Ciao, Tutti!
Okay, I wonder how long it'll be until I can't do this sort of thing anymore. I mean, aren't CD's becoming obsolete? That's what I've heard, anyway. I'm not used to being considered a dinosaur; I still love to hold the hard copy in my hand. And, let's face it: iPod quality files sound like farts. Seriously. Especially when heard through ear buds.
Anyway, in recognition of the CD's fading glory, I'm adding some new sections to this top 10 list: my top concerts and top tracks. Yes, tracks. That's what the world has come to. I still think of the CD as an art form unto itself, but I'm apparently in the minority here. I've been told it's the songs that matter, not the CD as a complete package.
But whoever told me that is WRONG!
And here we go:
Sam's Top 10 CD's of 2009
1) Abdullah Ibrahim - Senzo This year I was so pumped up because I didn't feel pressured into putting a jazz CD high on my top 10 list, since now I'm more "open-minded." But then Abdullah Ibrahim had to go and make the most beautiful piece of art you can buy in shrink wrap from 2009, topped only by his quite literally breathtaking concert I saw in June. Ibrahim's percussive and expressive solo piano record is a continuous piece of music - if you listened without knowing anything about it, you'd think it was a 60-minute song. In reality there are 23 individual compositions, making an average length of under 2 minutes per song. Ibrahim masterfully strips each piece down to its bare essentials, and once the idea is played out he simply moves on to the next seamlessly. The ideas do not get trite at any point as one might expect from an hour of solo piano, as Ibrahim changes the rhythmic feel and harmonic tonality whenever necessary to produce a rich variety of sounds. Themes appear and reappear throughout the transitions, so the performance does have the sense of being unified to the point where one can lose himself in it. Still, if you don't have enough time to listen through the whole thing there are individual songs that stand out as excellent stand-alone pieces. Basically what I mean to say is, this CD has everything.
2) Joe Henry - Blood From Stars I am a huge Joe Henry fan, as you probably know, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise to hear me say that this CD is one of the best pieces of artwork put out this year. Hell, I put "Civilians" as number 5 a couple years ago, which I am now willing to concede was a mistake in judgment. But not only is "Blood From Stars" a masterful musical production, it is probably the best example of Joe Henry's music to date (yes, even better than "Scar"). The musical journey Henry started with the masterpiece "Scar" is shown in "Blood From Stars" to be moving farther and into new meaning. The main advances in this CD have to do with form and rhythm. Henry has never been much of a rhythmic singer, but he brings out the percussive aspects of his orchestra here. This fits in well with what he does with form, which is to hint with rhythmic activity at a larger concept, then bides his time as the listener eagerly waits for the bubble to pop. Thus Henry draws dynamic emphasis to the dramatic sections of the pieces. The forms themselves aren't all that innovative, but the presentation makes every note serendipitous. Then Henry writes moving and creepy background lines in the strings and horns (on one track it sounds like a train!). Not to mention the signature transitions and use of interesting samples. The only fall-backs are the few tunes that lapse into "Civilians"-like familiarity, but even so, the CD as a work of art is nothing short of brilliant in my mind.
3) White Rabbits - It's Frightening This sextet's controlled heavy rock sound was bewildering to me. Really. When I first heard "Percussion Gun," I didn't know what I was hearing. The pounding double tom toms seemed to be playing one rhythm, the singer singing to another. And then the guitar came in, somehow in the right place, and it all made sense. They knew what they were doing, but they were going to let me guess until the peak of the lyrics came in ("and I know which way to run") when I couldn't help but nod my head and say aloud, "this is awesome!" The same effect is present for "Lioness," but in a different way, when the band drops out besides the diminished and out of place piano mid-way through the piece, except the piano isn't really diminished or out of place, as the bass later reveals. White Rabbits is so aware of its themes throughout "It's Frightening" that it can pick them apart, separate them, then bring them together at will, whenever they want emphasis. It's so well-composed in this way that I keep finding new things to listen for as I listen again and again. The second half of the CD is more like their first record, "Fort Nightly," which is not as innovative as the first half but still a good listen. This was by far the best find of 2009.
4) Brother Ali - The Truth Is Here/Us Quickly followed by the second-best find of 2009. "The Truth is Here" and "Us," both released this year, show different sides of the Twin Cities rapper. EP "The Truth is Here" has some of the best beat-making I've ever heard, as hi-lighted by the jazzy "Real as Can Be" and the funky "Baby Don't Go," not to mention the cool use of samples (probably from movies, but I dunno) between and during songs. "Us," on the other hand, is a full-length that features a better performance from the front man, Ali himself. As a full-length rap album there are some songs that aren't necessary, but in general Ali pours his heart into each song, rapping about displaced immigrants, a childhood with divorced parents, the pain of losing a first love (where it actually sounds like he's going to break down crying), and being in love with a girl still devastated by an abusive relationship. Brother Ali has the strongest love of just about anyone, and he's not afraid to lay it out there for everyone to hear. One wouldn't normally associate love (of God, of art, of his brothers, of his family, of life) to be the subject of rap songs, but Ali makes it sound as if it shouldn't be any other way.
