Jesus' Son

I just finished Jesus' Son, a collection of short stories by Denis Johnson published in 1992. The book reminds me of singer-songwriter Todd Snider when he offers sublime observations from characters most would call complete fuck-ups: alcoholics or drug addicts drifting between happy hours, scheming and homeless, opportunistic. Funny how these same characters can speak so clearly about the world around them.

Below are a few passages from Jesus' Son that hit me pretty hard, either for their writing or for their startling honesty. Notice how Johnson's characters find catharsis in someone else's tragedy, and infer that this expression of emotion is what they're looking for most of all in life. In the case of Johnson's characters, that catharsis is often sought through drugs or alcohol, and is rarely if ever achieved. Finding catharsis through pain or catastrophe: how 1990s! (And 21st century? God help us all.) Anyway:

"Down the hall came the wife. She was glorious, burning. She didn't know yet that her husband was dead. We knew. That's what gave her such power over us. The doctor took her into a room with a desk at the end of the hall, and from under the closed door a slab of brilliance radiated as if, by some stupendous process, diamonds were being incinerated in there. What a pair of lungs! She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek. It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it! I've gone looking for that feeling everywhere." (11)

"And here we were, this afternoon, with nearly thirty dollars each, and our favorite, our very favorite, person tending bar. I wish I could remember her name, but I remember only her grace and her generosity. All the really good times happened when Wayne was around. But this afternoon, somehow, was the best of all those times. We had money. We were grimy and tired. Usually we felt guilty and frightened, because there was something wrong with us, and we didn't know what it was; but today we had the feeling of men who had worked. The Vine had no jukebox, but a real stereo continually playing tunes of alcoholic self-pity and sentimental divorce. 'Nurse,' I sobbed. She poured doubles like an angel, right up to the lip of a cocktail glass, no measuring. . . You had to go down to them like a hummingbird over a blossom." (65-6)

"Her sofabed was two steps from the kitchen. We'd take those steps and lie down. Ghosts and sunshine hovered around us. Memories, loved ones, everyone was watching. She'd had one boyfriend who was killed by a train--stalled on the tracks and thinking he could get his motor firing before the engine caught him, but he was wrong. Another fell through a thousand evergreen boughs in the north Arizona mountains, a tree surgeon or someone along those lines, and crushed his head. Two died in the Marines, one in Vietnam and the other, a younger boy, in an unexplained one-car accident just after basic training. Two black men: one died of too many drugs and another was shanked in prison--that means stabbed with a weapon from the wood-working shop. Most of these people, by the time they were dead, had long since left her to travel down their lonely paths. People just like us, but unluckier. I was full of a sweet pity for them as we lay in the sunny little room, sad that they would never live again, drunk with sadness, I couldn't get enough of it." (159)

It's an excellent book. Next up is Madame Bovary.

You Have Arrived at Your Destination

Becky and I made it to sunny California. If paradise is full of traffic, this is paradise. Right now, we are staying with a couple that works at USC until we get to know the area and move into our own place. I already found two record stores that beat anything I found in NYC: Amoeba Music in Hollywood and Rockaway Records in Silverlake. Nothing makes me smile like a rack of quality $2 CDs. For the next month, I'll be studying for my entrance exams while Becky steadfastly looks for work. Los Angeles is surprisingly beautiful and inviting. So far, so good.

That's all for now. Pictures from our travels are forthcoming. Could hard times be over? I'll keep you posted.

An Unmarried Woman

Film critic David Edelstein recommended this movie in a recent New York Magazine. He was listing his favorite New York movies for a fortieth anniversary special issue. Anyway, Jill Clayburgh's character looks at herself in the mirror and says,

"'Balls,' said the Queen. 'If I had 'em, I'd be King.'"

Becky and I just about died laughing.

The movie was really good. Quite a time capsule of New York circa 1978.

Dogon A.D.

I finally found a copy of Julius Hemphill's legendary Dogon A.D. First time through, and I believe the hype. After a little research, I found this interview with Tim Berne about Hemphill as a mentor. Berne gives this beautiful quote:

"When I get too caught up in all the business shit, I try to remember the most important thing is the music and not worry about all that other stuff. He was just a great role model in terms of creativity. In order to grow you have to fail. You have to have a bad concert, or write something that doesn't work, so you can find out why. I realized that that's why you make records. It's not so you can sell them. It's really just so you can develop. He really embodied that. That's why he did it—to express himself."

