The title of this post (I admit, a shameless attention-grabber) is from a tweet by drummer Matt Wilson after he performed at the White House State Dinner for Chinese President Hu Jintao. Performing with him were Herbie Hancock, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Chris Botti, Dianne Reeves, Randy Brecker, Antonio Hart, and James Genus. James Fallows, who attended the dinner, confirms Wilson’s assessment of Clinton by noting that the former president was “moving, bopping, smiling the whole time.”
Fallows also writes that the evening’s program symbolized a “return to normalcy” of sorts in Sino-American relations; a mutual agreement to reign in the hype, tone down the bluster, and bring expectations back to earth. This sentiment was encapsulated in the duet performance of Ravel’s “Laideronette, Empress of the Pagodas” (Laideronnette, impératrice des pagodes) from the Mother Goose Suite (Ma mère l’oye). Whether or not you think the significance Fallows ascribes to the performance is justified, it’s a beautiful piece.
My first exposure to Don Van Vliet a.k.a. Captain Beefheart came through a guest spot he did on a song called Willie the Pimp on Frank Zappa’s landmark album Hot Rats. Listening to that album – and that track in particular- for the first time, I thought it was absolutely the coolest thing I’d ever heard. I remember distinctly, because it was right around the time my musical interests were starting to expand into jazz, chiefly due to the influence of my drum teacher. He was turning me onto classic bop records like Bags’ Groove and Coltrane Plays the Blues, which were a refreshing change from my staple diet of Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine. Hot Rats to me was an unholy yet sonorous union of these two divergent sensibilities: The raw, primordial energy of hard rock and the adventurous yet nonetheless smooth and assured sound of early Miles and his cohorts.
It was unlike anything I had ever heard before, and I wanted more. So you can imagine my delight when I happened upon an album on my dad’s CD rack entitled Trout Mask Replica, by the same Captain Beefheart. But more importantly, produced by Frank Zappa! I put it on expecting more Hot Rats, and I was thoroughly disappointed. I knew I was hearing something entirely original. I knew that much, but other than that, what the hell was it? There was no groove, there were no instantly catchy hooks like the violin riff on Willie The Pimp, and there were too many songs that were just words. My pubescent musical receptors started overloading after just five minutes.
That wasn’t the end though, not by a long shot. As Tom Waits said, “once you hear Captain Beefheart it’s hard to wash him out of your clothes, like blood or coffee.” True to that adage, I kept coming back, biting off more and more as my tastes developed sufficiently to be able to digest and appreciate the music he created: Tough and sinewy in texture but deep and immensely rewarding in flavor.
Being familiar with the Beefheart oeuvre is in many ways like belonging to a secret club. The terms of reference for discussing the subject matter belong solely to those already initiated, and trying to explain the club’s activities to curious neophytes will elicit only blank stares and awkward silences. You want to let people in on the secret because it’s too good to keep to yourself, but you inevitably wind up clumsily effing the ineffable.
Captain Beefheart passed away on December 17th. Listening to his albums again and reading the many beautiful tributes and send-ups, I can’t help but stare out into space at the enormity of this loss.
A more focused essay is on the way about Beefheart’s approach to art and its significance for our times. But for now, to borrow Tom Waits’ words again, “Drink once and thirst no more.”
Trying to fully catch up with all the great music I’ve missed over the years often seems tantamount to scooping up the ocean with a syringe. I never stop trying though, simply because the countless hours I’ve spent browsing record stores and searching Mininova (now defunct) and Isohunt are so often vindicated by the discovery of some hitherto unheard gem. One such find was Neko Case’s 2002 album Blacklisted. I put it on while working to shield myself from the Sunday afternoon din, and it was wonderful. A great album for warm Sunday afternoons when the noise around you isn’t exactly music. I guess I’m kind of in a female singer phase (Nina Simone, Bettye Lavette, Trixie Whitley from Black Dub, which I’ve been meaning to write about here) which is good because I’ve always felt they were underrepresented in my collection.
Anyway, by the time Neko got to the 12th track on the album, a gorgeously sparse rendition of the Aretha Franklin number “Runnin’ Out of Fools”, I was converted.
Here’s some footage of a very young (22!) Aretha doing the same tune. This performance has a cabaret feel to it, which is weirdly incongruous considering the bluesy lyrics.
It occurred to me just now while listening to the music playing at the cafe I’m at that my last few posts have been pretty weighty and obscure. Not a bad thing necessarily, but a little change of pace of pace might be in order. So here goes… my totally amateur and woefully inept attempt at an ethnomusicological analysis of contemporary Vietnamese pop. A quick disclaimer- I’m limiting the inquiry here to recent pop songs that enjoy immense popularity among young adults and middle-aged Vietnamese. This excludes classical music; nhac tre (young music), the kind of frenetic dance/pop music often imported from Korea, Japan, and the US and to a lesser extent produced locally; and the early-modern fare popularized by such notables as Trịnh Công Sơn(dubbed “the Bob Dylan of Vietnam” by Joan Baez).