5) The Lonely Island - Incredibad No one seems to take this record seriously. I don't blame them; it is a comedy CD, after all. But Andy Samberg, Jorma Taconne, and Akiva Schaffer certainly took this project seriously and made good use of the resources available to them through Saturday Night Live. They did not fall prey to thinking that just because they could write some funny lyrics that their job was done. They created a project that could be listened to again and again because the music was actually pretty good. "Santana DVX?" That beat is amazing. "Like a Boss?" Ditto. "I'm on a Boat?" What more need be said? I do miss "Stork Patrol," which didn't make the record, but regardless. The point of this project, and the real innovation, is the knee-slapping comedy, but that didn't stop the Lonely Island from writing some good music to go with it.
6) Antony and the Johnsons - Crying Light Antony's innovation is like Bill Frisell's innovation: it's his personal sound that's so different, not what he's playing. In Antony's case, it's his voice. Take a listen and you'll know what I mean. There isn't a person in the world who sings like that besides him. It puts some people off (my brother, my father), but the fact of the matter is that Antony has an amazing singing voice and remarkable control. Then you combine it with his vision for songwriting, which in this case is nearly like a chamber orchestra but with an occasional jazz instrument, and you have a unique sound. Antony's instrumentations are really coming from his head, not directly from his training; some of these combinations are not combinations I've ever heard in another context. He really sings and writes with his heart. My only complaint is the lack of rhythm; the CD is generally calm and never rocks out. Even so, songs like "Aeon" add a mild punch, the harshly picked electric guitar taking the place of a drum set.
7) Arvo Part - In Principio If you skip Estonian composer Arvo Part's awkward title track, "In Principio" is probably my favorite classical production right now. Part has a knack for understanding how the timbres of the string orchestra work with the church choir, and the sounds blend together to make often religiously toned chords. Part is, in truth, most interested in chords; except for "Mein Wei" there is really not much rhythmic variation (a lot of quarter notes). A lot of these chordal discoveries, however, are stunning, either through use of canon or through a chord-building technique he reputedly invented. Just make sure to skip the beginning, which is melodramatic and flat.
8) Baroness - Blue Record I just got this, so it might move a little up or down by the time I've really had a chance to digest it. Yet with the amount I've listened to this record I might argue I've digested it enough. This punk-metal band is more than meets the ear - not only can they demonstrate that they can really sing, but they demonstrate that they can really play! The lyrics are really inconsequential compared to the instruments, and the pieces are presented nearly symphonically in their form and construction, with the development of motives as the main tool for musical generation. Not only that, but the CD holds together nicely through a constant development of the "Bullhead" theme we hear in the opening track that features guitars singing so sweetly they sound almost like saxophones at first.
9) John Hollenbeck Large Ensemble - Eternal Interlude Of all the CD's I've heard this past year, this has got to be one of the most ambitious, a quality that works for and against one of my favorite composers, John Hollenbeck, in "Eternal INterlude." The opening track, "Foreign One," is one of the best of the year without a doubt - certainly the best in jazz - and is serviced by the dichotomy between the piano and vibraphone along with the held trombone section changing the chords ever so suddenly, not to mention the masterful sax solo by Tony Mallaby and drum solo by Hollenbeck himself. The title track, "Eternal Interlude," teeters on suffering from taking itself too seriously - While 17 minutes was plenty of time for his "Blessing," when there is only one idea to develop it has the tendency to become tedious. But the CD is strengthened by drummer-like qualities: long builds, sudden spaces where the orchestra drops out, and pounding rhythms. John Hollenbeck is always a cerebral listen, and his vision comes through clearly in this new CD.
10) Dave Douglas - A Single Sky Another jazz big band record, this Frankfurt Radio Band production is a polar opposite of Hollenbeck's Large Ensemble in its insistence on remaining true to tradition. The voicings, the hits, the dividing of the sections, all are nothing new to the jazz fan's ear. The pieces have normal jazz forms, AABA, that are stretched out over 10:00 pieces, focussing more on the groove and the solos than the writing or the thematic concepts, as Hollenbeck does. What's so unique about this record is the juxtaposition of Douglas's writing style with the traditional concept of writing for a big band. For example, in Jim McNeely's stunning arrangement of Douglas's "A Single Sky" throws the whole of the brass section into each hit with a passion, much different from the relaxed, laid-back original sextet version. The fact that it's a German big band is apt: the sound is almost always huge, often featuring two horn sections doing separate things along with a soloist. Douglas's playing holds the concept together, since without great soloists how could compositions focused on the solo work? If you're a fan of Douglas's writing, this CD is an interesting and fun take on it.
