ten good things (may 2006)
10. 
for years i had assumed exuma to be another one of those modern-day psych-folk acts. and i like that stuff, but never felt any urgent need to check him out, accordingly. then about a month ago (when everyone was making those "favorite records" grids on lj), he appeared on my friends' list like three times in one day. finally lostcosmonaut posted an mp3, and it was all over...
speaking of mp3's, have a listen: exuma, "mama loi, papa loi" mp3
exuma's first two albums (I and II, both released in 1970) are an odd mix of caribbean folk (he was born in the bahamas), african percussion, spiritual non-sequitors and psychedelia. it's not quite as inaccessible as all that might sound though-- most of the songs are structurally simple and beautifully arranged. something about his music sorta THUMPS, for lack of a better word-- it makes your heart pound alongside it; it makes you prone to freaking out. definitely one of the darkest, wildest folk records i've ever heard... precisely the kind of music that stops me dead in my tracks... and easily the most amazing new (to me) music i've stumbled across in at least a year. totally essential.
9. the william penn ticketing agency, at 13th and chestnut here in philadelphia, is secretly one of the weirdest places in the city. tucked into the first level of a center city high-rise, it appears as if uninhabited since 1979. wood panelling covers its tiny walls, broken only by a series of yellowing pictures and advertisements. the are old school sports pennants everywhere-- the kind i had in my bedroom following the philles' 1980 world championship. i can smell my deceased grandfather just looking at this place; i think to myself i'll bet you can still smoke a cigarette in there if you wanted to. and admidst a clutter of odd, 20-year-old wall artifacts is the real clincher-- a framed artist's sketch of tattoo you era mick jagger, autographed by the man himself. i've never seen anyone inside of this place, but i'm sure that whoever runs it undoubtedly wears a stained undershirt and a green visor, has a beer gut, and is totally amazing.
8. i finally got around to seeing the frick collection a few days ago in NYC. it's well worth a look, and here's one of the reasons why:
j.m.w. turner's the harbor of dieppe (circa 1826) isn't one of the more provocative, nearly-abstract late works you usually hear about. but it does have an impressively abstract sensibility. turner transforms a multitude of docked sailboats into an endless array of mirrored verticals. as my eyes worked their way across the central harbor scene, it like watching his logic get the best of him. the more i looked at it, the more mistakes i noticed in the picture plane. trees overlap with ship sails. masts interveave with other masts. and the painting becomes more exciting on account of these errors; they are where it comes to life, really. i was watching a visual system in conversation with itself-- leaving behind the logic of representation and moving toward something urgent, surprising and musical. pretty hot shit for the early nineteenth century...
7.
with the possible exception of werner herzog, you'd be hard-pressed to find a filmmaker who contributed more to the affectionate study of human oddities and perversions than shohei imamura, who died at 79 on sunday. in opposition to the cinematic restraint of ozu or mizugochi (and alongside oshima, suzuki and shinoda), imamura's very animate and expressionistic movie-making became one of the highlights of the japanese new wave. imamura transgressed many a taboo in his day, charting the lives of murderers and sexual deviants with the same affection that hollywood affords to cowboys, cops and superheroes. imamura had a very keen eye for the ways that people simply cannot control themselves-- morally, politically and especially sexually-- and instead of fearing these dimensions, he delighted in them. his life's work plays out like one long, kinky gesture of empathy, and in light of recent classics like dr. akagi, for example, he maintained his integrity to the bitter end.
6. sometimes people complain that when they hang out with old friends they feel obligated to "be someone they aren't anymore," or that sort of thing. but there's a good side to this as well. i saw a lot of old friends this week, and was undoubtedly reminded of things i used to say and do-- but it was kind of a refresher course or something. my friends brought out old qualities and dynamics wihtout any musty-ass back-tracking in the process. the transitions between "old dan" and "new dan" were smooth ones, and i bounced back in forth between the two (like everyone else, probably). even better-- i can rekindle that energy in the aftermath of these "reunions," update it and take advantage of it from newer angles.
old friends remind me to be myself in ways that aren't me currently but could be me again.
say that three times fast.
5.
i just finished my second novel (no longer at ease... one of these days i'm gonna do a really long book post, i hope) by chinua achebe, and i'm really becoming fascinated with him. the circumstances of his novels themselves (often documenting colonialism/post-colonialism in nigeria) lend themselves to great tales of tragedy, but achebe's tone is surprisingly humble. though satirical at times, both of the novels i've read so far (things fall apart is the other) let the events dictate the commentary, as well as the tragedy. and yet, the novels are too intimate to read as detached acts of journalism. i don't sense that achebe is outside of them, observing. but he does create a certain contemplative space between content and commentary-- a gentle space, in a way-- that allows me to consider the scope of the post-colonial predicament without much poking and prodding. the magnitude of the circumstances themselves generate a sense of literary and factual foreboding, and i don't see the author pulling the strings along the way.
