are to remain relevant. Mao Zedong famously observed, “Women hold up half the sky.” It wouldn’t be the world’s greatest tragedy if they put down that burden and let the planets tumble down upon the heads of arrogant male religious leaders.