Bulbous, Also Tapered

There's no iconoclast like an American iconoclast, at least musically speaking. It's summer and I'm not teaching, so I don't really have to wheel out proof for my thesis statement. But as I scribble a few lame sentences here, Moonlight On Vermont kicks in at full volume from Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica.

As I mentioned in my last post, I finally picked up a CD of TMR, having had it on several different formats over the years. For many years it was an insignia on the general concept of "novelty." That is, my perception was that it was an entire album assiduously dedicated to the proposition that being self-consciously strange could be a diverting stand-in for Art. Connected to this: I have for a long time now kept certain recordings in my arsenal, specifically to wheel out for anyone within earshot (but even more specifically, uninitiated musician friends of mine) in order to produce the "what the fuck is this?" response. Some of these recordings I myself am not that close to. Patty Waters, for example. But I recognize the stretch and I like to lay the stretch on others, not so much out of a spirit of confrontational, in-your-face competition but out of a sincere love for sharing the experience of the new, the surprising, the shocking, the general WTF-ness of it.

(meat rose in hairs/meaty rose in hairs....which always made me think of disgraced baseball great, Pete Rose).

But there's some eye-opening aspects to having the CD and playing it on a pretty good stereo. I think Trout Mask suffered in the past from the extremely low-fi platforms I tried to play it on. The mix is very heavy on Beefheart's vocals, way up front, to the extent that the Magic Band sometimes sounds like it's in another room (which I think it was, at least for some tracks). In general, it's very difficult on poor equipment or with the interfering noise of a car (I used to play TMR on cassette tape on a boom box in my car) to focus on the absolutely outrageously intricate accompaniment. Lost in the haze of passing time and legend: who actually composed and arranged these instrumental parts. Apparently John French, aka Drumbo, had a lot to do with the final shape of each tune. Apparently also, the band lived in utter cult-like bizarre squalor and worked for many, many weeks on the pieces.

For a long time I figured a lot of the band parts were improvised. This is absolutely wrong, of course, and probably a side effect of my background before I heard TMR, which was from the so-called free jazz side of things. It's also because for a long time I never really knew how to listen to rock/blues electric rhythm/harmony guitar as an instrument (also an auditory blind spot resulting from a lot of jazz listening). I also bought into the myth that Beefheart successfully fabricated of absolutely untutored, raw primitivism. In fact, of course, the chromatic, contrapuntal polyphony that is yet surrealistically rooted in blues cliches and phrasing is highly sophisticated.

The relationship of the vocal parts to the band is almost constantly embattled. Some of the finest instrumental lines/harmonies are underneath the most vocally horrifying or potentially annoying pieces, such as Pena or The Blimp. The entire idea of what "lyrics" are is constantly shifting. The narrative lines are hilariously mercurial. The seemingly casual, tossed off, self-subverting lyrics sometimes contribute to the sense that the entire enterprise is a sick joke ("I'll set up with ya Big Joan/I'm too fat to go out in the daylight"). Beefheart's use of the soprano saxophone was very difficult for me to hear years ago, but much more a working part of his concept now. I hadn't yet accepted the "anti-technical" in music back in the '80s-'90s. Even Albert Ayler or Peter Brotzmann's approaches to saxophone were ones I could embrace, but not Beefheart's. It seemed an almost-inexcusable co-optation of "free jazz" methodology, yet another white raid on black music. This too is a whole other layer of Beefheart's approach, his "blues" influences, seemingly ever more remote and buried under layers of completely unexpected harmonic and melodic detours. Then there's the sometimes grotesque hippy/psychedelic angle, such as in Ant Man Bee. Then there's the hilarious faux hobo (fauxbo?) acapella "folk" flarf angle, such as in Orange Claw Hammer. And the Beat Poet/Dada/stream of consciousness poetry reading angle. And the bizarre references to various perspectives on "nature." And in spite of all of this, it's still possible to get that deeply skeptical, "you can't be serious" mistrustful feeling anywhere along the line. (or is it the "you've gone too far!" feeling? or the "this is just ridiculously pretentious bullshit!" feeling? Or the "damn, this is hideous!" feeling? etc.)

Are there PhD recipients or candidates out there writing about these themes? What about a larger picture where the "popular culture" could somehow support Beefheart even showing up on the radar, pun(s) intended? (I sometimes feel this way about certain recordings by Tom Waits, Primus, Helmet and a very few others). How does it happen that America comes to embrace, however briefly, partially or superficially, cultural items of extreme oddity? The musical landscape in the US is usually so unrelentingly and uniformly non-confrontational. A reasonable argument could be made that Trout Mask Replica is (so far anyway) the most aesthetically challenging "pop" recording ever released. That copies of the CD are available at, for example, Barnes and Noble, is nothing short of a miracle.