Thanks for bearing with me through the list, guys. A few notes of warning, though, on records you should stay away from at all costs, or CDs that didn't make the list and why!
The Black Lips - 200 Million Thousand was the biggest wast of money in my entire life. I paid to listen to a band who didn't know how to record (oh, boy, volume clipping, my favorite), sing, or play their instruments. And it's supposed to be "indie." I don't want to pay a bunch of idiots who don't know what to do. If you already own this record, I apologize on the band's behalf. They suck. Flat out.
Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion was a good Cd filled with good music that just sounds too harsh. I can't listen to more than 2 or three songs at a time until the intense treble starts to burn my ears. Power to you if you can take it better than I can - as I said, there's a lot to this CD. But even so, I can't imagine it holding up as a CD. Everything is built off a triplet feel and major keys. It gets old. But, hey, this CD is the #1 on quite a few lists, so grab a listen for yourself before you judge.
Dirty Projectors - Bitte Orca is a good disc. I don't have anything bad to say about it except it's just not my style. "Cannibal Recourse" rules as a song, if you can ignore the singers being out of tune. But I fail to see what's so innovative and influential about them, though it's certainly true they have their own unique sound. Just not for me.
The Dodos - Time To Die was the biggest disappointment of the year. Last year I had Visiter as #1, and this disc isn't enough to make the list, despite the addition of a vibraphonist, which you would think would clinch the deal. But this CD doesn't move forward from Visiter at all; in fact, it scots back into predictable rhythms and boring forms. If you have a craving to hear new Dodos, go hear them live. They play a great show.
Grizzly Bear - Veckamist is part 2 of my 2 part series on disappointing records. It probably would have made the list above Dave Douglas if it weren't for sell-out pop song "Two Weeks," which makes me want to tear my hair out if I can't get to the remote in time. "While You Wait For The Others" is a pretty amazing song, but I've found it doesn't stand the test of time, and it hasn't even been that much time. Compared to the amazing innovation of "Yellow House," or even the mediocre innovation of "A Single Sky," "Veckamist" is nothing more than a disappointment.
Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix is a Cd I don't have much to say about because I haven't listened much. I tried. "1901" and "Listomania" received such acclaim that I figured I didn't listen right the first time I heard them. Then I listened again and realized I still hate them, despite what people say. I can't even remember why.
The XX - I have to mention them because they played New Year Eve at Flaming Fire's installation art gallery, and they have blown up with their self-titled debut record. "Crystalized" is a great song. The record itself is pretty boring and low key. I don't argue against it, but I can't see anything special about it.
James Carney - Ways and Means; Vijay Iyer's new CD are both projects I haven't had the liberty of listening to yet. I look forward to it.
Memory Tapes - Memory Tapes would have been #11. They often use cheap tricks to build pieces, but their sound is developed and their ideas are interesting and catchy. "Bicycle" is a pretty good song, as is "Plain Material." Sort of dance, sort of electronica, they make a fun listen.
Okay, if you read this far, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But you didn't, because you're not insane and you have things to do in 2010.
Happy New Year,
-Sam goldsmith
Showing posts with label White Rabbits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label White Rabbits. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Short Story - The Secret Desire of the Cats
Ciao, Tutti!
Believe it or not, I have been very active lately. I have been working at summer camp for almost five weeks now (that's half the summer already), and I've worked at two different facilities. We've put on a camper-written version of Alice in Wonderland, complete with dancing. It was dynamite. Everyone loved it, even the three-year-olds who were totally lost at the performance last year of Jack and Jill.
In my personal life, which still exists somewhat, I have been writing new music and working a lot of my singing and electric bass playing. Vibraphones are for people who want to hear, "What's that?" when they say what instrument they play. And so, as a result of my lyrics writing and improved singing ability, there is yet another new song on my First Regrets Myspace page for you all to enjoy called "My Dear." Inspired by the story of a friend of mine. Here's the link. Listen. Get blown away. Or not.
Mainly what I have been doing while I've managed to be awake is to write and write and write. And by "write" I mean "rewrite," because that's truthfully all I'm doing. Today you can all see the fruits of one of my few new ideas.
But before that I have to spill a few words about the new music that rocks my socks, seeing as it's mid-year. And it's been a strong year so far, so there's a lot to talk about. You probably don't care. I don't blame you.
