Thursday Night Service at The Church of James Blake

 “D’angelo!” a member of the audience murmured loudly between songs at James Blake’s April 18^th, Thursday night concert at the Rio Theatre in Santa Cruz, California.  Who knows exactly what the person meant but a few moments later as Blake fiddled with his keyboard and microphone they said it again, shouting this time, “D’Angelo!”  At the second and louder mention of the late 90’s R&B impresario, James Blake took notice and calmly and wittingly retorted in his endearing British accent, “What, is he here?...I hope he’s here that’d  be great?” Though he was joking there was a purposefully detectable amount of sincerity in Blake’s voice, and the audience responded with  both cheers and laughter.  No, D’angelo wasn’t there, nor did James Blake suddenly break into a set from the D’angelo songbook, but the brief exchange was indicative of Blake’s performance before the intimate crowd in the seaside college town and surfing haven an hour south of San Francisco.  Blake and many of his fans know and appreciate very well the lineage that he and his music fall into (yell D’angelo at an Aerosmith concert and see if you get a reply), which only increased the connection between the sentiment and sound of his songs and the audience that night.  Furthermore, anyone who’s spent some Sundays in a Black church knows where Blake takes some of his musical cues and that the roots of his sounds can be heard from a pew any Sunday morning in Black America.  But Blake’s concert wasn’t a holy event, it was a secular celebration of audible art—in a hallowed way.   At approximately 9pm Blake had kicked off the evening with the mellow intro to his single “I never Learnt to Share”; service at the church of James Blake had begun.  An hour and a half later when the doors of the church were opened and the mostly young crowed filed back onto Soquel Ave., Blake had assured his fans that his is a career worth following.    

Mom, There’s A Canadian Salesman At The Door

Canada is a wasteland of peace, universal healthcare, parliamentary government, and moose. In many ways it is a distorted reflection of America, the distant relative living in the attic that resembles us and shares many of our personality traits while still managing to be noticeably different. There's a comedian, whose name escapes me, that once correctly stated that the entire world…that life… is a freak show and to live in America is to have a front row seat. So where does that place Canadians? Directly behind us politely looking on in their distinctive quaint manner while we Americans scream at the top of our lungs, flailing about as means of ensuring we remain the center of all attention? Oh Canada. There's a constant cultural dialogue that occurs between America and Canada, but you can rest your ego filled American head peacefully because that dialogue is more often a one way conversation in which we constantly dare Canadians to differentiate themselves from us, knowing we ultimately don't care when they do. It's because of the very unique nature of the American-Canadian relationship that Canada has been able to undertake a very successful enterprise that no other nation in the world could duplicate. Canadians are masters at selling us back to ourselves.

The Truth

The second to last post here, The Turmoil Just Behind the Peace was both oddly and accidentally one of the most honest things I've ever written and sent me into an introspective spiral. And that damn song, "Pues"…well let's just say it isn't the best idea to listen on repeat while you gaze into the inner depths of your soul and rifle through the dustiest boxes in the dimmest recesses of your memory. Either that or it's the best idea ever. I haven't fully figured out yet. What can be said is that everybody must find the truth as it exist within them at a certain point in their life. Some do it on the playground when they're 3 yrs. old, others on their deathbed, and everybody else likely somewhere between those two extremes. There's of course the larger struggle of finding the truth as it exist in the larger world outside our windows, but that's another thing entirely. Most everybody figures that out after they take their last breath and whatever happens, happens…I'm assuming. But finding truth as it exist within ourselves just involves realizing at some point you have to stop getting in a boxing match with yourself and work your way through the world the way that little voice in your head keeps telling you to. If you want to be a clown, be a clown. Alexander Ebert's first words in "Truth" get right to the point: "truth is that I never shook my shadow/everyday it's trying to trick me into doing battle/calling out faker only get me rattled. " Shadow boxing your own shadow eventually wears you out and strips you down. Oh, and the names your own shadow will call you…completely unnecessary and inappropriate. And so, sooner or later we each just stop fighting. And that's the truth.

The Turmoil Just Behind the Peace

"Here's to the precariously perched highways of life that intersect with ease from a distance yet are filled with an unbalanced commotion."

You can't make someone love you.  Those who have had the experience of realizing this through experience understand the innate pain and agony that accompanies that statement. While it's easy to say and somewhat simple to understand, its outright torture to truly realize.  There's that moment when you have to watch the other person walk away for last time, and while you look at them you suddenly realize that it's not necessarily the last time you'll see them, but that it's the last time you'll see them attached with a feeling of hope. It's in that small moment that the rational part of our nature makes its greatest stand, attempting to beat back the tide of sentiment, screaming in a symphony of lyric-less music—you can't make someone love you.  When that moment ends the memory becomes an instrument of agonizing pleasure, reminding you of why the best was so good and the worst was so bad, while doing its best to feed that small feeling of hope as it slowly makes an exit. It's a tough and bittersweet lesson to learn and indeed the most stubborn among us never fully accept it. You can't make someone love you.  Here's a song that captures the beauty within the sorrow of watching someone walk away, sans hope, leaving you to your memory. Here's a song that goes out to the eerie splendor after the storm. Here's to the precariously perched highways of life that intersect with ease from a distance yet are filled with an unbalanced commotion. Here's to trying to make someone love you.  Here's to finding out you can't. It's a strange peace wrought with inner turmoil.

