6/5/09

SIGNS of the Times

As a writer/editor, I am naturally a word person, but I read everything...and I mean everything! Not just books, magazines, web pages, blog posts, e-mails, and old-fashioned letters, but also cereal box ads, use instructions on shampoo bottles, the small print on my bills, and ingredient listings on packages.

So of course if there's a sign in the vicinity, I read it whether I intend to or not. I've seen lots of things I'd rather not have seen (such as "Glove's for Sale," "Up to 50% off and more!" "Share Our Strength's" and other instances of horrific grammar/spelling/punctuation) but I've also come across some fabulous signs.

Now you can share the joy of signs without having to be obsessed with reading them--that's my job.—P.B.

Pleasant St., Northampton, MA (remnant of a very old Nabisco product, long gone from supermarket shelves)










Portland, Maine (apparently even lobstahs love martinis)




Hadley Garden Center, MA (sign above cat-sized opening says "employee entrance")





...more signs to come in future posts

6/2/09

UNGODLY CHRISTIAN TERRORISTS





I waited before blogging about the murder of Dr. George Tiller. I wanted my anger to subside. I wanted to say something healing. I wanted to plead for reason. Screw that! I’m outraged and what I really want to say is that anti-choice groups are the biggest bunch of phonies and hypocrites to come down the pike since Marjoe Gortner. And I want to call them what they are: terrorists.

Think that’s harsh? Randall Terry of Operation Rescue called Tiller, the man gunned down by a fanatic on May 31, a “mass murderer” who authored his own fate. Listen to the words of Regina Dinwiddie (it ought to be Dimwiddie), an anti-choice extremist from Kansas City, who said of Tiller, “I wouldn’t cry for him no more than I would if somebody dropped a rat and killed it.” She also said she was “glad” he was murdered.

You tell me what justifies walking into a church and gunning someone down. Let’s kill abortion doctors for Jesus’s sake!? Let’s kill the born in the name of the unborn!? Let’s stop what we perceive to be mass murder by committing mass murder!? Why do visions of Jesus driving money lenders and hypocrites from the Temple dance in my head? (I also recall the logic of the 1960s poster that read: “Killing for Peace is Like Screwing for Virginity.”)

Let’s go a step further. What if, for sake of argument, Operation Rescue was a Muslim organization instead of one that purports to be Christian? We know the answer: It would be on a terrorist watch list and would be infiltrated by the FBI, the CIA, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco. Hell, it would be infiltrated by ASPCA by now. Think I’m kidding? Ask the decidedly non-terrorist Council on American-Islamic Relations what happened to it after 9/11. Ask anti-Vietnam War movement vets about informants in their ranks. Consult with Greenpeace about this. None of those organizations ever killed anyone, but anti-choice fanatics have committed at least eight homicides (probably nine) since 1993. They have attempted 17 others, and have issued nearly 400 death threats. Since 1977 they have committed 41 bombings, 173 arsons, and over 1200 acts of vandalism. They are responsible for millions of dollars of property damage and untold acts of intimidation, harassment, and trespass.

President Obama pleaded with Americans to find common ground on abortion. He’s naïve. I’m taking a stand. I’ve abolished the term “pro-life” from my vocabulary because it’s a damned lie. I’m done shedding tears over splatter posters of aborted fetuses. I don’t believe those fetuses were life forms, no one can prove they were, and the attempt of to ramrod faith down the throats of others is terror worthy of the Taliban. I want a new constitutional amendment that reaffirms the principle of separation of church and state. I want every anti-choice advocate and religious proselytizer in the country to be in violation of privacy laws if they approach citizens without their consent. And I want Operation Rescue and its ilk be investigated for organized terrorism.

Happy Feet


GENTICORUM

La Bibournoise

Roues et Archets 012


Is there anything as joyous as a well-done album of Quebeçois music? The latest by Genticorum is very well done indeed. Unlike most Belle Province lineups, there is neither a piano nor accordion; instead Alexandre Moulin de Grosbois-Garand plays flute on most of the tracks. When added to the incessant foot clogging characteristic of Quebeçois music it makes sets such as “La Grondeuse Opossum” feel like the intersection between a gallop and a sashay. When necessary, the flute also serves to hasten the pace, as in “Le Brandy Culotté,” “brandy” in this case the name given to four-part heart-stopping reels played in Québec. Pascal Gemme handles most of the fancy fiddling and Yann Falquet the guitar licks, but all three handle the bow at some point, as showcased for a moment on “Le Pommeau.” Each is also a fine vocalist. Falquet offers a gorgeous treatment to “Le Vingt d’Avril,” a traditional lament of love, war, and tragedy. And the three collaborate on the whimsical title track, an a capella fantasy about a prison whose cells are made of food. If you have any doubt that the world is flat, check out “Valse Beaulieu,” which began life as a gentle waltz to commemorate a town in Scotland. It’s still a waltz, but as filtered through robust clogging and call-and-response singing. C’est bon!