Sam's Recommended Music of This Half of 2009 (in no particular order)
1) White Rabbits: It's Frightening
In terms of number of listens, this CD is the number 1 of the year for me so far. After the first hundred listens, though, the magic starts to fade a little. But only a little. There is a spontaneous charm to this straight-ahead rock band that sets it apart from the others. The fact that the grooves are put together piece by piece. Sometimes this means that it sounds like the instruments aren't playing together, though in the end it's obvious that the fragmented effect was just what they were going for. Pleasant surprises are eminent throughout the record as the band tricks your ears left and right, yet offers familiarity in a conservatory-style usage of rock and roll motifs. "Lionesse" is such an exciting song and a perfect example of this method of development, as is the more straightforward yet still dominant opener, "Percussion Gun." Speaking of percussion, the twin floor toms add a primal rhythmic presence that pulls everything together. This CD is wonderful. Buy it.
Now.
2) Abdullah Ibrahim: Senzo
This CD is perfect in just about every way. This is hard for me to say as I am disgusted more and more by jazz music, but this CD is divine. In fact, the only better music I have heard this year so far has probably been the live performance of this record. Elderly pianist Abdulla Ibrahim plays about an hour of constant solo piano music, which is another reason I'm surprised I love this record so much: I don't like solo piano records, and I'm lukewarm at best towards pianos in general! I certainly refuse to write my own music for them often times. Ibrahim's seasoned fingers are recorded flawlessly, filling up the room with the rich tones of the piano. There is a patient virtuosity that is omnipresent throughout the record, filled with lyrical and proficient movement. The one drawback one might expect from such a project, that the hour of solo music could get old after a while, is actually the opposite. After the music is over it feels like the ears have gone through a catharsis, and the feeling is the same even after the 15th listen. Once you are ten or fifteen minutes through the CD there is no turning back. It's too beautiful to turn off.
There are others, of course. I think my top ten for this half-year is already better than last year's top ten. And The Dodo's, last year's #1, are still yet to release their new CD (though it's online for free at ), as is Joe Henry, Flying Lotus, and maybe even Jason Lindner. Point being: there is a lot of good music out there right now!
And now, on to the story
But before I do, I have to clear a few things up.
1) Just because I haven't updated in a while doesn't mean I'm not writing. I have been re-writing like a maniac, and in the process I have discovered that the stories I have posted online have been poorly revised. I hope this one is an exception. For the others, I have been working to make them somewhat presentable in a formal context. I have just started giving "The One Tale From College" and "A Fascinating Line" to readers for criticism before I start to - gasp! - submit them places. But the internet crowd is less refined, I know, so I will post another tale-in-progress.
2) Mom comes out to be pretty bad in this story, but it's not her fault. Originally it was about Dad, but the job didn't coincide with his majors in "The One Tale From College," so I switched the genders. Mom will be the first to tell you that my mother characters are almost evil enough for Disney (okay, maybe not that bad). So I want to say here and now: Mom, I love you, okay? Someday I'll write a story about how wonderful you are.
3) This is based off of true events, sort of. It's based off what Joel's cat would do if she had opposible thumbs.
4) Enjoy!
The Secret Desire of the Cats
1845 words
When my mother was fresh out of college, she fell in love with a cat. It was the first cat she ever had. Her father had horrible allergies and would swell up like a red pumpkin if she so much as looked at one, so my mother rarely had the chance to meet cats when growing up. She had a childhood friend, Stacy, who had a cat they would play with together. He was a fat, old thing, and their games with him were mostly practical jokes, but still my mother felt naturally connected to him. Then he passed away, and cats faded even more deeply into the background of my mother’s life.
My mother would probably never have had the thought to get a cat except that a boy she particularly liked at the time was a cat aficionado. It was an almost whimsical thing, to adopt a cat as soon as she moved into her new apartment, and she would be the first to admit that it was meant more to impress the boy than to take care of an animal. Taking the boy’s obsession with Alice in Wonderland into account, she gave her new pet the name “Dinah.” Dinah was bright orange, the boy’s favorite color by my mother’s least favorite. My mother had no idea how to look after another living thing, but the boy had three all by himself, so how hard could it be? My mother did a few days of internet research, bought the food bowl, and was good to go.