Which goes to show you what a moon can do?

China Pig

So I finally checked out one of the local chain music stores, haha, yes indeed, everything (almost) here in AZ is a "local chain." This place, called Guitar Center, is like a sort of upscale music store Target or maybe WalMart. Remarkably low prices. Hard to resist, really. The exact sort of Darth Vader of Retailing outlet that has put mom and pop independents out of business over the past few decades.

Here's the deal: the last time I spent a dime on my drums was maybe 15 years ago, no joke. Maybe even longer. Remo Weatherking Pinstrip drum heads last a looooong time. Somewhere in there I must have bought the Camco bass drum pedal and the used Tama hi hat stand. But I've had the exact same red sparkle Rogers Holiday bass drum and floating toms since 9th grade, the odd setup where both floaters were the same size at 12". The set originally came with the red sparkle standard Rogers snare and a floor tom. Over the years, I bought a Rogers Dynasonic snare, (how old am I? stuff I bought in person, brand new, is now considered "vintage"), inherited a very thin-shelled resonant Yamaha floor tom (somewhere in there I also had the very odd Yamaha pedal tuned tympani floor tom, damn I wish I still had that drum. It seems to be enough of a rarity/anomaly that I can't even find any photos or info about it in the web), replaced the old Rogers ball and socket bass drum tom mounts with Yamaha tom mounts and was given a 24 inch Zildjian Ping Ride by my mother for my birthday. The biggest investment came in 1989, when I used my first ever credit card to buy a Noble & Cooley single ply custom snare drum, only $700 at the time (new, they're roughly $1,400 now, retail). That's it.

This same setup has been through literally hundreds of punishing scenarios. The most punishing of these must have been the stint with the alt/funk/metal/thrash/math trio Purple Circle 7, all up and down the east coast, with Seth Herman's many inches of Gallien-Kreuger bass speakers to compete with, and a reliance on a few pairs of Vic Firth Tommy Lee drum sticks per gig. (the photo doesn't really do justice to the baseball bat nature of these huge sticks, at least one of which would break each time PC 7 played). Some indication of the fury that was PC7 can be heard at this myspace page, featuring PC7 guitarist Alex Bovone.

Many times these drums, never with any cases, were loaded into various vehicles, trucked all over the country, especially the southwest. Left in the car for weeks on end due to a lack of space in apartments.

So it was a red letter day indeed when I visited Guitar Center and bought all new drum heads, new snares, a new snare stand, a new cymbal stand and most exciting of all, a used custom K Zildjian China for $99 and a nice, used Zildjian Splash for $40.

I also took several hours to strip down the drums, lube everything, clean all the metal, clean the shells, etc. The smell of Brasso permeated the house, evocative of factory fumes from the Garden State Parkway in North Jersey. I haven't cleaned up the old cymbals yet, and haven't picked up the new ones. The new ones are on "police hold:" all used gear that comes into the local Guitar Center goes on police hold for a couple weeks, in case it really is too good to be true. Anyway, here's a couple of pics of the kit:





To top off the past couple of days of blissful aural-aesthetics-oriented consumerism, I stopped at a truly local, independent music store here called Hoodlums. I picked up a CD of Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica, Safe as Milk, two BYG Sun Ra (The Solar Myth Approach, Vols. 1 and 2) and the classic 1957 (!!!!) Sun Ra Sound of Joy.

I'll have more to say about these CDs soon. But for now, I leave you with a link to the amazing early Magic Band, a live performance of When Big Joan Sets Up/Woe Is A-Me Bop/Bellerin' Pain. Check out the awesome amplifier noise just before Big Joan officially uses her small hands to destroy all preconceptions of what music could be.

Hermit Hears Duets

Hanging at home all day today, just me, the dog and the cat, as the significant other is away. Don't know what Freud would say, but all the records ended up being duets. Marion Brown and Leo Smith, Marion Brown and Elliott Schwartz, Ornette Coleman and Charlie Haden (Soapsuds,Soapsuds), the entire two disc Cecil Taylor/Max Roach duets from 1979. Joseph Jarman and Don Moye, Egwu Anwu (Sun Song) from 1978. So yes, with the exception of the Ornette, each set of duets a double album as well, oddly.

I don't have much to articulate about these recordings, really, except to say there's something uniquely intimate about improvised duets. Having done 24 of them last year I know it firsthand, but it really came home today. The connections between Roach and Taylor are awe inspiring. Haden and Coleman, such purity. I might have listened to Hampton Hawes and Haden too, but it was altogether too mellow by contrast so I saved it.

Don Moye and Jarman call forth Art Ensemble levels of sound manifestation, despite being 2/5 of the band. Heavy with the Africanisms, but still kick-ass. It works somehow, unexpectedly, the layering of sincerity on top of the pretense of African-ness. Why it works: the two of them are absolutely killer musicians. Oh yeah.

Maybe it's time to start blogging again.

Self-Obsessed Drivel

The interwebs are an odd country. The few posts here "about" quitting smoking have mostly generated constructive comments, interesting suggestions, cheerleading, etc. Someone sadly too chickenshit to identify him or herself (which is precisely what I get for allowing anonymous comments) wrote: "What self-obsessed drivel! So you were dumb enough to smoke for many years. Why should the rest of us, who were smart enough not to pick up a fag, be tortured with your detox story?"

And this is an excellent question! Indeed, why should the rest of you, indeed why should any of you, be TORTURED with my detox story?

I have no ready answer for this most incisive query. Except for the hearty rejoinder that has become universal internet currency: if you find my detox story torturous, don't fekkin' read it, ya wanker.

Or some several variations thereof.

And yet. The comment did serve a salutary purpose. For one thing, it had me reflecting, yet again, on how true it is. All blogging is actually really just self-obsessed drivel. I mean, isn't that what blogging is? So on a meta-level, yes indeedy. What self-obsessed drivel! Obviously.

And on a particular level, it's also true. Stories about addiction and the struggle to recover from same are oh-so-tediously boring and ridiculous. They are perhaps the new archetype of the worst kinds of sensationalist, self-absorbed, exceptionalist story.

Smoking specifically is such an idiotic cultural arena. People who pick up fags and then insist on tarring their lungs and destroying their hearts and tasting/smelling like ass for years truly are total and complete morons, at least in this particular regard. So it is difficult to have sympathy for those who finally snap to how idiotic they have been and then whine on and on about how dreadfully difficult it is to stop doing this unquestionably moronic behavior.

Then there's the Confessional Society thing. The Oprah Winfrey-ization of all of our personal and private struggles. The Who Gives a Royal Rat's Ass response is not only appropriate, but refreshing. As my friend Willy Blake transcribed from Hell: "Damn braces, bless relaxes."

So today, as March draws to a close, as I celebrate 10 weeks without cancer sticks, as I reflect on $500 saved and 2,000 cigarettes not smoked, as I gloat over my continuing liberation from the likes of RJ Reynolds and their Thank You For Smoking duplicitous PR bullshit, I solemnly swear that I'll not blog more about what it's been like to quit. Well, not much more. Maybe a bit. Could be, for the next several months. Sorry.

For example, it continues to floor me how powerful the grip of the cravings is. Weeks ago, supposedly, the nicotine molecules were purged, the receptors died off, the physiology of it all was restored to normal. Yet, my repeated desire for a smoke is awe inspiring and humbling, as if a terrible black-winged nicotine demon has me in his heart-clutching grasp several times a day, sometimes for minutes on end. I am emerging from the regularity and ferocity of these cravings slowly, but their force is truly a wonder to behold. I'm told that this will be the case for at least the entire first year, in all likelihood. If nothing else, these tidal cravings illustrate, once again, the angry-Poseidon-ish nature of the mind. "You're not physically addicted anymore!" one of my students said and I thought "that's the least of it." What a mystery. You'd think I'd be able to mind my own mind. Cheeky bastard has a mind of its own.

My irritability, tendency to isolate and curmudgeonly growl have all definitely come to the fore. I don't think I've been very good company, particularly. Which is too fucking bad (he said not to those within earshot but to himself). As I'd rather be addiction free and unpleasant than on my way to an accelerated, horrifying respiratory death and Mr. Sparkles. Not that those are the only two choices, except that they are, a lot of the time. Exactly how it was that cigarettes aided me in being available to people and in being more extroverted, I have no idea. Not in the same way that alcohol did. But some other way.

Which reminds me: aren't you glad this isn't an AA/Recovery/sobriety blog? Because oh how it could be. Oh what fun it would be to be. And how how I reserve the right to make it so. Especially considering how I have yet to find a recovery community here in good old Scarizona. How much fun would it be if I were to blog relentlessly, torurously, narcissistically about *both* recovery from alcoholism and years of smoking? Ah what great fun, what great originality!

Yet, there's more to life than becoming less mentally ill. I said to myself just this morning, looking at my spring-turgid and budding cacti, "hey, there's more to life than becoming less mentally ill, you know."

For example, music.

Yesterday at school, a very talented multi-instrumentalist and vocalist student of mine asked the seemingly innocent question: "So what sort of 20th Century innovative composers would you recommend?" I always ultimately feel sorry for students who ask me questions like this, as I always end up shoveling cultural references at them ton after ton, until they look like they want to say (yet politely don't) "enough already, man, get a life, holy cow, enough enough!" We promptly headed to YouTube, whereon we discovered excerpts from or versions of Ionisation by Varese (this version conducted by Pierre Boulez; there are a few versions up), Metastasis by Iannis Xenakis (with agraphical score, the audio is low, so pump up the volume), the famous Requiem by Gyorgi Ligeti (with funny still photos from 2001: A Space Odyssey), Penderecki's Threnody on the Victims of Hiroshima with suitably plain black video (conducted by Penderecki himself), Stockhausen's "Helicopter" String Quartet, and last but not least, George Crumb's Black Angels.