I’m Still Here, Sarah Palin’s Alaska, and Jay Electronica

Joaquin Phoenix's documentary I'm Still Here catches me off gaurd, Sarah Palin may be hoping to catch all of America off guard in 2012, and Jay Electronica might be 1 step closer to saving hip-hop.   

The Best Podcast: A List of the 5 Podcast You Should Be Listening To

1. Uhh Yeah Dude
   "America through the eyes of 2 American Americans" is how host Seth Romatelli and Jonathan Laroquette (yes, he's the son of TV's John Laroquette (Night Court)) describe their show. What can be said about UYD other than it's the definition of a well done podcast, with a unique and hilarious perspective. In these crazy times that we live in Seth and Jonathan spend an hour each week chronicling the craziness, discussing news stories from around the country that reflect the worst and/or most unbelievable aspects of American society with a thick layer of humor. The only hurdle between realizing how this podcast is consistently good week in and week out, is the little voice in the back of your head that says, "I shouldn't be laughing at this"—it's likely you're already laughing before that happens. The best part about UYD is there are over 200 episodes stretching back to 2006 which means there's always a UYD episode to listen to.

Veterans Day

I just missed the 11th hour, the 11th day, the 11th month. Due to some technical difficulties with my computer I've been unable to post recently.  But I'm back up and running now and this weekend there should be an interesting post about fame, notoriety, youtube, our desire to connect, whatever you want to call it.  For now here's a belated Veterans Day memorial post complete with music.  Tune in. Turn on. But..yea, please don't drop out.  Still here.

  Bill Withers - I Can't Write Left-Handed 

Is it Still Cool to Like Kanye West?

 Last month Jay Z sat down for an interview with the American financial institution that is Warren Buffet and noted conservative money man Steve Forbes of Forbes Magazine. It was a far cry from the drug dealing project reared roots of hip hop's celebrated elder statesman. Last year President Obama invited him to the White House where Jay Z was given a private tour and snapped the now infamous photo of himself lounging in the situation room. Possibly Obama's way of thanking Jay after the President made an allusion to a line from one of his songs in '08, when then candidate Obama was fighting off Hilary Clinton in the nation's longest primary season (Man, I miss that Obama). As part owner of the New Jersey Nets, Jay Z is partially responsible for the future move of the NBA team to Brooklyn, the home of Marcy projects, the home of Jay Z, made famous by the artist himself. For much of the 20^th century the unofficial anthem of New York City was Frank Sinatra's crooning rendition of New York, New York. It served it's time well for decades of transplants, onlookers, outsiders, and natives alike, as the musical for the world's most dynamic city. But let's be honest it's a new century, a new millennium even, and New York needed a new anthem as the city has changed from the days of Sinatra. Jay Z provided that anthem last year, doing Old Blues Eyes justice with a beat backed anthem that recognized that the New York of this era is different than the Broadway sounds of New York's Sinatra past. This is the era that the boroughs birthed hip hop making it all the more fitting that Jay Z wrote the tune. For those of us on the outside life seems pretty good for Jay Z and he appears happy with whatever place he's reached in the cultural pantheon.

Notes on a Soundtrack

I'm finding a lot old writings that are piquing my interest. This little gem comes from 2006 and I completely agree with what it says. Make sense since I wrote it.

Some songs are just good songs--that is they sound appealing. Some songs are good songs that seem to suggest a certain imagery or properly convey a certain emotion--in a way that words can't--to given situations. These songs make excellent soundtracks, and fit in perfectly with your favorite scene in your favorite movie. Then there are songs which strike the nerves of reality. These songs are very similar to the former, however their meaning goes deeper.
These songs compile the soundtrack to life. Not to some story that someone imagined in
their mind, but to reality. To existence. To whatever it means to live. Some good songs will make you listen. Other good songs will make you dream, others make you think, and others still make you feel. Really good songs make you do all of the above whether you intend to or not. You listen to good songs, you live with really good songs. That dreaming, thinking, and feeling...they're all there. I recently listened to a certain song and it captured in its simple acoustic melody everything I had been thinking and feeling and dreaming. My whole life was there, sung in under 5 mins. Everything I couldn't explain to the outside world I listened to the song tell me. It didn't change my life. Which is not the burden of such songs, and I don't believe is the aim of really good songs. Good songs don't cause you to quit your job and move your family across the country in a motor home to follow your dream of being a pillow salesman.
Good songs realize that like everything else good in this world, they are incapable of making the change--that is left up to you. However they simply act as a place of solitude for those planning their next attack. Simply put, truly good songs always seem to understand. These songs are able to do this because they are able to find that thin little strip of connection in the universe where what's inside of a person and the reality around them meet. Those of us who listen to to these songs don't care what the artist gets out of making music. It seems we want the artist to make the music for us. The genre and style of the music is unimportant. The man/woman themself even seems insignificant. Which hardly seems fair. Yet it is. I believe this music shouldn't be made for the fans either. This music should be made for that little strip where internal consciousness and external reality meet. These songs are made so that they may have eternal rest in their home and you have a scenic rest stop on your journey.

I don't know what song I was talking about b/c I wrote that 3 years ago, but here's one that I'll pick for now...
Case # 287: