I saw Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson lst night and it was AMAZING. Favorite moments included, "i'm going to tell you how I feel now" followed by moody folksong, followed soon by chorus who rocked, "Michel Foucault would have an explanation for that but he's not born yet" followed by me booming with laughter thanking grad school for understanding that.
Also a highlight, was a song poking fun at art/songwriting, where Andrew Jackson and his girlfriend cut themselves while obnoxiously smearing the red all over each other in a hilarious spoof of emotionally intense metaphor:
if only we could live in slow motion to watch molecules stitch and bind To see a snowy wave progress from flake to sculpture as it surfs and winds.
Yet somehow even amidst our HD Our long exposure, our technology, I prefer the pleasant surprise on my garage, an unexpected storm trophy.
Poke tangle extend and reach Little homes stare at another kind of nest of grapevines and snow vines extended to space Role reversal of solid liquid gas enmeshed. Hush of man, machine, and mind the swerving, slipping stops White velvet drapes over street To sound proof all and leave us locked. or unlocked.
*** Call me an anti-artist or untrue hippie, but marijuana makes me so intensely and emotionally aware of of the intricate detail in every day objects that it makes me simultaneously blissful and miserable. For example, I would look up at a tree and think it is so beautifully framed in perfectly shaped clouds that it will make me want to cry. That "double rainbow" [yes, the viral video] type cry that is almost masochistic where every molecule of my brain becomes cynical in the real world after soaking in such unassuming beauty. Don't get me wrong, to appreciate beauty and to be cynical are quite the oximoronic combination that I know quite well, but I don't always need an extra kick to make it happen. Why am i talking about this?
Sometimes our own natural combination of circumstances produces similar types of confusion highs, where peak sensory awareness merge--fusing pure horror and anxiety with exhilaration, bliss, and hunger.
Driving. From Virginia to New Jersey. Packed with a dysfunctional family eager to rip one another apart. Add the biggest blizzard the northeast has seen in 2010. Then add a few slippery bridges and 9 additional hours of drive-time from an otherwise 6 hour trip, and some serious self-analysis will occur.
There comes a point along the drive, after one another critiques what others should say, or how we should react to the slipping, after braving the passing, after fearing for the lives of your closest family, when you just have to step back. and at that precise moment, when all emotions are heightened to a point where one cannot distinguish between the anger, the fear, the disconnect, and the love for one another, that one really starts to see things. All of the cars swerving out into the snowbanks suddenly appeared beautiful as they glided into the poof of new soft snow, alighting with the rhythm of yellow warning lights. As the light darkened, all of these warning lights blinked silently with syncopated rhythm, appearing like fireflies on a hot summer night; you know that the fireflies are there, but you cannot completely predict where they will appear. And when they do, you are slightly surprised but somehow calmed by them. Suddenly braving the storm was just like this: silent, invigorating, and frightfully beautiful.
Embrace the fearsome, the ugly, the discomfort, and the cold, and maybe you'll see something frightfully beautiful. Here's to seeing things differently in 2011. now who's up for skydiving?
When i was little I wanted to live in a tree, or adapt my room so that it appeared as if i were in some kind of jungle. Later on, I saw a spread in Seventeen magazine on "top coolest rooms" and this one girl had a beautiful bed frame that looked like branches and she had painted trees and jungle on her walls. I felt jealous as i turned the pages, thinking that some of these teens had stolen my idea. Years later, I sit in my room, which has now become partly a greenhouse for my mother's various plants. The dark purple walls seem to drift upwards into what sometimes (without my contact lenses) appears to be night sky; little glints of light through the old window pain reflect onto the walls and ceiling like the specs of light that you can only see when you are in a thick forest.Finally, my room is a jungle, where the lines between imagination, inside, outside, here, there, past and present are comfortingly blurred. Sometimes your childhood wishes do come true, and all it takes is a little patience, a little less jealousy, and the right set of grown-up eyes to see it.
There is nothing poetic about this particular posting. I just had to tell the world that I had no idea how wonderfully soulful, beautiful, and heart wrenching mariachi music could be, until I heard Mariachi de Uclatlán play at the Fowler museum.
Those strong vibratto notes were the perfect combination of forceful strength and trembling vulnerability.
What's the difference between these photographs? (other than the fact that the perspectives are slightly different?) Doesn't the second photograph almost seem naked compared to the first?
What happened to the little table/benches outside of Abbots pizza and Abbot's Habit? There were only a few of them, but they allowed people to eat, hang out, chat about the inconsistencies of recent LA weather, and create a community vibe that many say is "so Venice."
Such a small change, but such a monumental sign of Venice gentrification.
I sat down with long-time Venice local, 65-year old Jack (pseudonym), to talk about the latest sadness that has hit the streets of Venice.
"The City took them away." Jack says. "They took them away because it was causing congestion on the corners. But it's more than that. I know it's because of the people that hang out on those corners. Sometimes it's people that others would consider to be of a lower class. So when someone rich complained, POOF, no more benches."
Traffic. Congenstion on the street. Really? People were forced to slow down and step over a little dog paw, or say hello or excuse me as they walked by? What's wrong with that? Have we really gotten to a point where we have to have "crowd control" on one tiny little corner? We need spaces to sit down and talk to neighbors--it's the only way that it is going to happen in an individualistic dream-go-getter place like Los Angeles. We need all the stoops, public tables, and conversation share-ers that we can get. Okay. I understand. Perhaps there were too many non-patrons using the space. I can understand that this scenario is not wonderful for business owners. Still, there seemed to be more behind this sudden disappearance.
"But look down the street from Abbot's Habit," Jack tells me. "Look at the other places where there is always a crowd of people hanging out on the corner, blocking foot traffic. Djelina, for example. Hals. These are places where there is big spending happening. The Mexican restaurant has benches, but it is owned by Hals. Are people going to say anything about these crowds? Of course not. Because they are wealthy people without guitars, without trailors parked in the back, with money."
Jack is an opinionated ex-Vietnam liberal who wholeheartedly loves to educated young people about the difficulties of being an African American man in a place like Venice. Although his words are strong, one-sided, and laced with beliefs in government conspiracy, he speaks from years of experience and calm honesty. As I listen eagerly and openly, I start to agree based on some of my own observations. I admit that I don't work at Abbot's Habit, and I have not seen rent contracts or observed any local government town-hall procedures. However, it's obvious that Venice is changing. Abbot Kinney has already changed in the five years I have been a resident (which I admit is relatively new compared to people like Jack.) I have changed my "regular" coffee shop locations over six times when each one closed due to skyrocketting rent prices. Sure, we boycotted the Pinkberry yogurt store, responding to the little sign in Abbot Habbit's window because Pinkberry represented the "big chain" businesses that would chase out the cool hip local vibe of Venice. But is yet another expensive boutique that looks exactly like four others down the street any better? Jack was hired to help remodel this boutique. It cost a quarter-of-a million dollars to remodel. And if a crowd was to form outside of this boutique, blocking up the local foot traffic, would anyone care? It depends on the people hanging outside, of course. Is this little boutique any better than Pinkberry? Is it representative of the hip, community-based, artistic, "go local," town that represents the imagined community of Venice? Ahem. i dunno. I'm just a naive liberal grad student who likes to learn from the stories of x-veterans.
But what else can we do? Sure, I actually don't love the coffee at Abbot's Habit, and I don't always love it when members of the outdoor crowd appear to be rowdy or on drugs. But I always knew it was, as Jack says, "Salt and Pepper" atmosphere, with people from many class systems, races (if that is possible on the westside) and ages. Abbots Habit was one of the last attempted representations (I emphasize representations) of the beatnick bohemian era, and now that desperate landlords are continuing to increase their rent (now over 8,000 a month for example), I can understand why Jack thinks that the increases are to "get rid of the riff raff."
He continued, "All these other places are just working for the landlords now, and not for the community. And that little clothing store? The new one? That is not Abbot Kinney. That is Rodeo Drive. And if a people or a culture is not 'up to par' with the mentalities of the land lords, then they are kicked out. And this time it is in the form of the benches. There is an element that people don't want. they don't want the trailors, the artists, guys in the rvs that hang out. they want abbot kinney to be like montana."
So where to the rest of us come in? Are we at fault in some way? I didn't vote to kick the rv's off my street, even though one wakes me up at 5am every single morning. I recognize the importance of a diverse coffee shop--with "hipsters (don't even get me started on that word), bums, yuppies and whatever other hilarious phrases I could say. And I honestly believe that everone has an important story to share, and so I talk to people openly. still, I'm a part of this.
The "City" may have removed the benches, and maybe there was "some rich lady" that tattle-tailed on that corner. But somehow we are all simultaneously a part of those benches and a part of their removal. I buy coffee from intelligencia once in a while. I cannot help it. I love the dog-hangout nook, and the sheer work procrastination that is standing in a ridiculously long line. Shameful masochism. But I also supported Abbots Habit. So where does that leave us middle-grounders who care? Throwing out all of your plastic bags won't make you "green." You don't have to be ashamed that you are not giving money at whole foods to the next nonprofit company. The point is to be aware of the issues happening around you and do your best to open your eyes. Be present. Be honest. Be aware of how you fit into your community.
Maybe Andrew Deener was right when he wrote his PHD Dissetation in 2005 on the gentrification of Venice and predicted that Venice would be another uppity Montana Ave street in a few years. Or maybe, just through our own awareness, we can redirect the boulder of inevitable gentrification towards something "Venice" that works for everyone.
i hope so. I do like coffee, hopping over dogs, and talking to Vietnam vets with incredible stories.
There is nothing like a misty rain. Just enough to make your skin feel alive and not too much so that you are wishing that you had little window wipers on your glasses. but the best part about a misty hike are the spider webs. Little jeweled clusters decorating the trail, as if some royal queen had gotten drunk and trampled through the grass, tossing her jewelry into the air carelessly. Some got stuck on tall corners of branches, others perectly placed in the thick grass... little perfect twinkles hanging, just waiting to be noticed.
I finally went to see Luis Baptista. (update to my earlier post, http://theinvisibleh.blogspot.com/2010/08/from-dust-to-upside-down-dance-story-of.html) I felt pretty unprepared because I was exhausted from walking around all day, and unpracticed in the event of a possible jam session… But then again, since I blogged about this moment well in advance and carefully printed out all of the photos that I wanted to give to Luis, perhaps I was more than prepared. I have been toting the photos around with me all week, so as to showing people my new aerial dance experiments just because I had a hard time describing it in Portuguese. It just so happens that there isn’t a word for “aerial musician who kind of dances and kind of sings,” in Creole or Portuguese. Somehow the words circus, building, and “singing” came into the description, which I mentioned with a scrunched frustrated nose while cocking my head awkwardly to the side indicating that I was sort of sideways… attempting a description usually came out even more confusing. But finally I realized that with only a few days left in Mindelo, I really should go see Luis. I should have gone to see him the first day that I arrived, but I figured that he wasn’t there working due to the festival activities. (I should have realized he was actually probably there fixing lots of instruments!).
Nevertheless, I jumped in the shower to get rid of an entire day of sweaty, city-meandering, and attempted to dress slightly similarly to how I looked the day i first met Luis Baptista. I figured I’d help them as much as I could to remember me, so that when I sense that they dno’t remember me, I know that I did all that I could to help them out.
Now how do I get there? I couldn’t remember the way to the little workshop. I had even scanned one of the photos that I took of the sign and put it on a usb pin drive.. but somehow I thought it would be more fun to find my way again. Except this time, I was going from a complete opposite direction. I could have gone around the big market, up the big hill, and by the bus stop where lots of old men just sat and stared and played cards… but I wanted to test my knowledge even further by accessing it from the house where I was staying. I sensed that it was close by, if my memory and good sense of direction [all you guy friends please stop laughing] was correct.