In an ironic twist of fate, the boy moved to Idaho to study food politics, and my mother fell in love with the cat instead. Like any love it was totally irrational, and if asked, my mother would have no valid excuse for loving this terror of a cat in particular. Dinah had a knack for tearing thin strips of wood and cloth off furniture while leaving the scratching post untouched. She would run about all night, knocking things over and keeping my mother awake until should didn’t even have the strength to lift her eyelids with her fingers. When my mother took too long to fill the food bowl she defecated, making sure to aim for whatever was most important and irreplaceable to my mother at the time. Once it was the Oriental rug she inherited from her beloved grandmother; another time it was her brand new video camera. But worst of all, Dinah never paid the slightest attention to my mother whatsoever, and she refused to be approached, viciously lashing out whenever my mother reached over to pet her. A teaching assistant in a local high school at the time, my mother would often arrive to the classroom in with deep scars on her forearms that raised eyebrows of the students as well as concern from the head teacher. Only unbounded love could possible explain why my mother refused to give up the cat after all these horrors.
My mother took Dinah’s hisses, scratches, vandalism, and violence personally, like insults from an abusive lover. This was especially the case when the cat showed unreserved kindness to the next man she started to go out with. The situation reeked of elementary unfairness. How maddening it was that my mother was powerlessly, inexplicably in love with this vicious creature who exhibited only antisocial disgust in return! The new man didn’t believe my mother’s stories or feline rebellion. “You’re just saying bad things about her because you’re jealous,” he teased as the cat purred in his lap. “I know she’s nothing but a sweetie, isn’t that right, Dinah?” Nine months later the new man became her husband.
I never had the opportunity to meet Dinah. She died snubbing my mother from her cat box, even as the vet put in the needle, and a few months later I was born. So I, too, began life with an animal free house. Besides Dinah’s death, it was a wonderful time for my mother. The television advertisement she produced for Cola got so much attention that the company was soon sending her to negotiate with clients all over the world. She had a special talent for sensing effective audio-visual imagery for manipulating rooted desires of other human beings, and this talent was becoming recognized on a massive scale. This intellectual success was met by enormous financial success, and my father was able to quit his job to raise me, giving a few guest lectures here and there for his personal amusement. My mother’s mind was awake and cranking away, her passion for her work expanding and whisking her to places far beyond the simplicity of her rabbit hole. Truly it was a terrific beginning for her, but for me it was worse, much worse. I grew up mostly without a mother because of this success. It dragged her away from the house since the time I stopped breastfeeding. She never seemed to mind taking month-long vacations to leave me with my more than capable father. But I minded. When she returned I would try to act like I didn’t care. I turned on my internal air conditioner when she told stories or showed pictures from her expeditions, always keeping cool. I still don’t know if she ever saw through the façade.
As a part of my loneliness, I begged my mother from an early age to adopt a cat, but she refused. “Dinah was the only cat for me,” she said with conviction. I was furious with her, but eventually with the help of my father I changed her mind, and soon after that the family had adopted its first cat. The new cat was Dinah’s opposite. She had to, my mother insisted, because she not bear another small orange cat clawing its way into her heart. So this animal was much larger, made to look even larger by poofy, dark fur. The pleasantly lethargic creature slept on the windowsill and purred all day long – the vet told us to leave the room so he could hear her heartbeat. She always seemed to be smiling, 100% of the time, so, much to my mother’s chagrin, we named her “Cheshire.” Cheshire was tranquil and never bothered anyone no matter the situation. We never had a urine or feces problem with her seeing as she was housebroken the minute we adopted her. She didn’t even shed very much.
And, to top it off, she worshiped my mother unconditionally. Sure, she was warm enough towards my father and me, but for some reason my mother set her soul on fire. Whenever my mother would come home, Cheshire would jump off the windowsill with frightening alacrity, rub up against her legs, and talk to her. Yes, she talked. It was a series of chirps reserved only for my mother, coupled with the unambiguous body language of rolling seductively on the ground in front of her. My mother would bend down and rub her belly for a second, then walk off to the refrigerator, drawing the unsatisfied cat behind her heels, chirping like a bird. Whenever my mother would sit down to listen to my father’s retelling of the one tale from college or watch rented movies with the two of us, Cheshire was always on her lap, her purring an omnipresent part of the ambiance. She never left my mother alone. She would have snuck in her suitcase and happily died on the flight to Chicago if she could.
Cheshire was a good sport about my mother’s lengthy disappearances, but anyone could tell she wasn’t quite the same. It’s hard to explain. She was always such a pleasant cat without even trying, and she always had her charismatic grin, but without my mother around she lacked true vitality. She was tired and lazy. She ate less. She took no interest in play, and she never sought out our affection or even basic attention. Generally, it seemed she had given in to a mundane life of routine boredom, and she was determined not to let her fate be the bane of anyone else in the house. Of course this whole attitude would disappear once my mother returned, but on a regular basis the cat had the air of being only half alive.