Click here for a YouTube link.

5/27/09

"Goodbye Solo" ****


I frequently rail against films with more silence than dialogue, in which little is revealed about main characters’ backgrounds or motives, and where the pace sometimes approaches glacial. All these are true of Goodbye Solo. Yet it transcends these qualities and emerges as a moving and minutely observed study of human nature and thought-provoking commentary on the value of life—and what happens when that gets de-valued.

The film is a virtual pas de deux between men with nearly nothing in common—not age, race, national origin, family status, nor outlook on life. Yet the irrepressibly upbeat Senegalese taxi driver Solo (Souleymane Sy Savane) and William (Red West), the determinedly grumpy old American who hires him are polar opposites whose profound differences somehow draw them into one another’s orbit for a time.

Solo tells the story of what may be the last days of the old man’s life, for William has given Solo a down payment for a one-way ride to a famously high and windy cliff. Will he or won’t he? On that slender thread the entire film hangs. You might argue that it’s not enough, but on the other hand, what more profound question is there?

Solo is the third feature film by writer-director Ramin Bahrani, whose work I was introduced to in 2006 at Roger Ebert’s Overlooked Film Festival. Bahrani was there with Man Push Cart, which also took viewers inside the life of an immigrant (in that case, a Pakistani who sells coffee and snacks from a push-cart in New York City). Solo is told in much the same way—camera sticking close to the people, who are often silent, his pacing letting us observe what life is like for his characters rather than being told in words.

Longtime character actor Red West has a spectacularly difficult role, since he rarely says much more than “Stay out of my life” or “I don’t give a shit that…” but his creased, world-weary face conveys all we need to know. Souleymane Sy Savane talks more as Solo—indeed, William can hardly shut him up—and carries all the film’s energy.

Bahrani’s got a particular knack for filming at night. As in Man Push Cart (which contains a memorable scene of the vendor laboriously dragging his heavy metal cart through the heavy pre-dawn city traffic), much of Solo takes place at night. Here it serves to focus the film, shutting out the wider world nearly entirely so all that’s left are the two protagonists—individuals and forces of life and death.

Even at just over 90 minutes, there’s a bit too much of Solo. But the director’s trust in his audience to stay with his characters—and the actors’ skill at keeping our attention and making us care what happens to both of them—lifts this far above what a bald description promises.

Viewers already tired of mindless spring/summer multiplex fluff will find their patience and attention richly rewarded by Solo’s serious charms.—P.B.

5/26/09

SPRING CULTURE CLEANING



Put this one at the top of your reading list!




Looking for some summer reading, viewing, and listening? Here’s some good stuff we never quite got around to reviewing this spring.


Books


Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. World War II has just ended, but Spain remains firmly under the fascist thumb of Franco. A young boy becomes obsessed with a forgotten author whose novel he discovers in a Barcelona repository. Who was Julián Carax and why does the young boy’s every query invite the wrath of a mysterious stalker and a sadistic police chief. Glom a world class mystery onto a coming-of-age story, mix with Dan Brown-like labyrinthine plot twists, and season with skillful writing and the result is a delicious read.

José Saramago won the Nobel Prize for literature for Blindness in 1998, but we just got around to reading it. A strange bout of blindness plagues Lisbon in Saramago’s allegory of Portuguese fascism and spiritual darkness. It is a chilling but irresistible study of the struggle between civilization and humanity on one hand and A Darwinian survival of the fittest on the other. Do not see the movie made about the book. There’s no point to watching a lame film about blindness!

I enjoyed Saramago’s sequel, Seeing, even more. It intelligently tackles an age-old conundrum: How would a government react if the bulk of society simply decided to ignore it?

Ghost by Alan Lightman: Seeing is believing. Or is it? What if you’ve seen something but don’t know what it was? And what do you do when some people try to tell you what you’ve seen and still others tell you that you saw nothing at all? This very unconventional ghost story raises fascinating epistemological and eschatological puzzlers.

Joël Glenn Brenner, The Emperors of Chocolate. This book came out in 2000, but remains relevant. If you think the CIA has secrets, it’s a band of tattle-tales compared to the candy industry. Brenner, a former Washington Post writer, penetrates (to the degree she can) the corporate world of Hershey and Mars to arrive at a center substantially chewier than nougat and caramel.


Films


Assorted snafus prevented me from seeing The Wrestler until recently but I can report that you shouldn’t take its hype any more seriously than you would a WWF bout. Mickey Rourke is pretty good as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a past-his-prime gladiator who has messed up his life in just about every way imaginable. It’s hard not to superimpose Rourke’s real-life bio onto this, but the film itself is a lot like pro wrestling—written to formula. You can see everything coming from a mile away. And will Hollywood please stop trying to convince me that Marisa Tomei is a real actress? With the exception of Matthew McConaughey there is no more over-hyped, under-talented actor in the biz.

If you want to see what real actors can do with a script that’s more play than film, rent Doubt. Meryl Streep is chilling as Sister Aloysius and Philip Seymour Hoffman is her near-equal as Father Flynn, a priest with a secret that’s not the one that Sister thinks it is.

Hoffman is also superb in Synecdoche, the most intelligent film I’ve seen in years. If you need things clear, resolved, and obvious stay well clear of this one. But if your mind gravitates towards eternal questions about meaning, fate, and time check it out. We all like to think about how our lives would change if certain factors were altered. But what if it’s the interior that really matters?

We wanted to love Is Anybody There? but the film simply doesn’t compel. Michael Caine is fine as Clarence, an embittered, elderly ex-magician forced into a nursing facility, and Bill Milner is cute as a death-obsessed nine-year-old. The script, however, is paint by the numbers and dodges profundity in the name of affected sweetness.

Sugar, on the other hand, avoids the easy answers of Is Anybody There? Miguel “Sugar” Santos (Algenis Perez Santos) is star pitcher in the Dominican Republic whom scouts have been watching since he was fifteen. At nineteen he gets his chance to pursue baseball dreams. But how does a Spanish-speaking kid who grew up in crushing poverty cope with being assigned to a club in Iowa, where he has no support systems? This intelligent take on culture clash avoids nostrums.




Music




HARALD GULLIKSTAD
Etterraskst
Talik TA35

These Norwegian ringlenders, bag tunes, waltzes, and marches are old-style tunes that Gullikstad learned from now-deceased musicians in the copper-mining district of Røros some 200 miles north of Oslo. The album has the rawness and immediacy of source music—demanding listening, but a treasure trove of fiddle tunes for those tired of the tried and true.

ANNBJØRG LIEN
Waltz With Me
Compass 7-4492-2

Norway’s Annbjørg Lien is like musical sandpaper, gritty and rough, yet contained and organized. Her Hardanger fiddle is tossed into an international mix with Bruce Molsky’s fiddle, Christine Hanson’s cello, and Mikael Marin’s viola and the result is what you might get if a classical quartet was deported to the boondocks. “Edgy smoothness” sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s an apt handle for this beguiling collaboration.

THE CLIMAX CEILIDH BAND
Five Play
Beautiful Jo Records 53

Toss what you think a ceilidh band sounds like; this English quintet features big accordion-driven sets and a full sound more akin to the orchestral spirit of Ceoltoiri Chualanin than a pub pickup session. Jazzy interludes, lacey-interweaving, meaty hooks, a sense of swing, and exuberance make this a memorable release that’s miles from ordinary.


MARY KATHLEEN BURKE
A Song in her Heart
Greentrax 321

Mary Kathleen Burke was born in Ireland and lives in Scotland, and has played with country bands. This collection of folk favorites and originals has a nasality and sparseness that’s more Appalachia than Albion. There are fine renditions of songs from the public domain, Donovan, Eleanor McEvoy, and Iris DeMent, the latter to whom she invites comparisons.

5/25/09

JEWELLS FROM COAL





JENI & BILLY
Jewell Ridge Coal
Jewell Ridge Records 003

The Clinch River straddles the Virginia/West Virginia line. It’s also a marker of postindustrial America with dead company towns hidden away in Appalachian hollows where the coal was dug out and the hamlets left to die. Jeni Hankins knows the area well; her grandfathers worked Jewell Ridge. Name a social problem and Jewell Ridge had it. Hankins and Billy Kemp capture the spirit of the place, with all its tragedy, dirt, defiance, sweat, and pride. They also capture the rhythms of daily life. When you listen to “Tazewell Beauty Queen,” a song of the youthful hopes that manage to bloom in barren places, you don’t know whether to celebrate the couple’s dreams or wail for the certainty they’ll be crushed. The album also honors the United Mine Workers, the union that was often the only thing between the miners and chattel slavery under a different name. As befits such material the vocals and instrumentals sparse and plaintive, and the album’s moods seldom drift from the somber-melancholy range. Hankins’s dry vocals have aptly been described as a cross between Hazel Dickens and Iris DeMent, and if the album has a fault it’s that sometimes her vocals are too “pretty” for the content. Styles include Country blues (“Oxycodone”), songs built around Kemp’s Appalachian-style flat picking (“Sweetness Keen as Pain”), old-time Country religion (“Land of the Pharaohs”), and mountain music (“Chicken Ridge”). Jeni & Billy have captured a bygone era, but they subtly remind us that even in a time of job scarcity no one should nostalgically yearn for the Clinch to revive.--LV

5/20/09

Don’t Take Me Out to the Ballgame



Where have all the rich folks gone? Long time passing....