I caved. It was already about 5pm (I had waited till the late afternoon based on a suggestion from a musician. It was more fun to ask people how to get to the store. It opened up more room for adventure because it tested my language skills even further, and who knows, maybe I’d make another random friend out of it. I immediately asked a young guy with a backpack a block from my starting point. I whipped out the picture of myself with Luis and Eddy—myself in the middle holding up my cavaquinho. I think he was thinking “ok, TMI why are you telling me this?” in creole. But he was cool and said he’d walk with me to where he thought it was located. I hardly understood him because he didn’t really speak Portuguese, but it was enough because I really just kept describing things that remembered about the place’s location—rotunda, little sign, on top of the hill, little workshop, “where one makes guitars”, etc. He led me to a place called “academia de musica” which was a big music school nearby. Americo had recently told me about this school which teaches people about sound systems, audio engineering etc., but how it never got used because somehow the local government has a monopoly on the audio industry. Anyway, this was NOT the Casa de Musca of Luis Baptista that I remembered. I calmly told him thank you and said that this was not it, but that maybe the people inside might know. He looked puzzled and I explained that it was actually more like a house, where the bottom floor was a workshop, and the top was a little attick where they held classes. Oh I remember, my friend took me there once, he said in creole. So off we went, further up the hill. It was funny—I actually knew lots of people as I passed by—all friends or relatives of my main contact who lived in that block. Then this guy had some friends say hello to him as we walked by. I was secretly laughing, as if to compete for passerby-hello’s.
Finally the guy pointed to the little sign that I remembered so well. I thought about taking a photo, but it would have been the exact same photo as the one I took in 2008. Deep breath. I entered as the guy drifted off sayin “nada, nada” when I thanked him profusesly.
There they were, Eddy and Luis sanding an instrument and painting a guitar blue. The sander was loud, so there was an awkward moment when all I did was smile and wave hello. Edy saw me first, and luis didn’t look up for a while until Edy told him to turn off the sander.
“um. Hi.” I said, holding a giant cvs photo envelope awkwardly under my armpit. I remembered t Nervously, I just began babbling quickly. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I was here in 2008 and you made me a cavaquinho.”… and I pulled out some of the photos… I hung out here when you made it, and since I was back for the music festival I wanted to pass by and show you where yoru work had travelled in the world.”…
They smiled. What smiles they had. Edy’s formally silent voice sounded with a little awknowledging sigh of surprise, and Luis, with his bright green eyes laughed and thanked me for stopping in to share. I dno’t think they remembered me at first, but then they did after seeing the photos. They loved the picturesof me dancing from the side of the Ford, and the posed picture of Luis holding a mandolin with “bling bling” sunglasses on inside. He motioned that he would put that one up on the wall. I don’t know if my picture will make it up there, but maybe I’ll find out during the next stop-by. I didn’t really tell him about the story behind the cavaquinho song, but rather awkwardly laughed at how I only really had one song, but I emphasized that it was a special and emotional song for a number of reasons. I asked him about their recent cd project ( I heard from people that he launched a new cd) and so I bought it from him. This time around we didn’t jam and hang out as much, mostly because I was strangely nervous, and because they seemed busy. They carefully looked through the pictures with bright powder blue paint all over their fingers. They also didn’t have any cavaquinhos in the workshop thatday, so neither of us could really share what we were up to musically.
I then insisted that we take a few more photographs. Instead of holding up an instrument this time, the cheesy snapshot now included me smiling with my new Baptistinhas cd, and Luis, holding the plethora of photos. The guy who we snagged to take the photograph kept snapping the photo too far to the left. I wonder if he had an equilibrium problem. I thought posting that one would be most relevant to the story.
I had about 5 little funny goodbye’s. I kept staying, “ok see you later” and then kept talking. A few times I think that Luis invited me to hang out… but I couldn’t tell if he meant, “you can stay and hang out here” or “lets hang out while you are here” or “next time we will hang out more,”so I just let it be and smiled and said “ok, I have your number.” I couldn’t remember if he was married, so that leaves even more possible interpretations of those phrases. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful moment, quite perfectly unexpected and also fulfilled what I had hoped would happen.
I should have brought my EP cd to give to them, so that they could listen to my cavaquinho song, but what is great is that I can now go back again with this second present when I swing by again to Mindelo in a few weeks.
I feared coming back to Cape Verde. No, it’s not because of the incessant tourist label that my whiteness may instigate. And not because I fear the dripping heat, or possibilities of unfriendly hello’s. It’s because I fear that my interest— that exciting new feeling of being somewhere so strange and yet so wonderful—may suddenly turn into a feeling of regret. I do not need to feel that I am in an “exotic” place per se, but if this place is going to be my dissertation site, then I know that I must continue to be excited and interested in it. It’s like a second date (well, if I actually had experience “dating”). I fear that the newness and excitement of meeting and liking a person may pass as swiftly as the arrival of my butterflying stomach. I suppose in some ways this is the reason that I haven’t returned to visit my friends in Dakar and in Salvador Brazil; perhaps a part of me fears that these life-changing experiences might somehow spoil when I get to understand them better. But there is something to be said for finding the same paths. I remember the same pond~like muddy puddles after a heavy august rain. I remember the refreshing feeling of hot rain meeting sweaty skin. I remember the little cafes that are within the gas station mini marts, and that they are actually cool to go to to chill out, drink coffee, and socialize. I remember some of the paths that I took from the beach to the corner store, and get excited when I am wrong, because it means temporarily playing detective in order to find them again. Today has been about just that—walking and finding. There isn’t really anything else that I can do. The 3 day festival (which was only two days—cancelled one day due to rain, but doubled up the next day) was the place to be over the weekend, and it ended at 5am this morning. I am kicking myself now for leaving early at 3am. i should have stayed up. what a wuss. then again. i was sunburned and had tired arms from filming all day in that post-rain clear hot sky. All the stores are closed today. Even the mayor of the city announced that all government offices and jobs will be closed Monday, calling a city-wide “day off” for city jobs. This also means that all other jobs are also closed, because everyone has been partying all weekend. So there’s nothing else to do, but wander, walk, and hang out at little café’s that are open. It’s almost as if today is a club for “go-getters”. Only those who wake up earlier than 2pm are out and about. The Senegalese and other African merchants are out selling African clothes at the nearby markets, but those are the only peole working.
I'm leaving for Cape Verde in two days, and one of the things I'm looking forward to doing is to go back to the little music store where I had my cavaquinho made from start to finish. (A cavaquinho is a lot like the known Hawaiian ukelele, but it is tuned differently, slightly larger, and from Portuguese origins. It is a common instrument in Brazilian/Portuguese/Cape Verdean music, and within these places, it is constructed differently.) My cavaquinho has undergone quite a slew of stories over the last few years since its construction in August 2008, and hopefully the story will continue when I return to Cape Verde this week. As I prepare for my trip, trying to pick ONE pair of jeans and ONE skirt to shove in a backpack from my embarrassing plethora of clothes, I am taking even more time to make sure that I arrive with very particular photographs. When I give them to Louis Baptista (maker of my cavaquinho) and attempt to explain the following story, I have no idea how he will react. He might not remember who I am, consider me to be quite a looney tune, and throw out the photos. Or maybe he'll smile and pin them up on the wall of the shop. I'm shooting for the latter, but either way, I hope he appreciates the story.
------------------------------------- PART I: THE MAKING OF THE CAVAQUINHO
It all began when i saw these guys jamming on the beach in Mindelo on the island of Sao Vicente Cape Verde. It was a Sunday and EVERYONE was at the beach. I couldn't help but inch my way closer and closer to them as they jammed, and I finally started talking to them about their music. I asked them where to go to acquire a Cape Verdean cavaquinho. After insisting that I play their cavaquinho with them, (and after I insisted that i did not yet know how to play it), they told me, "go find Baptista." And so I searched for Baptista.
So I searched and searched the streets of Mindelo, asking people "Onde sta Baptista. Eu quero uma cavaquinho." (Where is Baptista? I want to buy a cavaquinho." They laughed at my Brazilian-learned Portuguese (which isn't all that wonderful), and pointed me in what may or may not have been the right direction.
But I finally found the shop.
When I entered, the guys in the shop appeared surprised. Maybe lone traveler girls don't pop their head into their shop often. Or maybe it is also because Northern Cape Verdeans are intrigued to find an American speaking Brazilian Portuguese in Cape Verde, especially one with a Slovak name and random knowledge of Southern Cape Verdean slang phrases. I asked where I could find Baptista, and one of the guys explained to me that he was the son of the late Baptista. I was talking to Louis Baptista. He now owned the store after taking over when his father died. He came from three generations of musicians and instrument makers. We sat around and chatted about the types of music we liked (while Louis is quite the skilled coladeira guitarist, he loves acoustic and heavy rock music). As I watched him work on constructing or repairing instruments, we listened to the Cape Verdean radio. Louis's friend, who was a hilarious poet, came in and kept reciting love poems to me. This has nothing to do with the story, but I want to emphasize the interdisciplinary artistic atmosphere in this little shop. The magic was brewing.
After settling upon an approximate price... (I have no idea if it was too much or too little, and I probably miscalculated the escudo-to-dollar amount) he got started on making my instrument. Of course, the process was much delayed because we had some jam sessions. whups.
I went away to another island, and returned to find the cavaquinho unfinished. What? Tranquilo Sara, tranquilo. (stay calm, sara. Stay calm.) I was nervous that it might not be ready in time for my upcoming 18-hour boat ride to the capital island that was the next day. However, I took advantage of this opportunity to observe the final stages of sanding, painting, and refining the cavaquinho, and even had a part in the process! For example, the slightly darker color on the edges of my instrument was from when Louis ran out of darker paint and had to use a lighter paint afterwards; this was because I said something funny and Louis laughed, accidentally spilling the darker paint on his floor. Oops. After it was all finished, and I performed a victory dance, Louis took the time to draw me some beginner chords so that i could begin to play.
SHAMEFULLY, I still only know those three chords.
All done. Hurray! What experience would not be complete without a cheesy photo. Done.
As I endured the back-and-forth sways of an 18-hour boat ride to Santiago island, I cradled my little paper-covered cavaquinho in my lap. It made its way back successfully to Santiago, and then later to my home in Venice Beach.
-------------------------------- PART II: THE MAKING OF A SONG A few weeks after my trip, I was invited to go sailing with some local Venice Beach friends. I didn't know the entire crew of people, but I jumped on board, bringing my cavaquinho along with me. My good friend Scotty P always brings his ukelele, and so i thought we could jam. (And we did! Well, I "twinkled around" which is what I call plucking around to try to find the correct notes and pretending to take a long "solo.")
As we started to sail, I didn't realize that for one friend, the boat ride was actually going to provide to be a sacred ritual. This friend had joined us to spread the ashes of his late uncle Dan, and wanted to do it among friends and family. During our sunset sail, things just magically fell into place. "Beowolf," an old, dismal, steel-looking boat that habitually never left the marina, was oddly humming and grunting at its dock, as if it had awaken from centuries of sleep. After sailing for a while, we were greeted with surprise appearances by a sea lion and a whale! The day concluded with a spectacular sunset performance as the sun sank just behind the Santa Monica mountains. I find pictures and songs about sunsets to be quite cheesy, but there and then, I was reminded by their profoundly touching impact. I never met Uncle Dan, but as his ashes were spread, I think he would have approved of this wonderful occasion.
I was deeply touched by this day and so I immediately wrote a song about it. I used the only 3 chords that Louis Baptista taught me, and poof! i had a song.
Sailing with Uncle Dan: v1 The sail is up The motor stopped running For the first time Beowolf is humming The water awaits our arrowed trail The hues of blues are crisp in the company of whales.
v2 A twinkling song to Accompany the air Some rosé wine and new hellos to share Some get to know you words For ucle Dan A tear a smile, a laugh As he drifts to his next land.
chorus: Its all a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into A fantasy picture of a sunset ocean view Only this time its real, its real, its real its real With sneezing sea lions and a loss to celebrate and heal.
v3 The sky is heavy, the waves a sparkling lake The sun exits as a slice of orange pancake Some sage showers That smoke as they curl, As we said goodbye for now to the puzzle piece world.
After writing the song, it became a song that I would always play when amidst these good Venice pals, Billy, Scotty, and Shane.
-------------------------------------------- PART III THE MAKING OF AN AERIAL MUSICIAN
So here I am in LA, trying to be an PhD scholar, musician, modern dancer and athlete, among other things. Time is limited. But I have been doing all that I can to try and at least combine my musical and dance identities. In the dance sphere, I have spent the last 5 years doing all that I can to be involved in aerial/climbing/vertical work, by taking workshops with Aerial Cats (LA), Frequent Flyers (Boulder), and my favorite, Project Bandaloop (SF). I also happen to have become friends with two core members of Project Bandaloop, and started taking their workshops in LA. Out of pure eagerness, I joked around one day asking these friends if they ever need an "aerial musician" in their company, thinking it would be a great idea to just put that idea out into the world. It just so happens, that right after this workshop (as i stood sideways dancing on a wall), dancers Derrick and Nehara from Catch Me Bird Dance Theater saw me dancing. When they found out i was also a musician, they later asked me if I would be interested in performing in their upcoming Ford Amphitheater anniversary performance and play some of my songs as an aerialist. YES!
And so began my newly morphed identity as an "aerial musician."
What about the cavaquinho?
When I got to work with Derrick and Nehara, we tried many things. I tried ascending the wall of the amphitheater with my violin and with my guitar, but none of them worked. The guitar was just too big to maneuver around in the harness can you see how awkward i look?
But as I started thinking about what i could play up on this wall, knowing that my good friends Mark and Rachael would be dancing as I played, I wondered what would be appropriate to play. The entire show is about love, and couples, and the lighthearted moments that we take for granted, and the funny aspects of what we take so seriously. So the cavaquinho seemed like the perfect "lighthearted" instrument, and somehow my Uncle Dan song seemed perfect too. Even though the song was about the loss of a life, the song was also about celebrating life with friends and loved ones, and this idea of a full circle.
When i was up in the air with the cavaquinho, I had more mobility than i did with the other instruments! I was quite frightened that this very sentimental instrument might be dropped and plumet to its death.. but luckily a little piece of fabric (which has its own story behind it), served as the perfect safety wrap around my wrist.
Therefore, since its construction in Mindelo, my cavaquinho has island-hopped through the Cape Verdean archipelago, survived a plane ride with grabby children, "twinkled" on a sailboat memorial, sounded through LA jam sessions, and finally, hung up-side-down for an inverted dance performance at the Ford Amphitheater. As I whistled and smiled in that show, I was also thinking about what a great story this would be to tell Louis Baptista.
So here I am, about to go back to Mindelo, Cape Verde. I want to go back to tell Louis Baptista about where my cavaquinho has traveled. I might even play my Uncle Dan song for Louis (still, the ONLY song i have written on my cavaquinho). Louis gave me his email in the form of his business card sticker, which is still stuck perfectly inside the main opening of my cavaquinho, but his email address is no longer valid and all of the photos that I tried to email to him from 2008 bounced back to me. For two years I have been unsuccesful in contacting him. I am hoping to find his shop again to give him some hard copy photos and say hello. I have printed several photos, hoping I might make it up onto his wall of fame. Well, maybe not a wall of fame--i dont think he has one, but i remembered really liking this little note that was written on the wall. Perhaps one of these pictures will end up near it, if I tell him the whole story.
"Life is beautiful for those who know to listen to it."
------------------------------------------- PART IV: RETURNING TO CAPE VERDE: Hopefully I will be able to return with documentation of the photo/story exchange. And maybe I will finally have inspiration to write a second cavaquinho song.
After 8 days tromping around Mindelo, seeing music festivals and talking to artists, I finally went to see Luis Baptista. I felt pretty unprepared because I was exhausted from walking around all day, and felt musically unpracticed in the event of a possible jam session… But then again, since I blogged about this moment well in advance and carefully printed out all of the photos that I wanted to give to Luis, perhaps I was more than prepared. I have been toting the photos around with me all week, so as to showing people my new aerial dance experiments just because I had a hard time describing it in Portuguese. It just so happens that there isn’t a word for “aerial musician who kind of dances and kind of sings,” in Creole or Portuguese. Somehow the words circus, building, and “singing” came into the description, which I mentioned with a scrunched frustrated nose while cocking my head awkwardly to the side indicating that I was sort of sideways… attempting a description usually came out even more confusing. But finally I realized that with only a few days left in Mindelo, I really should go see Luis. I should have gone to see him the first day that I arrived, but I figured that he wasn’t there working due to the festival activities. (I should have realized he was actually probably there fixing lots of instruments!).
Nevertheless, I jumped in the shower to get rid of an entire day of sweaty, city-meandering, and attempted to dress slightly similarly to how I looked the day i first met Luis Baptista. I figured I’d help them as much as I could to remember me, so that when I sense that they dno’t remember me, I know that I did all that I could to help them out.
Now how do I get there? I couldn’t remember the way to the little workshop. I had even scanned one of the photos that I took of the sign and put it on a usb pin drive.. but somehow I thought it would be more fun to find my way again. Except this time, I was going from a complete opposite direction. I could have gone around the big market, up the big hill, and by the bus stop where lots of old men just sat and stared and played cards… but I wanted to test my knowledge even further by accessing it from the house where I was staying. I sensed that it was close by, if my memory and good sense of direction [all you guy friends please stop laughing] was correct.
I caved. It was already about 5pm (I had waited till the late afternoon based on a suggestion from a musician. It was more fun to ask people how to get to the store. It opened up more room for adventure because it tested my language skills even further, and who knows, maybe I’d make another random friend out of it. I immediately asked a young guy with a backpack a block from my starting point. I whipped out the picture of myself with Luis and Eddy—myself in the middle holding up my cavaquinho. I think he was thinking “ok, TMI why are you telling me this?” in creole. But he was cool and said he’d walk with me to where he thought it was located. I hardly understood him because he didn’t really speak Portuguese, but it was enough because I really just kept describing things that remembered about the place’s location—rotunda, little sign, on top of the hill, little workshop, “where one makes guitars”, etc. He led me to a place called “academia de musica” which was a big music school nearby. Americo had recently told me about this school which teaches people about sound systems, audio engineering etc., but how it never got used because somehow the local government has a monopoly on the audio industry. Anyway, this was NOT the Casa de Musca of Luis Baptista that I remembered. I calmly told him thank you and said that this was not it, but that maybe the people inside might know. He looked puzzled and I explained that it was actually more like a house, where the bottom floor was a workshop, and the top was a little attick where they held classes. Oh I remember, my friend took me there once, he said in creole. So off we went, further up the hill. It was funny—I actually knew lots of people as I passed by—all friends or relatives of my main contact who lived in that block. Then this guy had some friends say hello to him as we walked by. I was secretly laughing, as if to compete for passerby-hello’s.