Of course, we all want these albums to sell, too, but I agree that failing can be just as valuable as succeeding, if not more so. I found Hemphill's masterpiece after a simple Google search. I recommend you do the same.

Everybody Loves the Dan

In response to "Top 10 Rap Songs White People Love," a guest writer for Catsandbeer.com humorously notes 10 rock songs beloved by black people, and, apparently, black people love Steely Dan. The Dan caps a list including "Smoke on the Water," "Play That Funky Music (White Boy)," and anything by Taylor Dayne. (Hey, where's Teena Marie?) Here's the quote:

"Want to get black folks in a comfortable mood at a party with the lights all low, and get them nice and friendly with the white people also at the party? Throw on some Steely Dan and see how the colors mingle and black folk start waxing rhapsodic on how many white musicians are quite gifted. Once again: all black people like and will listen to Steely Dan. The Doobie Brothers come close on this black respect meter, but nobody touches the Dan."

I have long believed that humor is an effective means to discussing social truths. Nobody in my life wishes to be racist, but we all are to some degree, so we might as well make fun of it, perhaps over coffee, during a trip to Whole Foods, or after a marathon viewing of the Wire on DVD. My wife showed me the blog Stuff White People Like, which will put you on the floor laughing. I'm reading through ethnographies for my graduate level Immigration and Performance class, and this is a magnificent and truthful spoof on the genre. It's kind of mean, but very funny. I myself have several black friends.

Suggested Listening

I bought Alex Ross’s The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century this Christmas, and spent the last month collecting the “Suggested Listening” listed in the back of the book. The recordings are a revelation, but instead of waxing ecstatically about his choices, I thought I’d perform an homage and try to make my own.

Ross isn’t promoting a list of essential recordings or desert island discs, and beyond their inclusion in his book, the choices do not seem to establish a unified musical aesthetic (except that they’re classical, and mostly notational). And yet grouping them together under one roof creates an inspiring and magical context for listening to diverse styles of classical music in a thoroughly enjoyable way. Even when the music is difficult, the context isn’t about innovation, progress or the future of “serious” music: it’s about enjoyment, beauty and pleasure.

With that in mind, I made a list of 15 jazz records that contextualize what I love about contemporary jazz. I will define contemporary jazz as jazz performed in a style that postdates what I understand to be the "common knowledge" or standard jazz canon. I do not intend this to dismiss or replace that jazz canon, but I can add that I like these recordings just as much as those (mostly) modernist jazz classics. This is not “The Best Jazz Records 1969-2001,” or most influential, or most innovative. It is just a very personal “Suggested Listening,” full of omissions, and as such is merely a starting point for anyone interested. One list among many, I hope.

In alphabetical order followed by release dates:

1. James Carter, Chasin’ the Gypsy (2000)
2. Ornette Coleman, Dancing in Your Head (1977)
3. Miles Davis, Filles De Kilimanjaro (1969)
4. Dave Douglas, Parallel Worlds (1993)
5. Bill Evans, The Paris Concert, Edition One (1983)
6. Andrew Hill, Nefertiti (1976)
7. Keith Jarrett, Belonging (1974)
8. John Lewis, Evolution (1999)
9. Nils Petter Molvaer, Solid Ether (2001)
10. David Murray, Morning Song (1984)
11. Art Pepper, Winter Moon (1980)
12. Don Pullen, Healing Force (1975)
13. Sonny Rollins, This Is What I Do (2000)
14. James Blood Ulmer, Odyssey (1983)
15. David S. Ware, Earthquation (1994)

"It's after six. What am I, a farmer?"

I fell in love with 30 Rock at the end of season 1, so now I'm finally catching up with the first season on DVD. By the fifth or sixth episode, the actors find their rhythm with each other and it's pure genius. Think wit and absurdity like Arrested Development ("I'm having a love affair with this ice cream sandwich...") but less mean. I can't encapsulate it for you fine people in a sentence, but for those who watch it, laugh with me: Jack is writing a speech for his mentor at a dinner and continues to badger Liz Lemon for an opening one-liner (like: "Well, it’s almost Thanksgiving, everybody, and I know what this crowd’s giving thanks for: estate tax reform!" You have to hear the delivery; it's a work of genius). He offhandedly informs Liz that the dinner isn't for several months, and Liz asks, "then why are you wearing a tux?" And he deadpans: "It's after six! What am I, a farmer?" I could kiss this man. 30 Rock 4 Ever.