I just caught a game at the new Yankee Stadium. I was glad I went, but I won’t be back soon. It was a pleasant, but not a transcendent experience, and it was not worth the money.

The new park is nice, especially when compared to junk piles like Chicago’s U.S. Cellular Field or Boston’s Fenway Park (the latter easily the most overrated venue in America). But it’s hard to see why Yankee Stadium should have cost $1.5 billion and it’s distressing to contemplate how many better uses that money could have served in the Dante’s Inferno called the Bronx. And, truth be told, the Yankees didn’t need a new park.

What new visitors will notice is the jumbo-sized video screen in centerfield, the wide concourses, and the impressive Great Hall festooned with three-story banners of past Yankee heroes that greets you when you enter the park. The seats are wider, the facades outlining the upper deck are a nice touch, the sightlines are clean, and the vantage point outside of Gate Four conjures images of imperial Rome. Beyond these, however, the new park is a clone of the old House that George Steinbrenner Rebuilt. I was surprised by the lack of design that went into new Yankee Stadium. For over a billion dollars I expected something more akin to baseball’s jewel, Baltimore’s Camden Yard. And they can blow up the damned video screen. It’s just a bunch of noise and distraction. 101-feet long and they can’t find space to put up the balls and strikes?

Most of the dough went into things we mortals will never see: the clubhouses, the training rooms, and above all—the luxury boxes, suites, private clubs, and amenities aimed at the high rollers. Since most of the latter choked on their own greed and perished in the Stock Market collapse, Yankee Stadium has a lot of facilities collecting cobwebs. These include the embarrassingly empty field-level box seats that were supposed to be filled with fat asses shelling out up to $2500 per game. The Yankees should repent this folly and put these seats up for public sale at $100 each. In the old days Joe Sixpack left the bleachers for a once-a-year splurge for a box seat for himself and his kid. As often as not that experience turned wide-eyed kids into lifelong baseball fans. Now Joe would have to sell a kidney (and maybe the kid as well) to get anywhere near those seats. Yankee stadium is crawling with security guards to make sure commoners can’t get near the lower level. They won’t even allow you to enter empty concourse areas to snap a photograph before the friggin’ game.

If you’re not an oil baron, here’s what you’ll shell out at Yankee Stadium. “General Admission” tickets are a myth; these have been bought by consolidators, speculators, and season ticketholders displaced from the old park. Expect to pay double the face value. My upper grandstand ticket cost me $50. If Jeeves isn’t dropping you off in front of your suite, it will cost at least $19 to park your car. Hotdogs are $5.75; a pulled pork sandwich (not bad!) will set you back $10. Bottled water is $4 and everything from cotton candy to popcorn is marked up astronomically. Beer is nine bucks a bottle. (The day I spend $9 for a Budweiser is the day you can donate my brain to science.) I was quite modest and managed to spend just $15 on concessions and, since it was Cap Day I wasn’t tempted by the ubiquitous “official gear” kiosks. Get thee to a Bob’s Store to buy t-shirts, unless you find virtue in shelling out $35 for run-of-the-mill logo apparel. Tolls on the Henry Hudson—and good luck finding it from the horrendous traffic rerouting—will cost another $5.50. Toss in $20 for gas if you’re traveling any distance and another $10 to have some pizza and beer in New Haven on the way home and your day to Yankee Stadium will run you around a hundred bucks a person if you’re being frugal. (Go to baseball’s most expensive venue, Fenway Park, and it will cost about a third more.)

A hundred bucks is a buck more than I pay for a subscription to MLB.com, which allows me to watch every game in the country for the entire year. While the experience of watching games on the Internet—even in high def—isn’t the same as being at the park, the seating, sightlines, beer, and food are way cheaper and better at home. And if that’s what a baseball nut like me has concluded, it gives pause about how much longer MLB can put fannies in the seats. Don’t take me out to the ballgame. I’m sick of subsidizing rich people’s playgrounds.