Finally the guy pointed to the little sign that I remembered so well. I thought about taking a photo, but it would have been the exact same photo as the one I took in 2008. Deep breath. I entered as the guy drifted off sayin “nada, nada” when I thanked him profusesly.
There they were, Eddy and Luis sanding an instrument and painting a guitar blue. The sander was loud, so there was an awkward moment when all I did was smile and wave hello. Edy saw me first, and luis didn’t look up for a while until Edy told him to turn off the sander.
“um. Hi.” I said, holding a giant cvs photo envelope awkwardly under my armpit. I remembered t Nervously, I just began babbling quickly. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I was here in 2008 and you made me a cavaquinho.”… and I pulled out some of the photos… I hung out here when you made it, and since I was back for the music festival I wanted to pass by and show you where yoru work had travelled in the world.”…
They smiled. What smiles they had. Edy’s formally silent voice sounded with a little awknowledging sigh of surprise, and Luis, with his bright green eyes laughed and thanked me for stopping in to share. I dno’t think they remembered me at first, but then they did after seeing the photos. They loved the picturesof me dancing from the side of the Ford, and the posed picture of Luis holding a mandolin with “bling bling” sunglasses on inside. He motioned that he would put that one up on the wall. I don’t know if my picture will make it up there, but maybe I’ll find out during the next stop-by. I didn’t really tell him about the story behind the cavaquinho song, but rather awkwardly laughed at how I only really had one song, but I emphasized that it was a special and emotional song for a number of reasons. I asked him about their recent cd project ( I heard from people that he launched a new cd) and so I bought it from him. This time around we didn’t jam and hang out as much, mostly because I was strangely nervous, and because they seemed busy. They carefully looked through the pictures with bright powder blue paint all over their fingers. They also didn’t have any cavaquinhos in the workshop thatday, so neither of us could really share what we were up to musically.
I then insisted that we take a few more photographs. Instead of holding up an instrument this time, the cheesy snapshot now included me smiling with my new Baptistinhas cd, and Luis, holding the plethora of photos. The guy who we snagged to take the photograph kept snapping the photo too far to the left. I wonder if he had an equilibrium problem. I thought posting that one would be most relevant to the story.
I had about 5 little funny goodbye’s. I kept staying, “ok see you later” and then kept talking. A few times I think that Luis invited me to hang out… but I couldn’t tell if he meant, “you can stay and hang out here” or “lets hang out while you are here” or “next time we will hang out more,”so I just let it be and smiled and said “ok, I have your number.” I couldn’t remember if he was married, so that leaves even more possible interpretations of those phrases. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful moment, quite perfectly unexpected and also fulfilled what I had hoped would happen.
I should have brought my EP cd to give to them, so that they could listen to my cavaquinho song, but what is great is that I can now go back again with this second present when I swing by again to Mindelo in a few weeks.
A while back in March I blogged about my experiences in NOLA. I fall in love with lots of places, but I don't always write songs about them. This time I had to. The shotgun houses, the music, the Southern mentality, the time warp. It was a song ready to be sung. And although I couldn't sing it in NOLA, i sang next to the cowboy boots that I bought there. An amazing city that I hope can recuperate from all the recent disasters.
July 31st, 2010. The Roots Roadhouse Music festival-- a three staged event taking place at the echoplex/echo in Echo Park, Los Angeles, where one could migrate in between the upper and lower stages of the Echoplex/Echo, and an outdoor stage surrounded by bbq's and vintage clothing tables. I have never seen so many cowboy boots, and so many well... can i say it? skinny-jean hipsters. And I say that with love, because I am tickled by the pun of it all. Because let's face it. It's like the perfect metaphor: Skinny jeans literally fit into boots rather nicely right? And so does the mixture of mixing of hipsters with cowboys/girls. It works! I didn't really have many expectations. I didn't realize that roots music had such a following on the East side. I had always assumed that the East side of LA was the pride host of a variety of musical genres in the "rock/indie/emo/pop/other-words-I-don't-know" genres, leaving the West side more known for the acoustic rock/Americana style tunes. But it's nice to be pleasantly proven wrong with these generalizations. Yeehaw!
I came to hang with the wonderfully talented Charlene--violinist/fiddle player in several bands, including one of this festival's special guests, Leslie Stevens and the Badgers. And although I got to see her perform, i didn't realize that I would be a part of such a fun age-less festival, featuring new roots players to those featured for being around a long time. The vibe was nothing but a mellow, warm, casual celebration of lots of wonderful artists. There were cowboy boots stomping along with the tightly bound angles of skinny-jeans hipsters, enough space to casually march right up to the front of any stage to snap a photo, and a full enough audience to make you (and the performers) feel like you were a part of something wonderful. Good stuff.
Leslie and the Badgers was wonderful. Leslie's lyrics exemplify roots music: they tell a story with the simplicity and spacing of old-time Americana, but with smart metaphors and catchy repetition, as if to speak honestly with the audience and not to them. Her voice has a soft trill to it, bending around emotional parts of the song just enough to add extra emotion, and not to overly stylize them. Watch out for her LA song. It almost made me cry. What I liked most about her sound was how it worked with the full band--Charlene's violin skills are incredible, and she shines whether she is standing in the back of the stage or weaving her way up to the front of the stage for satisfying moments of soloing. Charlene has a calm about her when she plays that just makes the audience know ahead of time that her work will be wonderful. And it is. watch out for those moments when she sings harmonies with Leslie and plays at the same time. Good stuff. Another thing I enjoyed about this band was the in between "banter" classic for any band. Sometimes those moments are equally as important as the music itself, because it is the audience's moment to feel out how the band works, and the personalities behind the story. Leslie and her bassist are hilarious when they chatted together in between songs. Even when one of the guitar amps went out for a second, Leslie's warm talking voice and funny pre-song explanations with her bassist were exactly what we needed, and we all forgot the little technical issue had happened. Kudos to Leslie and the Badgers. Lead guitar and slide--yes! So good. Drums. Yes. You all were wonderful!
Another noteworthy performer was T Model Ford, a blues master from Forest Mississippi. Earlier in the night I had noticed him shuffle in with his cane and sit down by the merch table. I noticed because it took him a while to walk in, and because he had this mona lisa-like "almost"smile on his face... borderline flirty. I brushed it off quickly, thinking "no no, he's a pretty old guy. That is not a flirty smile" chiding myself for being so presumptuous. I found out later that his known nickname was "the ladies man" and I laughed silently, reverting back to my first impression, almost seeing all of the stories of his past right there in that permanent flirty smile. When he walked slowly past me I could tell he was a blues musician. I'm not sure what it was. Maybe it was what he was wearing--the unassuming hoodie and worn out slacks combined with shiny loafers and a fedora with a skull and bones on it. Laid back combined with sharpness. Later, when I found out that he was ninety years old, and was the headliner of the upstairs stage, I wasn't surprised. And i immediately pushed up to the front to get myself a front-row spot.
It took him a long time to get onto the stage, and an even longer time to try and tune his electric guitar. Eventually he handed it over to one of the guitarists to tune with his electronic tuner. But once he started playing it was such a sight to see. His fingers moved slow (something he hilariously lamented in his own "banter" moments on stage). But watching his fingers move was beautiful--each finger moved on their own, knowing their path from years of playing blues. Pure finger choreography. It reminded me of the times that I have seen older Brazilian samba dancers get up out of their chairs just enough for a brief dance, moving slowly but with uttmost authenticity, proving that a genre of performance is about the history and lived experience in that genre, and not simply about tricky moves. T model Ford. He groaned some blues lyrics about a girl (I think... i had a hard time understanding) and played slow 12-bar rhythms with squinted eyes, taking us back to Forest, Mississippi. Sure, I had a hard time understanding him, and I believe all his slow songs were in the key of E or A, but even if he was playing the same song over and over again, I still would have stayed. He teaches us that simplicity, heart, and a smile that flirts with life, are the timeless elements of performance.
Other wonderful performers in the mix were Chatham County Line (who end all their "one mic" style songs smack in the middle of the audience floor with a hootin'hollarin' encore), and Dave Alvin & The Guilty Men, who alternates talk-sing style songs that are "autobiographical but not necessarily true" with "guitar shredding" to say the least. And he wears a crisp cowboy hat with red handkerchief. Cheesy? Perhaps. Absolutely necessary? Yes.
I knew there would be a mosh pit. There were too many Doc Martins, black newsboy caps, and folks inching forward bouncing up and down before there was any music, for there to NOT be a mosh pit. But gypsy punk is much more than getting excited to shift from the juicy, slow almost reggae-polka fusion segments to the triple-time "punk" timing (although I admit this switch is quite the rush). It's about squishing all together with people of all ages, to see oximoronic, trans-cultural, genre fusion at it's ironic best. From striped sock-wearing high school students, to yoga moms with a nice purple tank top, to those of us somewhere in between, there was no age too young or too old to appreciate Gogol Bordello's energetic performance. Perhaps the most hilarious moment was when a woman clearly in her later 50s or 60s came pummeling through the packed crowd, finding her place at the front of the stage, demagnetizing linked people by placing an ice cold water bottle on people's arms and backs as she giggled, saying, "haha, see this is my secret weapon" and pushed on through. Although she had the most conservative head of little white curls and reading glasses, everyone's jaws dropped by her tatoo covered back and forceful shoves when it did come time for the mosh pit to ignite.
We shouted for almost an hour, waiting for the swift roadies and tuner-folks to do their thing on stage. And then they came out. One by one, each band member entirely unique in clothing style, performance purpose, and stage dynamic. I had become a fan of the band back in 2006 from rad friends and from being involved in the aerial circus dance scene, but I had never seen them live, and admit only really knowing the song, "Start wearing Purple" and a few others. But I saw them now.
The main performer, Eugene Hutz, with his trademark swoopy mustache, ignited the stage as soon as his heavily accented Ukraine accent spoke into the microphone. He was so skinny that I didn't think he could bounce up and down and strum that acoustic guitar as much as he did, but he did. and did. and did. anddidanddidandid. As soon as they began their first few songs the crowd began lifting off the ground, more or less in sync with one another, feeding Eugene's energy from the start. They even have a girl who's main vocalist duty appeared to egg on the crowd with her loud, "hey's," with the scowl/badass attitude of a runway model or soldier. Sergey Ryabtsev on violin and vocals (both with 300% power and executed at the same time) may have been a pirate in another life. That's all i can say. The bassist--he was big. And his bass was big. And although he towered over everyone in his height and volume, he somehow glided around the stage with an ironically graceful ease. And it was a BIG stage. The Mayan theater was created to mimic an old Mayan temple, with wood cut decorated ceilings, mud colored walls, and big gong-looking circles just waiting to be smacked with a building-size drum stick. A theatrical space to say the least.
Right away I noticed the variations of musical styles--from polka folk songs, to accordion melodic sweeps, to thumping bass drums reminiscent of Afrobrazilian samba reggae drum lines, to jazzy violin riffs, to classical guitar solos... Musically, there was something in it for everyone.
But the energy. The INSANITY of frontman Eugene. WHAT performers. It was the most unbelievable negotiation as the performers interacted with the audience who egged on the performers, who roared with one another and back again. And boy oh boy did the audience give back. Everyone was frantic and jumping around. Sweaty skin next to sweaty tshirt next to sweaty skin. Shirts were flying off onto stage. My friends and I started in the middle of the mosh pit and slowly got knocked around so much that we ended up--without any intention or effort--eventually sifting out to the sides. My toes were hurt, but it was worth the pain. And I felt better when an elbow jabber dropped his new tshirt and continued actively pushing everyone, and I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
When they began to play Start Wearing Purple, which I immediately recognized by the first two chords, I may have actually had (well, my parents might be reading this)... let's just say I felt really really good at that moment. Everyone knew that song. Everyone came together to hear that song. No video capture could even fit into the screen, as sound maxed out, and there was just too much of a frenzy.