While these genres are held in high esteem among certain demographics of the population here, the music I’m interested in dissecting enjoys immense popularity in all sectors of society. It is encountered in cafes, supermarkets, and karaoke bars, and drivers often play it at ear-piercing volume inside of taxis, trains, and buses. I claim no expertise in this subject and my grasp on the language is insufficient to catch most of the lyrics, so I suggest my words be taken with more than one grain of salt. Still, I feel that my experience is extensive enough to identify several overarching commonalities:
Structure: A disproportionate number of songs rely on the same song structure: Verse -> chorus (often just a variation on the verse) -> instrumental/percussion interlude -> verse -> chorus -> extremely cheesy sax/guitar/synthesizer solo -> chorus sung with renewed vigor. There are often prominently featured rhythm-section fills and drum breaks that are just really over the top.
Production: Generally, production values are very high. Instruments are rarely acoustic, and when they are, they’re laden with effects. Vocals are smooth and drenched with reverb. There’s a uniquely saccharine quality here that produces the sensation of swimming through an infinite sea of melted Otter Pops.
Orchestration: Again, very glossy. Instruments generally feature timbres that many Americans love to make fun of, mainly for their association in the American psyche with Disco and Smooth Jazz. Long supine Kenny G-esque sax solos and synthesizer tones that give voice to the inert languor of discarded Casiotones everywhere. Rhythm sections are treble-y, insubstantial, and unobtrusive.
Tempo: Two tempos dominate (both ballads): There’s the lilting, hypnotic, almost dirge-like ballad and the triplicate-time mid-tempo power ballad. The video below is a pretty good example of the former (pretty sure I’ve woken up to this one blasting from the cafe across the street on several occasions).
Pinning down the reasons pop music evolved the way it did is of course an impossible balancing act, like trying to pin Jello to the wall (to borrow a phrase I’m rather fond of). Still, in the case of Vietnam I think the kind of music that get’s imported from the West has played a pretty big role, at least over the last few decades. A lot of it I had never heard before coming to Vietnam, which I should count as a blessing. Honestly, it’s some of the most vacuous tripe ever conceived by mankind:
In my seminar last year on American culture and history through music, I consciously tried to turn them off this shit and on to a wider range of music. We listened to all kinds of stuff from early blues and swing to folk, rock n’ roll, soul, and modern jazz. Most of it didn’t really appeal to the students, although diligent bastards that they were, they’d listen patiently and respond to the discussion questions. They even sat through all 13:37 of Jimi Hendrix’s “Machine Gun” from Live at the Filmore East (this segued into a really interesting conversation about the war) but when asked if it was something they might listen to at home, uniformly shook their heads.
There was one song that they really liked, which was Natalie Merchant’s rendition of the classic depression-era song “Which Side Are You On?” They even asked to hear it a second and third time! I was taken a little by surprise, but also really happy that I had finally introduced them to something they actually liked, not just because it provided a window into a particular theme or era in American history but because it actually appealed to their sensibilities. They said they appreciate the “pureness, strength, and clarity” of the singer’s voice. They also liked how it started off slow and delicate and then built up to a powerful climax.
I had a really interesting conversation with Tony the other night about the cultural roots of Vietnamese music, and I’d love to write about it but it’s getting late and this has already gone on pretty long. I’m going to Kuala Lumpur day after tomorrow, so part 2 of these ruminations will have to wait a couple weeks. Seems like this is becoming a trend, this blogging-in-chapters… anyhoo, until next time!
I haven’t listened to For the Ghosts Within yet but like I said in part one of this post, I’m very excited for it. Their version of the jazz standard “Laura” is sparse and hauntingly beautiful, with a great sax solo by Gilad Atzmon. You can listen to it and read NPR jazz blogger Patrick Jarenwattananon’s review here. Patrick raises some intriguing questions about the music, which touch on some of the things I discussed in part one. In particular, the questions of appropriation and ownership here are plunged into the murky depths of the so-called “genre debate.” As Patrick writes, “Why are jazz communities often uncomfortable when people from outside those communities appropriate elements of jazz?” More broadly, “why are people protective of the status quo of a ‘jazz community’ and a broadly-defined style of music we can refer to as jazz?”
