this is me - these days

All three items in the picture are significant. they each account for 1/3 of what I am these days. More on it later: notes to self - TWO coming up.

Say you happen to find 200$ on the street I vigorously recommend that you'd invest them in the purchase of that mammoth of a photo-book that is "Jazz life". Because it IS truly a masterpiece and it makes you understand why a) to know jazz is to know americana b) William Claxton's photography is "like jazz for the eyes" (adorable Claxton, late seventies, still witty, still charming, a feeble voice that makes you wanna become one with your phone, if you are like myself interviewing him)

Polamaniacs

POLAMANIACS
Tableaux vivents of erotica, captured on Polaroid (!!!) by Nobuyoshi Araki, Robert Mapplethorpe, Carlo Mollino, Helmut Newton, Andy Warhol
2 April-2 June 2006
Gallery Photology, Milan, Italy

If you happen to be in the hood, stop by. I wish I could go...

Latino!

Reggaeton explosion 3, @ club Spirit - in vials, ready to inject:

1- getting there is a trip. it takes me 15 minutes (come ON!) to get from the 1 train station on W28/7Ave to W27/10. You canNOT go straight from W27 to 10 Ave, after 8th the avenue hits a large patch of public housing. you have to go all the way round and round and round.

2- I get there, sweaty as a pig, I think I'm late, I'm not: female security guard starts searching me, very thoroughly (I offer to write a letter of recommendation for TSA), then flashing a toothed grin "No Mace baby?". She sounds disappointed. I notice no one is guarding the rear exits, so I'll recommend her, and fail the club.

3- Inside: a neon panel flashes a Dove commercial "Your hair is too clean. It's possible". Believe me it's not.

4- The outfits: boobs, boobs, boobs, gravity-defying boobs, squeezed, popping out, pushed up, pushed to the side, on camera. jewel belts. shades. camperos. shoulder towels. mix-tape crews wearing t-shirts like "Nouveau riches vol. 3". quite a propos. fishnets, corsets, caps, cowboy hats.

5- at the bar: bartender girl serves a drink. kiddo comes back with his drink, complains "it tastes like juice". She adds a splash of Malibu then leans over "that guy, orders a pussy drink then complains that it doesn't taste like alcohol. What eare you drinking?". Without batting a lash, "Diet Coke with lemon". I apologize. She says it's fine, "it's what I drink all the time". The soda is on her and she won't accept a tip, "It's my bar" she says. Girl is hot, my friends.

6- Free condoms, yay! I avoid them as I always do: as a memeber of the press I feel I should set the example for the others here (after all this is a benefit for Aids - protect yourself) but I always have this creeping doubt that free condoms may break. Who knows where they keep them right? Funny little dance all guys do in front of the table where female volounteers give them away: they debate on what size they should get, then end up with a few Magnums (glancing aroung "did y'all see? I use Magnums") and right before leaving they grab handfuls of the regulars. "Just in case"

7- The music: bwah. Not my favourite. A lot of ethnic pride in the house though: we like that. Opening DJ spins a lot of hip-hop mixed to reggaeton, you can tell hip-hop moves them, reggaeton fkng IGNITES them. DJ Nelson, headline DJ, gets on stage and asks lady promoter to quit English "not everybody here speaks it". Then to the audience, "hablas espanol?". ROAR. Every act opens with a ritual call "Latinooooooooo". ROAR

8- Cabbie on the way home on nyc nightlife as seen from his side of the plastic partition: kids getting in at 4am asking him to be take to an afterhour. He tries to talk them out of it and sometimes actually suceeds. Girls who "work the bathrooms" in clubs, "do you know what I mean?" asks cabbie. I know. How it's important to discipline your kids in this country if you don't want them to grow up like the ones he picks up. "I used my belt on my children you know? he says proudly. I tell him my Mom's slaps worked just fine. In fact it's only 12 and I'm home. Gotta get up early.

we are family (of grups)

I'm laughing out loud as I read this week's New York mag's cover story on "grups" (contraction for grown-ups), aka "yupster", "yindies", "alterna-yuppies", men and women who act and - oy vey - dress as if they were ... "forever youngish". "Why nobody wants to be an adult anymore" is the rhetorical question printed right between Mike and Robert, 2 of the 12 models of such foreveryoungitude pictured on the cover.