When I was eight or nine years old I had a strange recurring dream about my mother and the cat. My mother was preparing for a big conference, something overseas that was to keep her there for a long time. Then she was gone, and life was as per normal when she was away. But this time she didn’t come back. We waited 365 days for her, and then my father remarried. My new mother looked a lot like my old one, except that she was my height and had silver hair. We did things together as a family, the way our life should have been all along. Everything was going swimmingly, even though it didn’t feel like it. There was this unshakable emptiness, the guilt that I was supposed to be feeling an absent remorse.
Then one day, I opened the closet door to see Cheshire – whose indefinite disappearance had gone unnoticed until now – purring as she lay in my mother’s lap, rubbing her head against her belly, eyes closed in ecstasy. My mother was bound to the wall by duct tape, her hands and legs tied permanently in the position best suited to passively admit a cat onto one’s lap. Her mouth was taped shut, but I could tell she was smiling from the shape of the wrinkles near her eerily vacant eyes. The fat slip of duct tape covering her lips arched upward ever so slightly. She should have been dead after a year or so of this imprisonment, but she showed all the signs of life, such as blinking and breathing. Her irises were fixed on me with immortal fascination, eternally unmoving, eternally loving, sunken in eternal stasis. Together the cat and my mother gave their painted grins that meant nothing at all. It made me think of the cosmos: how the Andromeda galaxy was careening at unimaginable speed towards the Milky Way, how the sun was eventually going to explode and wipe out all life as we know it, how a black hole at the center of the galaxy was sucking everything unstoppably towards a fate of suffocating implosion. I got the feeling that after everything was obliterated and existence was a part of the past, my mother and the cat would still be there in my closet with those same smiles. It creeped me out every time I dreamt it, no matter how far in advance I saw it coming, and I woke up.
Then, after staring at the ceiling for a few moments and catching my breath, I would always come to the same realization. Cheshire never existed. Neither did Dinah. Both felines only experienced existence through my subconscious. But even now sometimes I have to remind myself of that.
-Sam goldsmith
Believe it or not, I have been very active lately. I have been working at summer camp for almost five weeks now (that's half the summer already), and I've worked at two different facilities. We've put on a camper-written version of Alice in Wonderland, complete with dancing. It was dynamite. Everyone loved it, even the three-year-olds who were totally lost at the performance last year of Jack and Jill.
In my personal life, which still exists somewhat, I have been writing new music and working a lot of my singing and electric bass playing. Vibraphones are for people who want to hear, "What's that?" when they say what instrument they play. And so, as a result of my lyrics writing and improved singing ability, there is yet another new song on my First Regrets Myspace page for you all to enjoy called "My Dear." Inspired by the story of a friend of mine. Here's the link. Listen. Get blown away. Or not.
Mainly what I have been doing while I've managed to be awake is to write and write and write. And by "write" I mean "rewrite," because that's truthfully all I'm doing. Today you can all see the fruits of one of my few new ideas.
But before that I have to spill a few words about the new music that rocks my socks, seeing as it's mid-year. And it's been a strong year so far, so there's a lot to talk about. You probably don't care. I don't blame you.
Sam's Recommended Music of This Half of 2009 (in no particular order)
1) White Rabbits: It's Frightening
In terms of number of listens, this CD is the number 1 of the year for me so far. After the first hundred listens, though, the magic starts to fade a little. But only a little. There is a spontaneous charm to this straight-ahead rock band that sets it apart from the others. The fact that the grooves are put together piece by piece. Sometimes this means that it sounds like the instruments aren't playing together, though in the end it's obvious that the fragmented effect was just what they were going for. Pleasant surprises are eminent throughout the record as the band tricks your ears left and right, yet offers familiarity in a conservatory-style usage of rock and roll motifs. "Lionesse" is such an exciting song and a perfect example of this method of development, as is the more straightforward yet still dominant opener, "Percussion Gun." Speaking of percussion, the twin floor toms add a primal rhythmic presence that pulls everything together. This CD is wonderful. Buy it.
Now.
2) Abdullah Ibrahim: Senzo
This CD is perfect in just about every way. This is hard for me to say as I am disgusted more and more by jazz music, but this CD is divine. In fact, the only better music I have heard this year so far has probably been the live performance of this record. Elderly pianist Abdulla Ibrahim plays about an hour of constant solo piano music, which is another reason I'm surprised I love this record so much: I don't like solo piano records, and I'm lukewarm at best towards pianos in general! I certainly refuse to write my own music for them often times. Ibrahim's seasoned fingers are recorded flawlessly, filling up the room with the rich tones of the piano. There is a patient virtuosity that is omnipresent throughout the record, filled with lyrical and proficient movement. The one drawback one might expect from such a project, that the hour of solo music could get old after a while, is actually the opposite. After the music is over it feels like the ears have gone through a catharsis, and the feeling is the same even after the 15th listen. Once you are ten or fifteen minutes through the CD there is no turning back. It's too beautiful to turn off.