The encore performance lasted about 20 minutes. Incredible. As my friend Mathew said, that's why he's so skinny. He burns thousands of calories up on stage.
If anyone reads this, you simply must go experience it for yourself tonight for their final show. And if this blog post seemed to peter out... it's because I simply don't want to give everything away. Go have the gypsy punk experience yourself, hurt a pinky toe, yell some "hey's," and think about the color purple.
When visiting dear friends in Vermont, this gorgeous dragonfly was just hanging out in the doorway. Quite the repeat situation from a praying mantus in my own doorway just one year ago. I decided to look up the dragonfly in my Animal Speak book.
"When dragonflies are at rest, they hold their wings out like a glider. Drafonglies will often eat while in flight. They are known for their fast flight and their dazzling aerial feats, as if imitating how light itself can be moved and directed. They twist, turn, change direction in an instant, hover, move up or down, and even fly backwards. Dragonflies are sometimes known as mosquito hawks and are excellent hunters of flying insects...
They inhabit two realms--water and air. In their early life--as a nymph-- they live within the water. As they mature and go through metapmorphosis, they move to the realm of air. It is not unusulal to find individuals with dragonfly totems to be very emotional and passionate in the early years, but as they get older, they learn to balance it with greater mental clarity and control. Sometimes it can indicate that the emotions have gotten shut down because of emotional issues in early life.... there must be expressions of the emotional and the mental together.
Just as light can bend and shift and be adapted in a variety of ways, so can the archetypal forces associated with the dragonfly. It is one of the most adaptable of insects. It is why it has been able to survive for so long. Dragonflies have two pairs of wings, but if need be, they can fly with one. Summer is their most powerful time... for those with this totem, this will be important to consider. DSpending time outside in the sun near fresh water sources will be beneficial...
... often depicted in Japanese paintings, representing new light. To some Native Americans, they represent the souls of the dead. Some stories speak of the time in which they used to be real dragons. ..
... If they have shown up, look for change to occur. Are you resisting change when you shouldn't? Dragonflies remind us that we are light and can reflect the light in powerful ways if we choose to do so... .
It is only without plan that you may encounter This mythical, mysterious being, With shiny objects and sparkling fruit, Your sad day will be redeemed.
Because if you expect to people-watch, no one will encounter your path, But sit at Mao's with friends and dumplings, This star will sense that you need a laugh.
a breeze swipes the clear uniform sand and draws endless patterns palm trees hover with puffy clusters awkward ostriches buried in the sand I hiccup the salty air, drunk with sunlight.
I am not afraid of little critters. Actually. I adore most furry, leggy, creepy little things. But there are two things that send childhood nightmares flooding into my brain: black spikey caterpillars and BIG slimy snails.
When I used to visit my father's family in Kocice Czechoslovakia, we used to walk down these long concrete steps. I don't remember why--I think my first time there i was around 7 or 8. But i remember walking down these steps greeted by a horrific CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH as the entire staircase was speckled with large snails and all I could do to keep walking down the steps was to step on them. From that day i couldn't look at a snail without feeling that CRUNCH pierce through my body.
Just yesterday it was raining in LA. Pouring. I ran from my job at the Fowler Museum to my graduate department and almost fell over while trying to dodge the snails that I suddenly realized were in my path. The smells, sounds, and large-scale childlike images came back to mind for those seconds. I decided to take a picture, hoping that it might somehow cathartically cleanse my brain from their negative and yet somehow nostalgic association.
A lone bead snuggles in cracked concrete as a neighbor says hello and brushes on a new coat of bright paint, to give his shutters their trademark glow.
Listen and you'll hear the jumpiest of brass, which thumps and drives in time, Yet out of time in this time-warp, Where all is nostalgic and sublime.
It was my first exploration in New Orleans--minus the arrival/Daquiri/motorcycle ride after my arrival the previous evening. I ventured out of my friends door and turned left, after snapping photos of the bright purple house next door and nearby graffiti. I felt obligated to snap photos of every pattern of peeling paint, every brightly colored yellow and turquoise trim, every sign posted from before the 60s. I then arrived at an unusual corner, where there stood an eatery called, "Marie's Bar" which had to be at least 50 or 60 years old. I couldn't help myself. I had to take a photograph, not the quick and stealthly kind i had taken along the path. Nope, I had to really check out my angle etc. Then, from inside the bar, an older gentleman stands in the doorway, staring me down. I thought, "oh no. i've been caught." He motioned over to me, "come here!" he says. "I want to show you a picture!" "come here!" I tried to ignore him at first, but after the third or fourth time (with a smile on his face reminiscent of my late grandfather), I chuckled and went over to him. C'mon in! he says. As I entered the bar, there were two other people (it was 11am)--an older gentleman who seemed to be visually impaired, and an older woman with short blonde hair chewing gum tending bar. The gentleman who recruited my attendance pulls me over to a photograph positioned slightly crooked on the nearby wall. "Isn't that the picture you took?" "Yes, it looks just like it" i said. He then continued to tell me about how his girlfriend--a New York Italian who knows how to cook--was making lasagna in the kitchen, and how it was only five dollars for a nice healthy portion. When I appeared hesitant, he insisted that I follow him into the kitchen. Why not? Before I knew it, I was watching Marie from Marie's bar (the New York Italian) pull her mean lasagna out of the oven, as if i didn't believe it would be yummy. And before I knew it, again, we were chatting about New York, New Orleans, Venice beach and New Jersey with Melvyn (the gentleman) and Marie. "Come back tomorrow! Tomorrow we're having pork chops with lime, and Friday we are having seafood gumbo!"
I didn't have the lasagna, as I had to go explore, but I hope to return back to these folks later in the week. A truely welcoming bunch.
of saturated bright blues and rouge hues Muscles crunch and toes bunch swiping and swaying as we peruse unexpecting pedestrians in their daily grind tickled with humor as their smiles unwind.
We invade in our sound suits the unexpecting public.
