Like all my great loves,
Were a scribbled-upon library book and her corduroyed arm.
We kissed goodbye as strangers,
Southerners
Of antiquity!
Hear my tambourine?
The minute was the minute
But she was my canyon
And I was her stream.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
An Encounter
Wrapped in a jacket of nostalgia
Like all my great loves,
Were a scribbled-upon library book and her corduroyed arm.
We kissed goodbye as strangers,
Southerners
Of antiquity!
Hear my tambourine?
The minute was the minute
But she was my canyon
And I was her stream.
Like all my great loves,
Were a scribbled-upon library book and her corduroyed arm.
We kissed goodbye as strangers,
Southerners
Of antiquity!
Hear my tambourine?
The minute was the minute
But she was my canyon
And I was her stream.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
What the bums said
It’s a plum cake.
That’s what the nuns said.
We bought it from them yesterday down the hill at their mission where they live.
We are giving it to you in thanks;
You let us stay a night in your flat.
You didn’t even know us.
That was a nice thing to do.
It’s a plum cake.
That’s what they said.
That’s what the nuns said.
We bought it from them yesterday down the hill at their mission where they live.
We are giving it to you in thanks;
You let us stay a night in your flat.
You didn’t even know us.
That was a nice thing to do.
It’s a plum cake.
That’s what they said.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Cosmic turns in the hallway through the most beautiful gallery of destiny
This weekend started with a mexicana dinner party that I held for a few of my friends in my piso. I fried up some beans and chicken, bell peppers, rice and some other goodies. We ate up and listened to mariachi music until about three! It was a great time. Matteo and I also worked in some jamming which has become a welcomed motif in my piso around Friday night.
Then in the morning, Maria and I went hiking in Monachil; one of my favorite nearby mountain towns. Above the town there is a canyon that is truly beautiful. It’s about a mile long and made up of tall walls and pillars. The trail is well maintained with hanging Indiana-Jones-style bridges and a cement wall you walk and crawl along the top of as it bows and bends up, over and around the beautiful rocks, like a cat scurrying across rooftops of the most beautiful and natural city. At one point you pass through a tunnel! Another part is like a long, turning hallway with almost perfectly straight walls on both sides. In this spot there were many rock climbers and as Maria said, “We are walking through the hallway of a gallery and they are the paintings dangling from the walls like living portraits.”
Further up, the canyon opened to rocky alpine meadows. There was an abandoned farmhouse along the trail. Outside the house was a rusty old water duct wheel with handles like the helm of a whaling ship. I couldn’t help thinking of the 90’s computer game, “Myst.” Maybe if I turned the wheel the direction of the stream would change, driving a watermill that would mechanically lift an elevator to an unknown chamber of a tower holding the secret historical manuscripts of the mysterious deserted island city!
The magic that led to my overactive imagination was the quietness. The slight wind through the valley silenced all other sounds and we were alone. Suddenly the maze of our hike through the canyon, meadows, farm, was full of puzzles and hidden meanings. Every stone, every bridge, every winding branch had it’s coveted significance that was just out of reach. like Kundera says in the ULB, "On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth showing through." It was just like playing Myst; the puzzles were eminent and important but a little too hard to crack as a ten-year-old. Their subtle clues added to my curiosity and assurance that there is always more than meets the eye - We think ourselves capable of defining truths!? - ha!
We had a picnic and good conversation in a meadow below a towering cliff, overlooking the valley below. My soul was resonating in the peaceful scene like a choir in a dark old stone Spanish church. When we made it out of the canyon and back to the bar by the bus station, I was physically tired from the hike and emotionally silenced by the beauty that surrounded me.
After the hike I went for tapas with Maria and Karine (the French Canadian) at La Toturga. The bar is run by a charming old butch Española who does indeed resemble a “tortuga.” There I randomly bumped into one of my best friends in Granada, Markus. I left the Tortuga with him and some of his Viennese friends. We wandered through the streets speaking Spanish, English and German and eventually ended up at a tapas bar in my neighborhood called “La Candela.” There Markus told me his dream:
He was walking through a canyon (not unlike the one in Monachil) with his brother when they came to a bridge. Seeing the bridge, his brother turned to Markus and said, very seriously, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”
Markus thought, “¡Joder! What are these poetic words coming from my brother’s mouth?” then Markus turned around and his brother had vanished.
He thought about heading back but decided he must follow the trail. Cautiously crossing the bridge day changed quickly but evenly into night and by the time he made it to the other side it was completely dark. He was now out of the canyon and in a thick pinewood forest. Out of the darkness he saw two sets of bright white eyes. The light from the eyes at first blinded him, even from a great distance. Soon his eyes adjusted and he saw that the eyes belonged two wolves! He was frightened but forced himself to be calm and admit to the fate of his dream. One of the wolves spoke to him, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”
Then the wolves led him above the trees to the mountaintop. There the full moon shone bright and the wolves began to howl. Markus began to sing in his flamenco voice. Soon his voice tuned itself to the wolves’ howl and they were all howling together. Markus felt his body lift and soar towards the moon higher and higher as he continued his howl!
My spirit needed this weekend. I feel like it was given to me as a gift at exactly the right time. My grandma died last week and this Saturday, the day of the hike and howls, was also the day of her funeral. My parents and my sister were there, in Pennsylvania. I wanted to come but could not. This temporary separation from my family in a hard time and the permanent separation from grandma in death, made me feel very sad and alone here in Spain. I cut all my hair off, I stayed in my room and read, I got sick and worn out. I tried to lock myself away from the gravity of the the world. Any feelings of homesickness I had were multiplied fifty times and I felt so isolated. Then, as I hosted my friends in my piso, wove through the secret meanings hidden in the canyon and thought about the eerie pertinence of Markus’ dream, I felt connected to something. Even if it was less than "intelligible." Be it good food and music, nature, friends and family, or the cosmic turns in the hallway through the most beautiful gallery of destiny, I felt peace. I felt my soul lifting like Markus after he had succumb to the scary wolves in the dark forest and decided he would let himself fly to the moon.
Then in the morning, Maria and I went hiking in Monachil; one of my favorite nearby mountain towns. Above the town there is a canyon that is truly beautiful. It’s about a mile long and made up of tall walls and pillars. The trail is well maintained with hanging Indiana-Jones-style bridges and a cement wall you walk and crawl along the top of as it bows and bends up, over and around the beautiful rocks, like a cat scurrying across rooftops of the most beautiful and natural city. At one point you pass through a tunnel! Another part is like a long, turning hallway with almost perfectly straight walls on both sides. In this spot there were many rock climbers and as Maria said, “We are walking through the hallway of a gallery and they are the paintings dangling from the walls like living portraits.”
Further up, the canyon opened to rocky alpine meadows. There was an abandoned farmhouse along the trail. Outside the house was a rusty old water duct wheel with handles like the helm of a whaling ship. I couldn’t help thinking of the 90’s computer game, “Myst.” Maybe if I turned the wheel the direction of the stream would change, driving a watermill that would mechanically lift an elevator to an unknown chamber of a tower holding the secret historical manuscripts of the mysterious deserted island city!
The magic that led to my overactive imagination was the quietness. The slight wind through the valley silenced all other sounds and we were alone. Suddenly the maze of our hike through the canyon, meadows, farm, was full of puzzles and hidden meanings. Every stone, every bridge, every winding branch had it’s coveted significance that was just out of reach. like Kundera says in the ULB, "On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth showing through." It was just like playing Myst; the puzzles were eminent and important but a little too hard to crack as a ten-year-old. Their subtle clues added to my curiosity and assurance that there is always more than meets the eye - We think ourselves capable of defining truths!? - ha!
We had a picnic and good conversation in a meadow below a towering cliff, overlooking the valley below. My soul was resonating in the peaceful scene like a choir in a dark old stone Spanish church. When we made it out of the canyon and back to the bar by the bus station, I was physically tired from the hike and emotionally silenced by the beauty that surrounded me.
After the hike I went for tapas with Maria and Karine (the French Canadian) at La Toturga. The bar is run by a charming old butch Española who does indeed resemble a “tortuga.” There I randomly bumped into one of my best friends in Granada, Markus. I left the Tortuga with him and some of his Viennese friends. We wandered through the streets speaking Spanish, English and German and eventually ended up at a tapas bar in my neighborhood called “La Candela.” There Markus told me his dream:
He was walking through a canyon (not unlike the one in Monachil) with his brother when they came to a bridge. Seeing the bridge, his brother turned to Markus and said, very seriously, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”
Markus thought, “¡Joder! What are these poetic words coming from my brother’s mouth?” then Markus turned around and his brother had vanished.
He thought about heading back but decided he must follow the trail. Cautiously crossing the bridge day changed quickly but evenly into night and by the time he made it to the other side it was completely dark. He was now out of the canyon and in a thick pinewood forest. Out of the darkness he saw two sets of bright white eyes. The light from the eyes at first blinded him, even from a great distance. Soon his eyes adjusted and he saw that the eyes belonged two wolves! He was frightened but forced himself to be calm and admit to the fate of his dream. One of the wolves spoke to him, “Tonight you will learn how to fly to the moon.”
Then the wolves led him above the trees to the mountaintop. There the full moon shone bright and the wolves began to howl. Markus began to sing in his flamenco voice. Soon his voice tuned itself to the wolves’ howl and they were all howling together. Markus felt his body lift and soar towards the moon higher and higher as he continued his howl!
My spirit needed this weekend. I feel like it was given to me as a gift at exactly the right time. My grandma died last week and this Saturday, the day of the hike and howls, was also the day of her funeral. My parents and my sister were there, in Pennsylvania. I wanted to come but could not. This temporary separation from my family in a hard time and the permanent separation from grandma in death, made me feel very sad and alone here in Spain. I cut all my hair off, I stayed in my room and read, I got sick and worn out. I tried to lock myself away from the gravity of the the world. Any feelings of homesickness I had were multiplied fifty times and I felt so isolated. Then, as I hosted my friends in my piso, wove through the secret meanings hidden in the canyon and thought about the eerie pertinence of Markus’ dream, I felt connected to something. Even if it was less than "intelligible." Be it good food and music, nature, friends and family, or the cosmic turns in the hallway through the most beautiful gallery of destiny, I felt peace. I felt my soul lifting like Markus after he had succumb to the scary wolves in the dark forest and decided he would let himself fly to the moon.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Shuffle continued: Essay for Musical Communication and Critique Class
I) Notas de La Enciclopedia de New Grove
1) Características de la Autenticidad en la música
a) El uso de instrumentos de la época,
b) Fidelidad a los deseos del componente original
c) Una re-creación del contexto del ejecución original
d) “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the original audience”(241)
e) El termino, “Historically aware/informed performances” ahora esta mas usado
porque la palabra “autentico” implica verdad objetivo que seria verdad y correcto en cualquier lugar o tiempo. Sin embargo, en los tres décadas pasadas, la idea de un concierto ‘autentico’ ya ha cambiado mucho.
2) Critica negativa
a) Ejecuciones informados “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the
orignal audience” eso es muy difícil, naive y elite.
b) Elitismo cultural; ¿Otros ejecuciones no son auténticos? ¿Por que?
(¿ejemplo? Bob Dylan quien tome una tipa de música antigua y lo cambio poniéndolo vanguardia y entonces, elite.)
c) Ninguno concierto puede ser exactamente “autentico.”
d) Muchos aspectos de ejecución han cambiado (la idea de una ejecución
autentica es uno!)
e)Es ingenio pensar que los oyentes pueden tener la misma experiencia como
tuvieron en el pasado.
f) Las barreras culturales entre el pasado y ahora son tan grande como cualquier barrera producido por distancia física. Así que un concierto “autentico” pueda perder su componente mas importante; la audiencia.
3) El Postmodernismo sus síntomas
a)El deseo o “craving” por la autenticidad es algo postmoderno. Es una reacción a
la globalización que, con el capitalismo y Mas-media nos ha desconectado de nuestra historia cultural.
b)The influx of media and capitalism weakens our ‘historicity’ “this means that
we are no longer aware of our place within human history and are not so able to appreciate ourselves as historically conditioned beings.”(p.242) nos sentimos perdidos y solos en nuestro tiempo.
c) Por eso, muchos humanos en el mundo postmoderno buscan ordenen
definición y propósito. Fundamentalistas religiosos son un ejemplo; por usando leyes viejos buscan la un-ambigüedad. Quizás la diferencia entre la vida hoy y la vida de antigüedad queda en el sigue de estas tradiciones. La autenticidad en música intenta de revivir una época de música cuando humanos se sentían en su lugar.
TYRRELL, John (ed.). The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians 2nd Edition. Volume 2 of 21. London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 2001.
It is a very scary thing to live in the postmodern world. We are so isolated from our past and feel lost. Postmodern sentiments in art (like “Authentic” concerts) became popular in the first half of the 20th century with the aftermath of massive wars and the ever-increasing presence of technology and mass communication. Population growth, technology and therein too, art, have expanded exponentially and violently. This leaves us with a feeling of being cut off from the gradual and directional continuance of culture that, until recently, was normal. We are now, more than ever, confused and insecure with our roll in history and the meaning of existance.
One natural reaction to this would be to dive back into our past and try to make it a part of our lives once again. This is a noble idea; our identity is utterly important. But perhaps it is too late. Perhaps we have changed so much in the past 50-90 years that to try to connect ourselves to anything before would be false and a lie.
This is often the case with authentic recreations in music. So much about the musicians, composers and especially the listeners has changed that the music of antiquity (beyond the academic sense) is inapplicable. The best approach to take is to acknowledge that things have changed and try to redefine ourselves based on the present. Communicate with audiences and see what they like. We may be in a completely new era but we are not crippled by anything else but our nostalgia. We need to look forward and see what good we can bring to art. Dwelling on the past will not do anything for us because it is now, in the postmodern era, too far removed.
Recreations of concerts can be of academic value but beyond that I would agree with most of the criticism listed above. For the most part they are done out of nostalgic fantasy for a time that has passed and will never return. Furthermore, there is almost no way to recreate the thing as a whole and so you kind of have to lie to yourself to make it work. And if it is taken out of cultural and historical context, the audience cannot relate to the concert and they become even more lost.
However, in the historically informed film, “Eroica” (2003, Simon Cellan Jones) we saw an interesting example of a recreated concert, where the audience was also recreated. Infused with political and musical commentary, costumes, beer and food of the time, we were able to see the novelty and explosiveness of this symphony in context; a characteristic that many recreations lack. The recreated audience was able to react to the symphony and give us this contextualization.
This 1804 concert by Beethoven was submersed in political and musical controversy; Napoleon’s political advances over Europe and the individualistic evolution of composers to the status of artist. Without people there to discus and contextualize these controversies, the significance of the concert would be lost to almost all except the most historically wise of viewers. In this sense, the recreated concert and it’s audience eliminated the elitism often found in other authentic recreations. Anyone who likes music, academically trained to appreciate it or not, could enjoy this film and realize the what led Haydn to say at the end of the film, “From this day, everything is different.”
Beethoven’s struggle to expose himself as an individual and an artist is a theme that still applies today. Young artist still face the stubborn opinions of the older generations who do not appreciate their work. Also, thanks to romanticism, which Beethoven was at the cusp of, the artist has become a small god in our society. With that final line the film was made applicable to current audiences, and it will continue to apply to them in the future. This film achieved something that very few historical recreations ever do; applicability.
1) Características de la Autenticidad en la música
a) El uso de instrumentos de la época,
b) Fidelidad a los deseos del componente original
c) Una re-creación del contexto del ejecución original
d) “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the original audience”(241)
e) El termino, “Historically aware/informed performances” ahora esta mas usado
porque la palabra “autentico” implica verdad objetivo que seria verdad y correcto en cualquier lugar o tiempo. Sin embargo, en los tres décadas pasadas, la idea de un concierto ‘autentico’ ya ha cambiado mucho.
2) Critica negativa
a) Ejecuciones informados “Attempt to re-create the musical experience of the
orignal audience” eso es muy difícil, naive y elite.
b) Elitismo cultural; ¿Otros ejecuciones no son auténticos? ¿Por que?
(¿ejemplo? Bob Dylan quien tome una tipa de música antigua y lo cambio poniéndolo vanguardia y entonces, elite.)
c) Ninguno concierto puede ser exactamente “autentico.”
d) Muchos aspectos de ejecución han cambiado (la idea de una ejecución
autentica es uno!)
e)Es ingenio pensar que los oyentes pueden tener la misma experiencia como
tuvieron en el pasado.
f) Las barreras culturales entre el pasado y ahora son tan grande como cualquier barrera producido por distancia física. Así que un concierto “autentico” pueda perder su componente mas importante; la audiencia.
3) El Postmodernismo sus síntomas
a)El deseo o “craving” por la autenticidad es algo postmoderno. Es una reacción a
la globalización que, con el capitalismo y Mas-media nos ha desconectado de nuestra historia cultural.
b)The influx of media and capitalism weakens our ‘historicity’ “this means that
we are no longer aware of our place within human history and are not so able to appreciate ourselves as historically conditioned beings.”(p.242) nos sentimos perdidos y solos en nuestro tiempo.
c) Por eso, muchos humanos en el mundo postmoderno buscan ordenen
definición y propósito. Fundamentalistas religiosos son un ejemplo; por usando leyes viejos buscan la un-ambigüedad. Quizás la diferencia entre la vida hoy y la vida de antigüedad queda en el sigue de estas tradiciones. La autenticidad en música intenta de revivir una época de música cuando humanos se sentían en su lugar.
TYRRELL, John (ed.). The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians 2nd Edition. Volume 2 of 21. London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 2001.
It is a very scary thing to live in the postmodern world. We are so isolated from our past and feel lost. Postmodern sentiments in art (like “Authentic” concerts) became popular in the first half of the 20th century with the aftermath of massive wars and the ever-increasing presence of technology and mass communication. Population growth, technology and therein too, art, have expanded exponentially and violently. This leaves us with a feeling of being cut off from the gradual and directional continuance of culture that, until recently, was normal. We are now, more than ever, confused and insecure with our roll in history and the meaning of existance.
One natural reaction to this would be to dive back into our past and try to make it a part of our lives once again. This is a noble idea; our identity is utterly important. But perhaps it is too late. Perhaps we have changed so much in the past 50-90 years that to try to connect ourselves to anything before would be false and a lie.
This is often the case with authentic recreations in music. So much about the musicians, composers and especially the listeners has changed that the music of antiquity (beyond the academic sense) is inapplicable. The best approach to take is to acknowledge that things have changed and try to redefine ourselves based on the present. Communicate with audiences and see what they like. We may be in a completely new era but we are not crippled by anything else but our nostalgia. We need to look forward and see what good we can bring to art. Dwelling on the past will not do anything for us because it is now, in the postmodern era, too far removed.
Recreations of concerts can be of academic value but beyond that I would agree with most of the criticism listed above. For the most part they are done out of nostalgic fantasy for a time that has passed and will never return. Furthermore, there is almost no way to recreate the thing as a whole and so you kind of have to lie to yourself to make it work. And if it is taken out of cultural and historical context, the audience cannot relate to the concert and they become even more lost.
However, in the historically informed film, “Eroica” (2003, Simon Cellan Jones) we saw an interesting example of a recreated concert, where the audience was also recreated. Infused with political and musical commentary, costumes, beer and food of the time, we were able to see the novelty and explosiveness of this symphony in context; a characteristic that many recreations lack. The recreated audience was able to react to the symphony and give us this contextualization.
This 1804 concert by Beethoven was submersed in political and musical controversy; Napoleon’s political advances over Europe and the individualistic evolution of composers to the status of artist. Without people there to discus and contextualize these controversies, the significance of the concert would be lost to almost all except the most historically wise of viewers. In this sense, the recreated concert and it’s audience eliminated the elitism often found in other authentic recreations. Anyone who likes music, academically trained to appreciate it or not, could enjoy this film and realize the what led Haydn to say at the end of the film, “From this day, everything is different.”Beethoven’s struggle to expose himself as an individual and an artist is a theme that still applies today. Young artist still face the stubborn opinions of the older generations who do not appreciate their work. Also, thanks to romanticism, which Beethoven was at the cusp of, the artist has become a small god in our society. With that final line the film was made applicable to current audiences, and it will continue to apply to them in the future. This film achieved something that very few historical recreations ever do; applicability.
إفريقيا
Hello people of the English-speaking world. I, Ross Voorhees, have discovered a new continent! It’s called Africa and it is very close to Spain, about a half hour south by boat to be exact. The people there do not call it Africa though. No no, they call it “l’Afrique” or even إفريقيا !
The Africans in fact have many cities. I was only adventurous enough for two (this time around!); “Tangier” and “Marrakech.” Both lie in a country that is called “Morocco.”
I went with three other brave adventuristas; Erica, Maria and Hermina and while the journey was strange and at times difficult, dangerous and wild! I enjoyed it very much.
There were rooftop parties with ex-pat artists, Arabic discos, night trains, dirt cheap hotels and cafés, snake charmers, monkey handlers, mystical dancers, labyrinths of old streets and shops called “medinas” and surprisingly enough, really nice and cool people.
(View of the Place Djemma El Fna from the Hotel de France in Marrakech; Home to such rarities listed above.)
I made friends with one of the locals there in Marrakech, in the Café de France. His name was Lahsen and was studying English. He had a good friend studying Spanish but not English. We drank powerful ginger and mint teas and talked about our families in two or three languages. Lahsen has five siblings! I told him about Americans; how they really like family too.
(Weighing the Good and the Bad with Maria.)
I will go back to the Café de France soon, hopefully run into Lahsen again. Maybe even venture out into the untamed and uncharted desert that surrounds the city. Until then I am relaxing back in Granada and trying to figure out the best was to say “stubborn” in Spanish.
(Tangier at dusk)
(Waiting for the Marrakech Express)
(Cafe Hafa in Tangier, old Beat hang-out.)
The Africans in fact have many cities. I was only adventurous enough for two (this time around!); “Tangier” and “Marrakech.” Both lie in a country that is called “Morocco.”
I went with three other brave adventuristas; Erica, Maria and Hermina and while the journey was strange and at times difficult, dangerous and wild! I enjoyed it very much.
There were rooftop parties with ex-pat artists, Arabic discos, night trains, dirt cheap hotels and cafés, snake charmers, monkey handlers, mystical dancers, labyrinths of old streets and shops called “medinas” and surprisingly enough, really nice and cool people.
(View of the Place Djemma El Fna from the Hotel de France in Marrakech; Home to such rarities listed above.)I made friends with one of the locals there in Marrakech, in the Café de France. His name was Lahsen and was studying English. He had a good friend studying Spanish but not English. We drank powerful ginger and mint teas and talked about our families in two or three languages. Lahsen has five siblings! I told him about Americans; how they really like family too.
(Weighing the Good and the Bad with Maria.)I will go back to the Café de France soon, hopefully run into Lahsen again. Maybe even venture out into the untamed and uncharted desert that surrounds the city. Until then I am relaxing back in Granada and trying to figure out the best was to say “stubborn” in Spanish.
(Tangier at dusk)
(Waiting for the Marrakech Express)
(Cafe Hafa in Tangier, old Beat hang-out.)
Saturday, May 10, 2008
El Gran Espectaculo Internacional De Musica!
Thursday night there was a concert for us international students. It was held in a big amphitheatre on campus. A huge group of international and local kids showed up to watch. I played five songs, three with Annichka from the Czech Republic and Matteo from Italy. And two with Sara from Italy. With the first group we played Evan’s song that I posted a couple months ago. We also played one of Matteo’s songs called “Friendship is a different thing,” and a Czech jazz classic that Annichka sang and who’s name I couldn’t begin to pronounce, much less spell. With Sara, I played a 90’s pop song in English that she liked called “The Sea” and then “O’sole mio,” as a waltz which was really Italian a fun, I added a little harmony at the end, “STAN FRONT A TE!”
The concert was really a blast. There were other guitarists and singers, some dances and a clown act. It was as eclectic as we were, coming from all over the world. At the end of the show we chose to cheese it up a bit with the whole group singing "We are the world" and "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da."
It had been so long since I had preformed, and it made me really happy. It put me in such a good mood. Afterwards all the musicians and I went out for tapas until one in the morning. I met Karine from Montreal and worked on my French a bit too. Tomorrow she and I going hiking!
Here are some Pics. (Thanks Nic!)
Actually the title of this blog is a bit redundant; it’s a given that in it’s best form music is international.
On the way home from the tapas bar Sara and I were singing “O sole mio” with authentic drunken Italian accents. We passed the translations faculty building and ran into an old Congolese sage. We all held hands for a moment and sang together. He told us that because of globalization we’re all foreigners and so therefore there are no foreigners at all.
With globalization Music is becoming more pure. It is shedding its local color. It sheds language and genre. No one asks it to express anything but itself. By becoming less defined it becomes less limited. It’s really “a different thing.” As we too shed our national identities we gain a worldliness and universality. As was posted above the stage at the concert, we are “abriendo fronteras.” Opening borders. We’re changing, expanding, learning.
The concert was really a blast. There were other guitarists and singers, some dances and a clown act. It was as eclectic as we were, coming from all over the world. At the end of the show we chose to cheese it up a bit with the whole group singing "We are the world" and "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da."
It had been so long since I had preformed, and it made me really happy. It put me in such a good mood. Afterwards all the musicians and I went out for tapas until one in the morning. I met Karine from Montreal and worked on my French a bit too. Tomorrow she and I going hiking!
Here are some Pics. (Thanks Nic!)
Actually the title of this blog is a bit redundant; it’s a given that in it’s best form music is international.
On the way home from the tapas bar Sara and I were singing “O sole mio” with authentic drunken Italian accents. We passed the translations faculty building and ran into an old Congolese sage. We all held hands for a moment and sang together. He told us that because of globalization we’re all foreigners and so therefore there are no foreigners at all.
With globalization Music is becoming more pure. It is shedding its local color. It sheds language and genre. No one asks it to express anything but itself. By becoming less defined it becomes less limited. It’s really “a different thing.” As we too shed our national identities we gain a worldliness and universality. As was posted above the stage at the concert, we are “abriendo fronteras.” Opening borders. We’re changing, expanding, learning.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Shuffle
“You say it’s your birthday? It’s my birthday too. Yeah…”
I think it is… I think!
BEEP...
Oap! Radio Head’s dirge-ing again, “We suck young blood,”
Am I still young? What’s coming up next?
BEEP…
Tom waits says, “The army ants leave nothing but your bones!”
My God! That’s SOO relevant! NO! Nothing’s relevant to ME! Right? Okay, mooooving on;
BEEP…
The Decemberists, “Of angels and angles”
What’s that doing there?
BEEP!
Bob Dylan’s telling me to “Do it well,”
‘It?’ Well Bob, if you say so it must be true.
BEEP…
Billie Holiday’s singing “As time goes by”
Will they REALLY still fall in love? Sad but beautiful!Sad but beautiful! Ambiguous.
BEEP…
Kaiser Chiefs!! “This is the modern way!”
Yeah, if it’s anything at all.
You’ve just taken a journey through the depths (one WHOLE gigabyte) of my iPod Shuffle.
It’s a fine metaphor for my conscience. This blog of mine is too.
The postmodern brain is so scattered! Fragmented. Superficial. Rushed.
What happened to direction?
What happened to confidence!?
Knowing what you want?
Ducks go quack!
Technology
Humans
Technology
Go
Technology
Type!
Technology
I think it is… I think!
BEEP...
Oap! Radio Head’s dirge-ing again, “We suck young blood,”
Am I still young? What’s coming up next?
BEEP…
Tom waits says, “The army ants leave nothing but your bones!”
My God! That’s SOO relevant! NO! Nothing’s relevant to ME! Right? Okay, mooooving on;
BEEP…
The Decemberists, “Of angels and angles”
What’s that doing there?
BEEP!
Bob Dylan’s telling me to “Do it well,”
‘It?’ Well Bob, if you say so it must be true.
BEEP…
Billie Holiday’s singing “As time goes by”
Will they REALLY still fall in love? Sad but beautiful!
BEEP…
Kaiser Chiefs!! “This is the modern way!”
Yeah, if it’s anything at all.
You’ve just taken a journey through the depths (one WHOLE gigabyte) of my iPod Shuffle.
It’s a fine metaphor for my conscience. This blog of mine is too.
The postmodern brain is so scattered! Fragmented. Superficial. Rushed.
What happened to direction?
What happened to confidence!?
Knowing what you want?
Ducks go quack!
Technology
Humans
Technology
Go
Technology
Type!
Technology
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Cultural Conservatives
I'm unsure about this now. I think one lesson to be learned from bullfighting is that life brings many changes (death being one of them) and you have to deal with them all. Globalization is another change we all have to acknowledge. To deny it is simply closed thinking. It always hurts to lose some part of your identity but identity is something that is never stagnant. (See “If I were a building…”) You can fret about the things you've lost or you can revel in the beautiful change those losses bring about in you.
And what Irony! Soon bullfighting might die just as the bulls do.
And what Irony! Soon bullfighting might die just as the bulls do.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
La Corrida, “¡Como la Vida Misma!”
Yesterday I went to my first bullfight. It was an afternoon packed full of extreme beauty and ugliness. The best adjective I can think of is “fuerte.”
First of all, I went with two very beautiful girls: my Italian neighbor, Sara, and my Spanish friend, Lola. Lola was our “aficionada” and told me all about the bullfights as well as gave me a Spanish bullfight vocab lesson, which I will try to relay to you here. She said she has been attending bullfights since she was very young and has a great love for them however, she fears that in a few years there will be no more bullfights in Spain.
At six o’clock we crammed into the bullring (La Plaza de Toros in Granada). It was a big beautiful brick bullring built in the thirties (about the time Hemingway was hanging out here.) It had three steep levels of stands. My friends and I were on the top level and it was crammed. I felt like we might all fall off onto the sand and blood cover floor of the bullring at any moment! The entire three hours I was there I was squished between Lola to my left, some French guy to my right (who was spitting sunflower seeds the whole time. They got all over me!), my back was between the knees of an old fat Spanish guy and between my knees was the back of some young fat Spanish guy. Even in these close proximities, everyone was eating, drinking and smoking to excess. In Spain I’m in the process of learning to let go of several things, one of them being my personal space. Just to be surrounded by so many people in that way, with big energetic faces, gobbling down “bocadillos” (sandwiches) and “vino tinto” (red wine) and cheering at the same time, it gave you that worried and irreversible feeling you get in a dream when you realize the dream is out of your hands. At some point you have to relax and go along with it and forget about your individuality for a bit. I think that’s one beauty that is often missed in the US; the pagan power and energy of antiquity that comes from having so many people packed tight and chanting in unison. (Another good European example of this are the discos!) Sure, football games are a similar phenomena but I don’t think you could say that people share themselves among the group like they do here. The Spanish verb to cheer is “animar,” to animate. The crowd is as much a part of bullfighting as the bullfighter and his bull.
Anyway, the bullfight started with a procession of all the bullfighters and helpers involved. Then two men came out on horseback with purple velvet costumes to signal the official star. By the time it was all over eight men had killed eight bulls. (The usual number is six but this was a special case, I think because it was the first one of the season or some of the fighters were still amateurs.)
The dynamics of bullfighting are as artful as anything. The agile movements of the bullfighters put up against the sheer strength of the bulls is very much an artistic expression. The bull starts out running through the ring, charging at some of the helpers’ red capes. An equestrian comes out on an armored steed and the bull charges at him. This is done for five minutes or so before one of the helpers puts the 4 to 6 “banderillas” in his back. (Short barb-tipped spears colored with the colors of Spain and Andalusia’s flags) Lola told me they are not used, as I had thought, to tire the bull for the bullfighter, but rather to bring down his blood pressure a bit. The excitement of the bullfight would be too much and the bull would die of a heart attack without them.
The placing of the banderillas in the bull is impressive. The helper has to run backwards and jump in front of the bull as he charges, stabbing two spears at a time with both hands into the bull’s shoulders. This part looks very much like a dance, he leaps like a ballerina to stab and then continues running backwards, watching the angry bull, sometimes close enough to put a hand between the bull’s horns.
When the bandarillas have been placed, the bullfighter comes out. He throws his hat into the center of the ring and shouts to the audience and they shout back, “animating” him. He passes the bull back and forth with his cape, trying to get as close as possible to the horns. The more smoothly he moves and the closer he gets without using any fancy tricks, the more “valiente” he is and that is what the judges like. Each good pass receives an “¡olé!” from the audience.
At the end, when both the bull and the bullfighter are very tired, the bullfighter has to kill the bull. He stands in front of the bull and lines up his sword (espalda) for the crucial spot between the bull’s neck and shoulders. He charges at the bull and the bull charges back. He drives the sword all the way through and the bull starts “poniéndose de mano” or bucking. When done right, the bull dies quickly by falling forward onto his knees. He is draged off through the sand by two large horses called "mulas."
If the bullfighter performs well, he receives one or two of the bulls ears, and maybe the tail; all of which he throws into the stands. Also, a good fighter receives “botas” or leather bags of wine, hats and flowers thrown from the crowd. The audience will wave white handkerchiefs to communicate to the judges that they liked the fight. The bullfighter makes a leisurely victory lap around the ring to receive all his praise.
The bullfighters wear a traditional suite called “traje de luces,” or suite of lights. This may seem like an ironic name for the suite for someone with such a dark profession of fighting and killing and who by the end of each fight is covered in blood. The truth is that in no Spanish description of bullfighters or bullfights do they use the word “fight.” It’s really more of a dance than a fight. Bullfighter is “torero.” “Matador” means killer in Spanish but here they only say “torero.” Simply, “bull-man” is the best literal translation I can summon. And bullfight is “la corrida,” meaning a “run” or “dash,” and also, interesting enough, “continuous.” (Ah, ¡Así es la vida!)
It is a beautiful and terrible thing to behold but life brings us these extremes in the very same way. You cannot ignore them or write them off just because you’re not in the mood to deal with them. At some point we all must live, love and die. A bullfight represents these fundamental parts of the human experience in a bold, no nonsense way and I like it.
But yes I would agree, there are many issues to be taken against the corrida. The most valid I can think of being the spectacle of it but humans kill animals every day, the only difference is that it is done in cages or behind fences so we don’t see the killing. In contrast to most the domestic animal world, corrida bulls live privileged lives. They are well fed and given lots of space and freedom. They live and die respectfully.
I can understand how when people come together to watch and enjoy the act of killing, it brings up a moral question; “Is this really acceptable of civilized humans?” And it was indeed uncomfortable for me to hear people laughing about the killings or shouting things to the toreros like “Hey good-lookin’, kill him already!” But I feel I am in no place to judge. This is a very old tradition in Spain and people here identify with it. It is a part of their culture. Even if it is cruel and wasteful by Anglo-Saxon standards (although we manage to be very cruel and wasteful in our own ways), humans need things like this. The killing helps many Spaniards live because it is a tradition and brings them meaning. (Meaningfulness: a topic I will get back to with the science blogs, just wait.)
Throughout Europe, cultural conservatives, like Lola, are feeling the strains of globalization and the diluting of their cultures. The corrida is “a high point of darkness and light.” (to quote a Bob Dylan song out of context.) To get rid of it would rid a people of a beautiful thing and isolate them from their past. Outsiders have no say in it.
Yes, bullfighting is a spectacle of killing but it is done respectfully, artistically and beautifully. It is a bold image of strength and love for life. It is an ingenious portrait of life’s main and most powerful themes. It is an art, an expression, like no other.
PS
I realize this is a rather extreme view. As always, I would really like to see some comments. What do you guys think?!
First of all, I went with two very beautiful girls: my Italian neighbor, Sara, and my Spanish friend, Lola. Lola was our “aficionada” and told me all about the bullfights as well as gave me a Spanish bullfight vocab lesson, which I will try to relay to you here. She said she has been attending bullfights since she was very young and has a great love for them however, she fears that in a few years there will be no more bullfights in Spain.
At six o’clock we crammed into the bullring (La Plaza de Toros in Granada). It was a big beautiful brick bullring built in the thirties (about the time Hemingway was hanging out here.) It had three steep levels of stands. My friends and I were on the top level and it was crammed. I felt like we might all fall off onto the sand and blood cover floor of the bullring at any moment! The entire three hours I was there I was squished between Lola to my left, some French guy to my right (who was spitting sunflower seeds the whole time. They got all over me!), my back was between the knees of an old fat Spanish guy and between my knees was the back of some young fat Spanish guy. Even in these close proximities, everyone was eating, drinking and smoking to excess. In Spain I’m in the process of learning to let go of several things, one of them being my personal space. Just to be surrounded by so many people in that way, with big energetic faces, gobbling down “bocadillos” (sandwiches) and “vino tinto” (red wine) and cheering at the same time, it gave you that worried and irreversible feeling you get in a dream when you realize the dream is out of your hands. At some point you have to relax and go along with it and forget about your individuality for a bit. I think that’s one beauty that is often missed in the US; the pagan power and energy of antiquity that comes from having so many people packed tight and chanting in unison. (Another good European example of this are the discos!) Sure, football games are a similar phenomena but I don’t think you could say that people share themselves among the group like they do here. The Spanish verb to cheer is “animar,” to animate. The crowd is as much a part of bullfighting as the bullfighter and his bull.
Anyway, the bullfight started with a procession of all the bullfighters and helpers involved. Then two men came out on horseback with purple velvet costumes to signal the official star. By the time it was all over eight men had killed eight bulls. (The usual number is six but this was a special case, I think because it was the first one of the season or some of the fighters were still amateurs.)
The dynamics of bullfighting are as artful as anything. The agile movements of the bullfighters put up against the sheer strength of the bulls is very much an artistic expression. The bull starts out running through the ring, charging at some of the helpers’ red capes. An equestrian comes out on an armored steed and the bull charges at him. This is done for five minutes or so before one of the helpers puts the 4 to 6 “banderillas” in his back. (Short barb-tipped spears colored with the colors of Spain and Andalusia’s flags) Lola told me they are not used, as I had thought, to tire the bull for the bullfighter, but rather to bring down his blood pressure a bit. The excitement of the bullfight would be too much and the bull would die of a heart attack without them.
The placing of the banderillas in the bull is impressive. The helper has to run backwards and jump in front of the bull as he charges, stabbing two spears at a time with both hands into the bull’s shoulders. This part looks very much like a dance, he leaps like a ballerina to stab and then continues running backwards, watching the angry bull, sometimes close enough to put a hand between the bull’s horns.
When the bandarillas have been placed, the bullfighter comes out. He throws his hat into the center of the ring and shouts to the audience and they shout back, “animating” him. He passes the bull back and forth with his cape, trying to get as close as possible to the horns. The more smoothly he moves and the closer he gets without using any fancy tricks, the more “valiente” he is and that is what the judges like. Each good pass receives an “¡olé!” from the audience.
At the end, when both the bull and the bullfighter are very tired, the bullfighter has to kill the bull. He stands in front of the bull and lines up his sword (espalda) for the crucial spot between the bull’s neck and shoulders. He charges at the bull and the bull charges back. He drives the sword all the way through and the bull starts “poniéndose de mano” or bucking. When done right, the bull dies quickly by falling forward onto his knees. He is draged off through the sand by two large horses called "mulas."
If the bullfighter performs well, he receives one or two of the bulls ears, and maybe the tail; all of which he throws into the stands. Also, a good fighter receives “botas” or leather bags of wine, hats and flowers thrown from the crowd. The audience will wave white handkerchiefs to communicate to the judges that they liked the fight. The bullfighter makes a leisurely victory lap around the ring to receive all his praise.The bullfighters wear a traditional suite called “traje de luces,” or suite of lights. This may seem like an ironic name for the suite for someone with such a dark profession of fighting and killing and who by the end of each fight is covered in blood. The truth is that in no Spanish description of bullfighters or bullfights do they use the word “fight.” It’s really more of a dance than a fight. Bullfighter is “torero.” “Matador” means killer in Spanish but here they only say “torero.” Simply, “bull-man” is the best literal translation I can summon. And bullfight is “la corrida,” meaning a “run” or “dash,” and also, interesting enough, “continuous.” (Ah, ¡Así es la vida!)
It is a beautiful and terrible thing to behold but life brings us these extremes in the very same way. You cannot ignore them or write them off just because you’re not in the mood to deal with them. At some point we all must live, love and die. A bullfight represents these fundamental parts of the human experience in a bold, no nonsense way and I like it.
But yes I would agree, there are many issues to be taken against the corrida. The most valid I can think of being the spectacle of it but humans kill animals every day, the only difference is that it is done in cages or behind fences so we don’t see the killing. In contrast to most the domestic animal world, corrida bulls live privileged lives. They are well fed and given lots of space and freedom. They live and die respectfully.
I can understand how when people come together to watch and enjoy the act of killing, it brings up a moral question; “Is this really acceptable of civilized humans?” And it was indeed uncomfortable for me to hear people laughing about the killings or shouting things to the toreros like “Hey good-lookin’, kill him already!” But I feel I am in no place to judge. This is a very old tradition in Spain and people here identify with it. It is a part of their culture. Even if it is cruel and wasteful by Anglo-Saxon standards (although we manage to be very cruel and wasteful in our own ways), humans need things like this. The killing helps many Spaniards live because it is a tradition and brings them meaning. (Meaningfulness: a topic I will get back to with the science blogs, just wait.)
Throughout Europe, cultural conservatives, like Lola, are feeling the strains of globalization and the diluting of their cultures. The corrida is “a high point of darkness and light.” (to quote a Bob Dylan song out of context.) To get rid of it would rid a people of a beautiful thing and isolate them from their past. Outsiders have no say in it.
Yes, bullfighting is a spectacle of killing but it is done respectfully, artistically and beautifully. It is a bold image of strength and love for life. It is an ingenious portrait of life’s main and most powerful themes. It is an art, an expression, like no other.
PS
I realize this is a rather extreme view. As always, I would really like to see some comments. What do you guys think?!
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