There are others, of course. I think my top ten for this half-year is already better than last year's top ten. And The Dodo's, last year's #1, are still yet to release their new CD (though it's online for free at ), as is Joe Henry, Flying Lotus, and maybe even Jason Lindner. Point being: there is a lot of good music out there right now!
And now, on to the story
But before I do, I have to clear a few things up.
1) Just because I haven't updated in a while doesn't mean I'm not writing. I have been re-writing like a maniac, and in the process I have discovered that the stories I have posted online have been poorly revised. I hope this one is an exception. For the others, I have been working to make them somewhat presentable in a formal context. I have just started giving "The One Tale From College" and "A Fascinating Line" to readers for criticism before I start to - gasp! - submit them places. But the internet crowd is less refined, I know, so I will post another tale-in-progress.
2) Mom comes out to be pretty bad in this story, but it's not her fault. Originally it was about Dad, but the job didn't coincide with his majors in "The One Tale From College," so I switched the genders. Mom will be the first to tell you that my mother characters are almost evil enough for Disney (okay, maybe not that bad). So I want to say here and now: Mom, I love you, okay? Someday I'll write a story about how wonderful you are.
3) This is based off of true events, sort of. It's based off what Joel's cat would do if she had opposible thumbs.
4) Enjoy!
The Secret Desire of the Cats
1845 words
When my mother was fresh out of college, she fell in love with a cat. It was the first cat she ever had. Her father had horrible allergies and would swell up like a red pumpkin if she so much as looked at one, so my mother rarely had the chance to meet cats when growing up. She had a childhood friend, Stacy, who had a cat they would play with together. He was a fat, old thing, and their games with him were mostly practical jokes, but still my mother felt naturally connected to him. Then he passed away, and cats faded even more deeply into the background of my mother’s life.
My mother would probably never have had the thought to get a cat except that a boy she particularly liked at the time was a cat aficionado. It was an almost whimsical thing, to adopt a cat as soon as she moved into her new apartment, and she would be the first to admit that it was meant more to impress the boy than to take care of an animal. Taking the boy’s obsession with Alice in Wonderland into account, she gave her new pet the name “Dinah.” Dinah was bright orange, the boy’s favorite color by my mother’s least favorite. My mother had no idea how to look after another living thing, but the boy had three all by himself, so how hard could it be? My mother did a few days of internet research, bought the food bowl, and was good to go.
In an ironic twist of fate, the boy moved to Idaho to study food politics, and my mother fell in love with the cat instead. Like any love it was totally irrational, and if asked, my mother would have no valid excuse for loving this terror of a cat in particular. Dinah had a knack for tearing thin strips of wood and cloth off furniture while leaving the scratching post untouched. She would run about all night, knocking things over and keeping my mother awake until should didn’t even have the strength to lift her eyelids with her fingers. When my mother took too long to fill the food bowl she defecated, making sure to aim for whatever was most important and irreplaceable to my mother at the time. Once it was the Oriental rug she inherited from her beloved grandmother; another time it was her brand new video camera. But worst of all, Dinah never paid the slightest attention to my mother whatsoever, and she refused to be approached, viciously lashing out whenever my mother reached over to pet her. A teaching assistant in a local high school at the time, my mother would often arrive to the classroom in with deep scars on her forearms that raised eyebrows of the students as well as concern from the head teacher. Only unbounded love could possible explain why my mother refused to give up the cat after all these horrors.
My mother took Dinah’s hisses, scratches, vandalism, and violence personally, like insults from an abusive lover. This was especially the case when the cat showed unreserved kindness to the next man she started to go out with. The situation reeked of elementary unfairness. How maddening it was that my mother was powerlessly, inexplicably in love with this vicious creature who exhibited only antisocial disgust in return! The new man didn’t believe my mother’s stories or feline rebellion. “You’re just saying bad things about her because you’re jealous,” he teased as the cat purred in his lap. “I know she’s nothing but a sweetie, isn’t that right, Dinah?” Nine months later the new man became her husband.
I never had the opportunity to meet Dinah. She died snubbing my mother from her cat box, even as the vet put in the needle, and a few months later I was born. So I, too, began life with an animal free house. Besides Dinah’s death, it was a wonderful time for my mother. The television advertisement she produced for Cola got so much attention that the company was soon sending her to negotiate with clients all over the world. She had a special talent for sensing effective audio-visual imagery for manipulating rooted desires of other human beings, and this talent was becoming recognized on a massive scale. This intellectual success was met by enormous financial success, and my father was able to quit his job to raise me, giving a few guest lectures here and there for his personal amusement. My mother’s mind was awake and cranking away, her passion for her work expanding and whisking her to places far beyond the simplicity of her rabbit hole. Truly it was a terrific beginning for her, but for me it was worse, much worse. I grew up mostly without a mother because of this success. It dragged her away from the house since the time I stopped breastfeeding. She never seemed to mind taking month-long vacations to leave me with my more than capable father. But I minded. When she returned I would try to act like I didn’t care. I turned on my internal air conditioner when she told stories or showed pictures from her expeditions, always keeping cool. I still don’t know if she ever saw through the façade.
As a part of my loneliness, I begged my mother from an early age to adopt a cat, but she refused. “Dinah was the only cat for me,” she said with conviction. I was furious with her, but eventually with the help of my father I changed her mind, and soon after that the family had adopted its first cat. The new cat was Dinah’s opposite. She had to, my mother insisted, because she not bear another small orange cat clawing its way into her heart. So this animal was much larger, made to look even larger by poofy, dark fur. The pleasantly lethargic creature slept on the windowsill and purred all day long – the vet told us to leave the room so he could hear her heartbeat. She always seemed to be smiling, 100% of the time, so, much to my mother’s chagrin, we named her “Cheshire.” Cheshire was tranquil and never bothered anyone no matter the situation. We never had a urine or feces problem with her seeing as she was housebroken the minute we adopted her. She didn’t even shed very much.
And, to top it off, she worshiped my mother unconditionally. Sure, she was warm enough towards my father and me, but for some reason my mother set her soul on fire. Whenever my mother would come home, Cheshire would jump off the windowsill with frightening alacrity, rub up against her legs, and talk to her. Yes, she talked. It was a series of chirps reserved only for my mother, coupled with the unambiguous body language of rolling seductively on the ground in front of her. My mother would bend down and rub her belly for a second, then walk off to the refrigerator, drawing the unsatisfied cat behind her heels, chirping like a bird. Whenever my mother would sit down to listen to my father’s retelling of the one tale from college or watch rented movies with the two of us, Cheshire was always on her lap, her purring an omnipresent part of the ambiance. She never left my mother alone. She would have snuck in her suitcase and happily died on the flight to Chicago if she could.
Cheshire was a good sport about my mother’s lengthy disappearances, but anyone could tell she wasn’t quite the same. It’s hard to explain. She was always such a pleasant cat without even trying, and she always had her charismatic grin, but without my mother around she lacked true vitality. She was tired and lazy. She ate less. She took no interest in play, and she never sought out our affection or even basic attention. Generally, it seemed she had given in to a mundane life of routine boredom, and she was determined not to let her fate be the bane of anyone else in the house. Of course this whole attitude would disappear once my mother returned, but on a regular basis the cat had the air of being only half alive.
When I was eight or nine years old I had a strange recurring dream about my mother and the cat. My mother was preparing for a big conference, something overseas that was to keep her there for a long time. Then she was gone, and life was as per normal when she was away. But this time she didn’t come back. We waited 365 days for her, and then my father remarried. My new mother looked a lot like my old one, except that she was my height and had silver hair. We did things together as a family, the way our life should have been all along. Everything was going swimmingly, even though it didn’t feel like it. There was this unshakable emptiness, the guilt that I was supposed to be feeling an absent remorse.
Then one day, I opened the closet door to see Cheshire – whose indefinite disappearance had gone unnoticed until now – purring as she lay in my mother’s lap, rubbing her head against her belly, eyes closed in ecstasy. My mother was bound to the wall by duct tape, her hands and legs tied permanently in the position best suited to passively admit a cat onto one’s lap. Her mouth was taped shut, but I could tell she was smiling from the shape of the wrinkles near her eerily vacant eyes. The fat slip of duct tape covering her lips arched upward ever so slightly. She should have been dead after a year or so of this imprisonment, but she showed all the signs of life, such as blinking and breathing. Her irises were fixed on me with immortal fascination, eternally unmoving, eternally loving, sunken in eternal stasis. Together the cat and my mother gave their painted grins that meant nothing at all. It made me think of the cosmos: how the Andromeda galaxy was careening at unimaginable speed towards the Milky Way, how the sun was eventually going to explode and wipe out all life as we know it, how a black hole at the center of the galaxy was sucking everything unstoppably towards a fate of suffocating implosion. I got the feeling that after everything was obliterated and existence was a part of the past, my mother and the cat would still be there in my closet with those same smiles. It creeped me out every time I dreamt it, no matter how far in advance I saw it coming, and I woke up.
Then, after staring at the ceiling for a few moments and catching my breath, I would always come to the same realization. Cheshire never existed. Neither did Dinah. Both felines only experienced existence through my subconscious. But even now sometimes I have to remind myself of that.
-Sam goldsmith
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