I'm shaking my head and feeling very mature and dignified. I also spend 5 minutes mulling over a list of possible friends/acquaintances that could substitute for Mike, Robert and Co. should I decide to venture in a Photoshop-aided remake of such cover. Let me tell you: I'd need a double cover, Vanity Fair-style. Yes, I have that many of such .. I call them Peter Pans. 90% of which men. You know who you are, cargo pants, messenger bags, hats, berres, shades and kinky/political t-shirts, faded.

I'm still laughing (it's more of an evil chuckle at this point) when I happen to lower my eyes and realize what I am wearing: commando Converse, leather guru jacket, tank top + t-shirt + hoodie. Yes, I'm only (hold ur laughter) 30 and I'm very good at changing lanes, meaning I KNOW when it's time for pearls and heels and a blazer (I WILL nevertheless wear them on a pair of ripped jeans, uhm..). But anyway, you get the gist. Mea culpa.

So, to you, grups, Peter Pans, yupsters, whatever your name is: I'm just like you, we are family, keep it up, your messenger bags and tech gizmos don't bother us, as long as you're grown up where it counts. NO, not there. All the way UP from there, that's right, your brain.

Hip-hop riddle

Passion can't compensate for lack of foundation. I plead guilty to musical ignorance: two of my most recent acquisitions (legally downloaded>>read well, acquisitions not Acquisition) are Jay D's Donuts and Ghostface's Fishscale. 5* easy. But I have a question for y'all.

So I'm listening to Ghostface, right? And the tracks "Beauty Jackson" and "Whip you with a strap" come up. And well... they sound just like Jay D's "Hi" and "One for Ghost"... They're based on the same soul sample. Sound really alike. So, "One for Ghost" ... it makes sense that we should find it in Ghostface's album as well... or not? What was it in Jay D's intention: a gift? A suggestion? One of those collective mosaics artists sometimes make >> I'll start a chapter, you my friend will finish or elaborate on it. Like the painter's "bottega" in Europe's 16th century, when a Master would paint some sacred scene and virtually all of his apprentices would follow suit and repaint the same subject (or co-sign the Master's canvas). Remember Florence? Remember the Flemish?

Was it a tribute? To which Ghost replied with ... a tribute (if there was enough time to go in the studio and add it, between Dilla's passing and Fishscale's release)

But then, what about Hi/Beauty Jackson?

And note... I know Dilla was one of the producers on the album, what I'm wondering is why he chose the same beats

Whatever you say I'll hold on to my judgement: as I said, 5*, of the heavyweight championship kinda. heavy plaques, 5 heavy plaques more like. Both.

all that (Italian) jazz

Italian jazz is alive and well. In an ideal world we could have more money (less problems), more public funding (a federal budget for the Arts that isn't mutilated every two months by our right wing Government), less self-indulgence (we do live in Europe, where jazz is thriving on creativity, innovation and an informed audience, yet we are NOT Sweden, or Belgium). On the other hand, we have Paolo Fresu, Gianluca Petrella (check out his latest release, "Indigo", on Blue Note, even NYTimes' Ben Ratliff gave him a nod, quite an honor for a trombonist - not exactly a young lion's instrument - of such a young age), Danilo Rea, Dino Piana, Enrico Pieranunzi, Enrico Rava (if he's your kind of trumpeter), talents we carry on our sleeve like a deck of lucky cards and we proudly export.

BUT what is with Italian jazz musicians and self-indulgence? What is it with Italians in general and self-indulgence? Humility wouldn't hurt.

Here is what goes wrong when Umbria jazz festival, up and running - and worldwide famous - since 1973 comes to town for a week-long celebration at Birdland. Same old same old, Italian style.

- quartet only plays three selections. But when they go onstage, it takes them another 10 minutes to set up at the end of which they have yet to decide what to play (bassist turns around and confers with drummer, painist sits oblivious, finger-tapping, tenor sax looks spacey). I mean, THREE tunes, it can't be that hard to figure out a playlist in advance right?
- of course, all three tunes are originals by the bassist, who delights the audience with verbose introductions, tipically opening or closing with "This piece of mine was awarded such and such prize... I composed this for such and such movie by famed director Ics..."
- Sweatshirts are being sold, blue hoodies with a yellow "Umbria jazz loves New Orleans". All donations will benefit a fund for Hurricane Katrina set up in collaboration with Jazz at Lincoln center. Sweatshirts sell at 50$. FIFTY? And they don't take credit cards. New York Correspondent for Italy's major newspaper: "knowing Italians, I have a bad feeling part of the money will be used to cover for the expenses of this promotion stint". I mean, think about it, cash only and no receipts of any kind. When Umbria jazz's founder brags about our contribution to the "higher ground" cause - "We donated 30.000$!!!" - I feel like digging a hole under my chair and disappearing.
- It is a promotional stint, all right, Italian jazz and Umbria's food and wine are the cattle in this fair. Well, nothing wrong with it. Only, I don't get it: if it's promotion they seek, why not invite American press, local investors, promoters? Instead, they fly 90 people from Italy, half of which from Regione Umbria. To do what? To congratulate themselves and give each other pats on the back. Well, couldn't they have done it back home? And too bad for those who expected food and wine to be something more than decent.

- And why does Paolo Fresu, one of our finest trumpeters, chose the goddam flugehorn for the only selection he plays? He's good at it, and known to be, but flugehorn is a bad motherfucker, you have to blow hard, even more so when an obnoxiously loud crowd sits at the bar, backs to the stage, eyes on the blond walkiries shuffling around with armfuls of blue and yellow hoodies.

Humility wouldn't hurt.

notes to self - ONE

MySpace is a dangerous game to play. it's a Petri dish, an observation deck for our society, it also served as a research tool for a rape case and helped track down the perpetrators.
But there is good and bad research.

Note to self: when looking for something you're bound to make discoveries. Not always though they're the ones you expected/hoped for.

I looked (on MySpace) and found something I wish I hadn't seen. It will make my resolution easier, but the price I had to pay is too high.

Don't look.

this is how I feel

call it a cipher. figure out what I mean. or not.



***Cartier Design Viewed by Ettore Sottsass - fantabulous popping sizzling fireworks when a phenomenal architect (Ettore Sottsass) designs an exhibit for some of the most beautiful jewels in the world (Cartier's).

V for veritas

Disclaimer: I know I'm not a movie critic. And it is safe to say what l'm about to write won't make much sense to many. And will probably be disowned by myself when the sun rises - even before that if I can't sleep at all, as it happens - and ridiculized by some of you and swiftly pulverized by some dense column by some opinionist who knows better and writes better and can better explain why what I'm about to write is morally wrong, philosphically objectable and socially despicable. And why enjoying this movie should be considered in essence no different than drinking a gigantic bowl of kool-aid, speed and recycled socialism, a medicine - a placebo - for gollables, fanatics, immatures, those kinds, you know?, the fun ones.

Couldn't care less.

I wanted to say a few words about a man by the (code)name of V.



Note this is not about the movie, nor about the quality of the adaptation, the polemic with the creator of the original character, Alan Moore, or the frenzy surrounding Natalie Portman's rap on SNL.

It is about V.

**Warning: the following contains spoilers**

1) V is an anti-hero. He dies at the end of the movie. And we can't but fall in love with him. Never thought I would fall for a man in a joker mask with a wig styled in a bob, with bangs.

2) He is verbose, gives an impressive first speech using only words in "v", is able to rationalize his radical ideas without sounding like the father of all propaganda or, worse, like a demagogue. He demonstrates how Birtish sense of humor and theatrical tradition are jewels to cherish, especially when your corset is loaded with daggers, you're wearing a C4 strap-on (sans explosive attributes) and you're only faking invulnerability.
He is verbose and while he makes you wish for less words he makes you understand how we would miss the sound of those same words. Artists lie to tell the truth, he says, ideas never die, ask "what are you" before asking "who are you". And "what made you" might I add.
But his real stroke of genius is the "inch" speech. How we should never give that "inch" (our edge, our core of truthfulness, of insubordination, what makes us different) up. How, "even if I don't know you and I will never cry with you or eat with you or hold you or speak with you (or something like this, I'm quoting by memory) I know you and I love you. I love you very much". Because I AM you.

3) In the mansion he inhabits, a sort of underground antiques shop/batcave he calls "Shadow gallery", he keeps a Wurlitzer juke-box, for God's sake, a WURLITZER. And he plays "Cry me a river" by Julie London and Cat Power's rendition of "I found a reason".

4) He tortures the woman he loves. He tortures her, shaves her head, starves her, confines her to a cell, a make-believe detention. Because he wants to set her free. And in the end, unsurprisingly, the roles are inverted.