By the time we finished watching these, either entire or in snippets, my student was deeply enthused. "Why doesn't anyone teach us about this music?" was one of the plaintive questions. To which I had no answer.

It's F@*$+*G Distracting...

The title of this post one of the outbursts from Christian Bale's awesome, expletive-laden rant, captured in its sparkly essence by Revolucian's remix.

It's probably a sign of a certain spiritual, emotional and mental imbalance that I persist in finding the above so delightfully entertaining. Lately, in particular, I have a renewed appreciation for the way Bale pronounces the letter F. Like a fricative lisp. Sort of.

Te interwebs (mostly youtube) continue to provide an endless cavalcade of amusement. Piano playing cats, sneezing panda bears, John Berryman's dream songs, Art Ensemble and Cecil Taylor and Don Cherry...it's all jumbled in my media-fevered and indiscriminate mind.

Today marks week 6 without a cigarette. 42 days. Probably about 850 cigs not smoked. About $200 saved. I continue to be surprised by how strong the cravings are from time to time, and as of last weekend anyway, all weekend long. There's actually no noticeable easing up yet. Not entirely sure why not. It makes no difference, really, but it's astonishing. I figured a few weeks tops would be the most harrowing part. Sometimes the only thing I've got is "well, the discomfort, as bad as it might be, won't kill ya."

I'm ready to kiss February goodbye. Is it astrological, biorhythmic, acculturated, otherwise metaphysical, this tendency for February to crush my spirit like a bug? The nadir of the year, fairly reliably.

100 non-cigarettes later

It's almost as if things are sort of coming back online. The withdrawals are still wicked, as are the cravings. But two days of teaching 130 high school math students didn't drive me back to lighting up. So that's something, eh?

One thing is, it's getting boring. You know I think I started smoking because I'm frikkin' hyper. I pace around a lot. I'm wired, man! Cigs were like an accessory for being essentially a human squirrel. So now I've already been up against that bored feeling. Like now what?

On the other hand, this is of course the evil whispering devil on my shoulder. Surely just because you're bored that means it's an excellent idea to GET CANCER.

Nobody ever said addiction was rational.

To bed, 120 hours with nothing but air and Phoenix AZ crud in my lungs....

On Being a Non-Smoker

So 60 hours ago I had my last cigarette. There's a trusty and (as far
as I can tell) almost completely ineffectual (but maybe that "almost"
is pretty important) 21 mg. patch slapped on my arm. One reason why
the measly 21 mg. delivered over 24 hours might still be leaving me
with skin crawling, excruciating nerve clanging withdrawals.

When I started smoking again after nearly 9 months without a
cigarette, in July of 2004 (ironically, on Independence Day), I chose
Natural American Spirit cigarettes. Health smokes, don't you know. It
turns out these are stronger than Marlboro Reds, the smokes I had been
smoking. I also gravitated toward the second strongest cigarette American
Spirit makes: their pimped out super minty menthols. 2.17 mg. nicotine
per cancer stick. And promptly hit a pack a day. In other words, 43.4
mg. of glorious nicotine delivered over roughly 16 hours, usually in
great clumping gobs of heart stopping, lung crackling joy.

My legions of receptors are laughing maniacally at the puny patch.

The "simple spiritual tools" of AA have been helping me immeasurably
the past 2.5 days. Okay, maybe just uncommon sense: right now, I am a
non-smoker. I'm not in charge of quitting; all I have to do is show up
without smoke in my lungs. I can't figure out why or how I'm quitting
or even if I'm able to do it. In other words, I am powerless over
nicotine and my life has become unmanageable. My short form of the
Serenity Prayer: "Help me!" Just a great yelp to the universe.

Antheil's Ballet Mechanique or Varese's Ionisation or far, far worse, something like Neil Diamond's I Am...I Said playing at full volume in bad headphones pretty much 18 hours a day without interruption. Tiny little insectile devils jabbing happy tasers into my back and forearms, dancing and laughing like Daffy Duck. Pornographic images in my mind of the great allure of the crackle of the baccy as the flame from the lighter hits it. Fantasies of the utter repose and peace provided by just one cigarette. A James Brownian restlessness. Flashes of Olympian rage not triggered by anything in particular. A strange feeling that my soul is plunging feet first into a bottomless pit, surrounded by a howling maelstrom. Combined exhaustion and hypervigilance.

And now, for the second day in a row, I head into the desert to walk up hills.