4.
usually, the western fears emotion. a cowboy acts out of civic duty or notions of honor or old testament concepts of revenge. things remain pragmatic and contractual. even in the revisionist westerns (the clint eastwood ones, etc.), duty is replaced with money, and the detachment remains in tact. no one laughs, no one smiles, and only "the womenfolk" ever cry.
meanwhile, the second season of deadwood finally came out on dvd (after a hundred million years) and i'll be damned if every single character isn't a complete emotional train wreck. each person on the show is an oil and water mix of pride and tenderness and ambition, expressing all of the above with grand, potty-mouthed bravado. i had planned on watching the second disc tonight, but here i am, at three in the morning...
3. the part in viagra commercials when they tell you to seek a doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours. four hours, ladies and gentlemen. that's gotta make for an awkward scene in the hospital waiting room...
2. wangechi mutu's large-scale mylar collage drawings (currently on display at sikkema jenkins and co. in NYC's chelsea) are really evocative images. they're beautiful and horrible at the same time, which doesn't really begin to get at what's really interesting about them, honestly. i think i responded most to the physicality of them-- the sense that someone really took time putting them together, and the way hands-on studio time intersects with ideology and content. i'm new to her work, so i won't say much, but here's an image:
1. and number one should comes as a surprise to no one...
the first studio album in a decade was released this month by my beloved scott walker. i long ago lost the ability to speak of him with anything even remotely resembling objectivity-- my increasingly 14-year-old love for his music remains in tact-- but i will say that the drift is perhaps the weirdest moment in one of the weirdest careers in rock history. and accordingly, it's not for all tastes. upping the ante on his already bonkers 1995 record tilt, drift is even spookier... and more abstract... and more intimate... and more terrifying. it achieves the kind of vulnerability that can be reached only through relentless, unapologetic pretention and posturing-- a diabolical case of not-keeping-it-real so unconcerned with its own potential embarrassments as to re-emerge as something visceral and violating... and more earnest on account of its unyielding pageantry. i'm not gonna rock out to this record every day of my life, honestly. but when i do i'm gonna mean it, and i'll feel pretty weird when i'm done.
for years i had assumed exuma to be another one of those modern-day psych-folk acts. and i like that stuff, but never felt any urgent need to check him out, accordingly. then about a month ago (when everyone was making those "favorite records" grids on lj), he appeared on my friends' list like three times in one day. finally lostcosmonaut posted an mp3, and it was all over...
speaking of mp3's, have a listen: exuma, "mama loi, papa loi" mp3
exuma's first two albums (I and II, both released in 1970) are an odd mix of caribbean folk (he was born in the bahamas), african percussion, spiritual non-sequitors and psychedelia. it's not quite as inaccessible as all that might sound though-- most of the songs are structurally simple and beautifully arranged. something about his music sorta THUMPS, for lack of a better word-- it makes your heart pound alongside it; it makes you prone to freaking out. definitely one of the darkest, wildest folk records i've ever heard... precisely the kind of music that stops me dead in my tracks... and easily the most amazing new (to me) music i've stumbled across in at least a year. totally essential.
9. the william penn ticketing agency, at 13th and chestnut here in philadelphia, is secretly one of the weirdest places in the city. tucked into the first level of a center city high-rise, it appears as if uninhabited since 1979. wood panelling covers its tiny walls, broken only by a series of yellowing pictures and advertisements. the are old school sports pennants everywhere-- the kind i had in my bedroom following the philles' 1980 world championship. i can smell my deceased grandfather just looking at this place; i think to myself i'll bet you can still smoke a cigarette in there if you wanted to. and admidst a clutter of odd, 20-year-old wall artifacts is the real clincher-- a framed artist's sketch of tattoo you era mick jagger, autographed by the man himself. i've never seen anyone inside of this place, but i'm sure that whoever runs it undoubtedly wears a stained undershirt and a green visor, has a beer gut, and is totally amazing.
8. i finally got around to seeing the frick collection a few days ago in NYC. it's well worth a look, and here's one of the reasons why:
j.m.w. turner's the harbor of dieppe (circa 1826) isn't one of the more provocative, nearly-abstract late works you usually hear about. but it does have an impressively abstract sensibility. turner transforms a multitude of docked sailboats into an endless array of mirrored verticals. as my eyes worked their way across the central harbor scene, it like watching his logic get the best of him. the more i looked at it, the more mistakes i noticed in the picture plane. trees overlap with ship sails. masts interveave with other masts. and the painting becomes more exciting on account of these errors; they are where it comes to life, really. i was watching a visual system in conversation with itself-- leaving behind the logic of representation and moving toward something urgent, surprising and musical. pretty hot shit for the early nineteenth century...
7.
with the possible exception of werner herzog, you'd be hard-pressed to find a filmmaker who contributed more to the affectionate study of human oddities and perversions than shohei imamura, who died at 79 on sunday. in opposition to the cinematic restraint of ozu or mizugochi (and alongside oshima, suzuki and shinoda), imamura's very animate and expressionistic movie-making became one of the highlights of the japanese new wave. imamura transgressed many a taboo in his day, charting the lives of murderers and sexual deviants with the same affection that hollywood affords to cowboys, cops and superheroes. imamura had a very keen eye for the ways that people simply cannot control themselves-- morally, politically and especially sexually-- and instead of fearing these dimensions, he delighted in them. his life's work plays out like one long, kinky gesture of empathy, and in light of recent classics like dr. akagi, for example, he maintained his integrity to the bitter end.
6. sometimes people complain that when they hang out with old friends they feel obligated to "be someone they aren't anymore," or that sort of thing. but there's a good side to this as well. i saw a lot of old friends this week, and was undoubtedly reminded of things i used to say and do-- but it was kind of a refresher course or something. my friends brought out old qualities and dynamics wihtout any musty-ass back-tracking in the process. the transitions between "old dan" and "new dan" were smooth ones, and i bounced back in forth between the two (like everyone else, probably). even better-- i can rekindle that energy in the aftermath of these "reunions," update it and take advantage of it from newer angles.
old friends remind me to be myself in ways that aren't me currently but could be me again.
say that three times fast.
5.
i just finished my second novel (no longer at ease... one of these days i'm gonna do a really long book post, i hope) by chinua achebe, and i'm really becoming fascinated with him. the circumstances of his novels themselves (often documenting colonialism/post-colonialism in nigeria) lend themselves to great tales of tragedy, but achebe's tone is surprisingly humble. though satirical at times, both of the novels i've read so far (things fall apart is the other) let the events dictate the commentary, as well as the tragedy. and yet, the novels are too intimate to read as detached acts of journalism. i don't sense that achebe is outside of them, observing. but he does create a certain contemplative space between content and commentary-- a gentle space, in a way-- that allows me to consider the scope of the post-colonial predicament without much poking and prodding. the magnitude of the circumstances themselves generate a sense of literary and factual foreboding, and i don't see the author pulling the strings along the way.
4.
usually, the western fears emotion. a cowboy acts out of civic duty or notions of honor or old testament concepts of revenge. things remain pragmatic and contractual. even in the revisionist westerns (the clint eastwood ones, etc.), duty is replaced with money, and the detachment remains in tact. no one laughs, no one smiles, and only "the womenfolk" ever cry.
meanwhile, the second season of deadwood finally came out on dvd (after a hundred million years) and i'll be damned if every single character isn't a complete emotional train wreck. each person on the show is an oil and water mix of pride and tenderness and ambition, expressing all of the above with grand, potty-mouthed bravado. i had planned on watching the second disc tonight, but here i am, at three in the morning...
3. the part in viagra commercials when they tell you to seek a doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours. four hours, ladies and gentlemen. that's gotta make for an awkward scene in the hospital waiting room...
2. wangechi mutu's large-scale mylar collage drawings (currently on display at sikkema jenkins and co. in NYC's chelsea) are really evocative images. they're beautiful and horrible at the same time, which doesn't really begin to get at what's really interesting about them, honestly. i think i responded most to the physicality of them-- the sense that someone really took time putting them together, and the way hands-on studio time intersects with ideology and content. i'm new to her work, so i won't say much, but here's an image:
1. and number one should comes as a surprise to no one...
the first studio album in a decade was released this month by my beloved scott walker. i long ago lost the ability to speak of him with anything even remotely resembling objectivity-- my increasingly 14-year-old love for his music remains in tact-- but i will say that the drift is perhaps the weirdest moment in one of the weirdest careers in rock history. and accordingly, it's not for all tastes. upping the ante on his already bonkers 1995 record tilt, drift is even spookier... and more abstract... and more intimate... and more terrifying. it achieves the kind of vulnerability that can be reached only through relentless, unapologetic pretention and posturing-- a diabolical case of not-keeping-it-real so unconcerned with its own potential embarrassments as to re-emerge as something visceral and violating... and more earnest on account of its unyielding pageantry. i'm not gonna rock out to this record every day of my life, honestly. but when i do i'm gonna mean it, and i'll feel pretty weird when i'm done.