I’m tempted here to bring in examples from other musical genres- Bob Dylan plugging in at the Newport Folk Fest for example, or Allison Kraus adding a drummer to her Bluegrass band. But the analogy is not a valid one because jazz, as one NPR commenter noted, is at its core a “mongrel music.” Its inception is based on hybridization of cultures, on bringing together different elements to form something new. The jazz impulse has after all spawned countless hyphenated sub-genres: Jazz-rock, jazz-fusion, third-stream jazz (an incorporation of elements of classical music), and a host of other variants.
Each of these movements faced its fair share of detractors of course, even within the establishment of a music whose lifeblood is innovation, and I do think the issue largely has to do with the positive association people hold to the music of their youth. I know this is taking a big leap of simplification and of course there are exceptions, but in general, people tend to be most attached to the music that was around when they were in their bittersweet prime. The music that fed and nourished the blue spring of youth is ultimately the music that holds the most sway in our lives, and as we get older and the tides of memory recede, we cling to that music with increasing urgency. Again, this is not a blanket rule but I think it shows -in varying degrees- in everyone who cares deeply about music.
But I digress. One more thought on the Wyatt, Atzmon, and Stephen album. One commenter on NPR noted that Gilad Atzmon has written some pretty incendiary things about Israel and Judaism. While I hesitate to apply the brand of anti-semite, many already have including (!) The Socialist Worker. Atzmon obviously prefers the milder label ‘anti-Zionist’, but I can see how his writings could easily be construed as anti-semitic. The archive on his website is extensive, but the most vituperative by far of the writings I skimmed was the rather tactlessly titled “Swindler’s List.” If you don’t feel like getting through the whole thing, here’s the distilled version of his argument: “The Jewish nationalist project that is supported by the vast majority of Jewish institutions around the world is an attempt aiming at robbery of the indigenous Palestinians following a cultural and religious heritage that is overwhelmingly documented in the Judaic Bible.”
Fighting words, those. Personally, I think he crosses a very fine line between denouncing Israel and denouncing Judaism in general, but I’ll leave that up to you to decide. The question is, should his dangerous politics affect our approach toward his music? Nietzsche grappled with a similar dilemma in his writings on Wagner, and ultimately decided to break with the phenomenally talented yet notoriously bigoted composer. While I don’t blame those who reach the same conclusion in this case, I personally hesitate to demand rigid conformity to a moral code from musicians, artists, and writers. It’s one thing to criticize, admonish, denounce, or even disown. It’s another entirely to silence, and that is essentially what we do when we refuse to hear his music due to what he’s written in the past. Isn’t it after all a perennial truth of the human condition that beauty can be born of unclean waters?
Heightened expectations can be infinitely frustrating. How, after all, is one to know if that Cosmic Mooncakes album really was a turkey or if it just didn’t live up to the reputation preceding it? Dealing in counterfactuals won’t get you anywhere – the fact is, you listened to it and it stunk. “I’ll have to give it another listen” you say to your disappointed friends, but you seldom do because there’s always other more appealing choices available. That’s not to say highly recommended albums never hit home, but over the years I’ve realized that many of my high-replay-value albums didn’t draw unanimous praise. Many stayed in my memory due to heated discussions from friends who otherwise have closely aligned sensibilities.
Rock Bottom, Robert Wyatt’s magnum opus, is one of those albums and when I listened to it I understood why. Recorded after a 4-story fall that paralyzed him from the waste down, the album left me feeling rather strange; partly because it was one of the most ineffable listening experiences of my life. I knew I had been exposed to a massive buildup of tension with comparatively very little release, but other than that it was hard to describe. Robert Christgau sums it up rather appropriately I think: “I’m at a loss to describe this album of drones and songs conceived and recorded after Wyatt’s crippling accident, except to say that… the mood is that of a paraplegic with the spirit to conceive and record an album of drones and songs.”
I know I said earlier that counterfactuals get you nowhere, but I still can’t help imagining what Wyatt’s career would’ve been like had it not been for that accident. His recordings with Soft Machine are some of the best prog-leaning jazz-rock ever, and his later project Matching Mole showed a lot of promise as well. What an incredible drummer… a seemingly effortless unity of propulsion and delicacy.
His solo career has, to quote one reviewer, “moved at a glacial pace” but he recently released a new album; a collaborative project with the saxophonist Gilad Atzmon and violinist Ros Stephens. Entitled For the Ghosts Within, the album has so far garnered uniformlyhighpraise, though not without qualifications. Part of the reason I’m so excited to hear this album is because in a way it promises to be another Rock Bottom- a multidimensional listening experience that does not allow the drawing of any easy conclusions. It’s also a perfect lens through which to get into some of the ideas that I’ve wanted to explore further in this medium, but more on that tomorrow when I’m fresh.
