When Ambassadors Had Rhythm
I forgot to mention yesterday that I read this really great article in the Times about the Jazz Ambassadors program, which began around 1956. I don’t know why I was surprised to see the good that comes from music, even if the musicians were being used by the administration to one up the Russians. Those kids look pretty happy. Kind of made me proud of jazz music as a whole. Proud to answer phones at a jazz institution. Ha.
I can’t hear you.
Also, surfs up.
Does everyone have this album?
I’ve had this album for a while but sometimes things get lost in my itunes and I forget about them. But seeing as today was one of those lazy Sundays, I spent some time reorganizing my music library, which means that aside from Brian Wilson I was also listening to Belle & Sebastian, Buddy Holly, and Elvis Presley. I also listened to a bunch of Billy Joel in preparation for his show at Shea Stadium on July 18, which I successfully scored tickets to, but perhaps that isn’t so hip to admit. I really wish that some punk band would cover “Moving Out (Anthony’s Song).” Seems so apropos re: punk ethos. No?
Oh, and I also watched this video today:
I, too, am a regulator. Just of a different sort.
When they left the earth we
all looked up with binoculars
& stared until we didn’t see
anything anymore, then we
went home & made potatoes
& watched it again on TV.
Engine blocks aerial,
Inertial minding minds,
yet not comforted.
Hourly backwards verbal,
occurrences unclear in relay.
Who shook before ripe?
Who darkened the corners?
There is always so much
not to know. I don’t know
how we can expect anything
to last, chewy goo doesn’t
even hold your shoes together.
Rock and roll makes me feel
better and so do you.
Here are the notes that have been taped to the side of my printer at work for mostly likely the last year:
“The Blues can’t drive depression clear out of the house, but can drive it into the corners of any room where it’s being played.”
-Albert Murray, Jazz Historian
“Camp is an intellectually duplicitous posture derived from the idea that something indisputably bad can be transmuted into something good by virtue of the reader’s knowing, ‘ironic’ perspective.”
-I have no idea where I found this or why I wrote it down. Maybe it’s Susan Sontag, though I have never read her essay. Perhaps I will do that now.
And Doris Lessing book recommendations from before this happened:
The Summer Before the Dark
The 5th Child
The Golden Notebook
Guess I am going to Strand tonight. This is a good find though as I just finished my 5th Philip K. Dick book and am looking for something new.
These covers make me chuckle because this is not at all what I imagined while I was reading it.
Current soundtrack: King Khan and The Shrines. They are playing this Friday at the South Street Sea Port. Details here.
Oh, and this is amazing: http://www.brooklynvegan.com/events.html. I heart brooklyn vegan.
Yep. They are mingling out there either way.
Sometimes, looking back, I realize that I knew so much more about what I was doing then without even knowing it. It’s those curious circles, keeping one out but close by. I watch everything without being anything. It’s peculiar because this isn’t waiting. Waiting is the wrong way to think about it I think.
The light & unlight.
The five second grace
outside, thronged electrified.
The paved-parted middle,
sun on both sides.
Let’s wrap the edge around
& pull the plastic handles in close.
Let’s carry our insides out.
Let’s line up with the others.
Let’s go to the dojo because we
aren’t sure what kind of mood we are in.
We can have it all.
Elevated express stops,
our hours of aluminum.
Craned centerfold in the center where I open.
Your spokes cross bridges.
They turn the bayeou,
in drawls of single counter space.
Bed-islands float down the dunking river
like snails in towering grass, in their deliberate radius
I can help you all,
Hips cautiously abbreviate full twists, gripping staple handles,
the underpants aquarium circles to and from metal boxes,
collecting food wrappers and plastic cups.
Representational haystack, its embered ends travel to the center
We practice straightened waves to each of the four corners,
winged regalia apostrophes the single file
Listen to what the tattoos that aren’t on my arms are saying
Club, club, cub
Aught, aught, evermore
Lachrymose mountains with headlines on top
That wire hanger has fallen over again
Conventional smells linger
Buttoned collars, buttoned bags
The center stomach uncoils and rises
She is no Elizabeth
He makes the face of a bull.
Something is changing even now
The lock bought, the lock locked.
Ghost of fireballs and carpeted walls
Primetime events insert, inserted
My nose overhears your nostalgia
I flush and flush all morning and walk the right of way.
Cotton jumps from boxes and coughs all night
Possessed of, anything whatever
Avant sleeping downs, the covered clothes canopy
We with either an “A” or “O”
and Mr. Buffalo, the self-propelled tightrope