5) He made me feel alive. He made me remember what it is like to feel rage and outrage. I felt a sudden uncontrollable surge of pure, virgin ultraviolence. He made me remember what it felt like to march in protest rallies in my hometown and to occupy my high school for days. To keep it in lockdown until the police would come and kick us out. To disobey. To feel disgusted by conformism, even my own. He made me want to take whatever it is that disappoints me and turn it into action rather than complaint. In reaction. I don't mean violence, at least not that depicted in the movie (whether some acts of terrorism are legitimate - core argument in the Isreali-Palestinian conflict, to name one - in NOT what this post is about). I mean a reaction, a sign of life. A truth or dare. Or both, why do they have to be mutually exclusive? Why do we have to smile all the time? His forzen smile reminded me of the impossibility of a perpetual smile.

6) He has the best line in the whole movie. Which is not - Lord forbid - the "people shouldn't be afraid of their governments blah blah blah". It's the following:
Scene, V confronts one of his former nemesis, a woman partially responsibile for the atrocities he had to suffer, and thousands with him, in the name of a lie, of a quest for power. A female Mengele. He poisons her, then gives her a rose.
Nemesis, seconds before death takes her: "Is it meaningless to apologize?"
V: "NEVER"
Nemesis: "Then I'm sorry. I'm so sorry"

So there, in the name of V, why not?, a moment of veritas, from me.

"Fuck you". You know who you are.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry". You know who you are.
"I love you". You know who you are.
"I deserve an apology". You know who you are.

V would tell me I shouldn't be scared to name names. Well I still am. But it's not the 5th of november. Not yet.

Sometimes, establishment surprises you

"It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something". Crash, Best movie, Academy Awards 2006



I love this movie. To me it's on a par with Magnolia, it just speaks so much truth about humanity and it rips my heart open. I was bitching because I was in front of a tv with la Supervillana for the Oscar broadcast instead of being at Nokia theater for Common. Well, it was worth it (and I had just had all the Common my eyes can take - without posing any risk to the heart, I mean - at an afternoon screening of Dave Chappelle's Bloc party).

Memorandum for the future: someone please get Terrence Howard's stylist and tell him/her to go easy with the bling. It should either be the pimp 4-carats pinkie ring OR the 50+ diamonds brooch. Both make just too much icing for the cake.

Go LUDACRIS!!!

Urei, Bozak and Flash

I love piazzas. I love spaces of public confrontation, I love feedback (throwback too, but that's another stance) and the clash of titanic minds.
When I was in 11th grade my Philosohpy professor divided the class in two, disciples of Socrates and disciples of Plato, and then asked us to debate the concept of "idea" according to the school of thought we had been assigned to. That was fun.
I heat up when someone questions my knowledge but I'm also smart enough to recognize when I lack knowledge. I'm also in general thirsty for information on any of my passions - music happens to be on top of the list, so you know...
Here it is: I got a reply to my latest entry on Hip-Hop/Smithsonian (for those who read my blog on blogger, I got it through my myspace mainpage, where I also publish this blog). It ignited a damn good convo on hiphop/turntablism/jazz, still ongoing, and I asked the author permission to post it. Permission granted. Enjoy ...



"Read the New York Times article on the Smithsonian's little dib into collecting Hip Hop artifacts, memorabilia.
Thanx for the blog
One factoid, obviously implied dispute, is Grandmaster Flash's contribution to the development of the mixer, particularly the headphone jack/output as in 'how would you have known in advance the next track to mix if it hadn't been for him?'.
Both the Urei and the Bozak, high fidelity club mixer designs had headphone jacks well before Grandmaster Flash's prototype came on the scene, allowing DJs to cue records.
I believe the correct contribution made by Flash was the 'cross-fader'. Club mixers, consisting of knobs instead of 'faders' for the control of sound output per channel, were more typical and limited the execution of the more 'quick mix', scratching and hip hop styles of Djing, set by Herc back in the 70s.
The cross fader allowed for greater accuracy in the 'turntablism' style of mixing, both fader and heightened style developed by Flash.
The sad thing being that his 'cross-fader' invention/design was replicated by mixer manufactures (the industry standard) and Flash did not, nor ever did get compensation.

...

KRS One in a lecture, in England I believe, along with Busy Bee, talked about this
Basically he went on and on about Grand Master Flash's contribution to the development of the mixer and how at the United Nations ceremony recognizing Hip Hop as a distinct culture, he wanted Grand Master Flash to claim his inventions but Flash chose to refrain self proclamation.
But then Busy Bee corrected him and I believe reduced the innovation to the cross-fader"
Thank you Lennox.

Rapper's deeelite

“Hip-Hop Won’t Stop: The Beat, The Rhymes, The Life,” a major collecting initiative by the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History was announced today at the Hilton Hotel. The museum’s multi-year project will trace hip-hop from its origins in the 1970s, as an expression of urban black and Latino youth culture, to its status today.

I was there, with the Supervillana.

Pioneers from the hip-hop community donated a first bacth of objects: Russell Simmons, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Kool Herc, Ice T, Fab 5 Freddy and Crazy Legs were in the house and they brought their tongues.

And they put on a helluva show. I swear I've never seen so many white execs sweat so much and giggle so histerically to hide their panic - particularly after Bambaataa and Kool Herc dropped the rap on boycotting commercial hip-hop radio and IceT broke the prophanity record set by the Aristocrats.

There were also incredibly inspiring moments, for instance when Grandmaster Flash described how a little kid who wasn't allowed to touch his Dad's stereo learned to rewire it and lately to assemble pieces of rusty junk into finely-engineered turntables and pick-a-boo systems (hey djs from the 80s, how would you have known in advance the next track to mix if it hadn't been for him?)

Hate it or love it - we can discuss at length on the pros and cons of putting hip hop in a glass case (Russell Simmons, "When they told me i first thought 'Shit it's over! The party is over!') and we WILL - it is goddamn recognition, it was about time, hopefully something good will come out of it and people who actually uderstand something about hip hop will be in charge of curating the collection (chief curator was there, she actually seemed well versed in the uni-verse of verse spitting).

It will be knowledge, passed on to generations in bad need of a reason and a background and a motivation.
Hip-hop, just like jazz, defines what it means to be American: to know it, to understand it, is to know something about the house we live in.

This, notice, all said by an Italian.

Ice T: "Next time someone asks me about my music, I'ma say 'Take your fucking ass to the museum!"

Stay tuned for a podcast - it was a show, the finest asskicking bombdropping un-pc poetic raggedy shit. You can't miss it.
Until then, enjoy the pics (Russell Simmons and Grandmaster Flash courtesy of la Supervillana)

Sir Paul's badass blues

Last night on PBS' Great Performances: "Paul McCartney: Chaos and Creation at Abbey Road"

And you know I'm not a great Beatles fan. Check out my previous entries on music, for crying out loud, as much as I recognize their importance in setting the pillars of whatever we define today as "rock and roll" (and more indirectly showing us the path to stardom frenzy and celeb obsession), clearly the Liverpoolians and I ... u-uh. Not happening.

But then, last night happened. It's amazing how (some) good singers/performers improve with age and end up in greatness, like ... balsamic vinegar. Move it to increasingly smaller barrels and its texture and body and taste will skyrocket. Ageing vocalists may lose stamina, range and pitch but, oh, the SOUL they gain, in exchange for that. It's like Faust's pact, only reversed. They gain a soul (in their voice) instead of losing it.

So, Sir Paul has it. His voice, at times shaky, was cutting deep, incredibly moving, chromatic, versatile.

He showed how back in the day they used to overlap layers of recording to build a track, combining 3 tracks on a 4th.

He mesmerized the audience with a blues version of Lady Madonna, ***** !

And his guitar playing? Forget it. I never thought I'd write this, but Paul McCartney can play a mean-ass blues guitar (now, I don't know what James Blood Ulmer would say about it, I on my part was truly impressed)

I have a soft side for good lines

... you know, being a writer and such.
I already blogged about (and pretty much exhausted) McInerney's opening line for his New York Mag cover story on the Strokes "It's always 3am in Casablanca's voice". Time to move on.

"You, you and you: panic. The rest of you - come with me"
(Upcoming CBS series "The Unit", starring Dennis Haysbert)

Thank you Angel Heart

A public nod of gratitude to Angel Heart.

I knew the Detroit rapper/producer J Dilla aka Jay D, born James Yancey, by reputation and had occasionally heard some of the tracks, mostly strokes of genuine musical delite, he produced for the likes of Common, Tribe called quest etc. Like all of us I read the news of his passing, a few days ago at the age of 32, and noticed the unsurprisingly sudden rush to review his latest work, DONUTS. But until last night I hadn't checked out the album itself.

Then, at a particularly inspired LCJO concert Angel Heart starts raving about it. And I finally sit down and listen. And it is by far one of the best albums I've heard lately. So thank you Angel Heart. Thank you Jay D and may you rest in peace, may the music you loved turn into light and may you bask in it.



Time the donuts of the heart ***