Check out how Toure expertly breaks down the relationship between the War on Drugs and the nihilism and anger of hip-hop. [Washington Post]
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Fittingly, it’s a weirdly wonderful song. One I still fail to understand and have never been very interested in figuring out. I just enjoy listening to the bluesy moody jazzy melody. And seem never to tire of it. “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” by Traffic. The song sustained me many nights, days and afternoons from my teens into my late 20s–when I finally got to see the band live in Tamarac, FL in 1992. It was a small intimate theater in the retirement community of Tamarac, FL and the average audience age was about 40. But if I had to pick out my favorite concert moment, it would be when Traffic played Low Spark. That moment, for me, just barely beat out the time I saw Steely Dan live (also in the early 90s in FL) play Aja. Which was a close second place for the song I’ve listened to the most times. And, again, a song I have no interest in understanding. I just enjoy the bluesy, moody, jazzy…. Maybe there really is no accounting for taste…
Once upon a time I had a well trained mind. Disciplined; respectful; dutiful; useful and predictable. It used to be when I was given a new topic for consideration my mind would race breathlessly to pull up as much relevant information as possible and have it ready to stand at attention and be manipulated or marshaled as needed to impress or persuade. Not so much anymore. I don’t know if it is some glorious harmonizing of the totality of our mental capacities that now–as my mind ripens with age– allows me to hear a new topic for consideration and, for several minutes immediately following, hear the stark sound of crickets. And then follow up with the expressionless expression exuded by Jack Nicholson’s character in the final scene of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as we realize he’s been lobotomized. Maybe it is some form of intellectual convergence at work. But I suspect it’s something different and inglorious. Like pruning or mental molting. New topics I hear these days stimulate either nothing or something random I later try to make a logical excuse for popping into my mind. For example, I was discussing the news website Digg.com. After listening for several minutes about it all I could think of was the lyric “Dig this!” from The Main Ingredient singing “Everybody Plays the Fool.” And now I’m trying to introduce the song as a logical and relevant part of our discussion about Digg.com. So, if you can relate, Dig this! And let’s hope others only think we’re “playing the fool.” Yeah. It’s just an act. Funny, huh? Writes Roger Waters in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette:
While there are very legitimate issues with the Israeli government’s handling of the West Bank’s disputed territories (I support the transfer of most of these lands to a new Palestinian state), the notion that Gaza is under siege by Israel (when Hamas just fired 150 rockets last week into civilian Israeli territory), or that Palestinians who live in Israel proper are second-class citizens under an apartheid regime (when they share every single right and responsibility of citizenship as their Jewish neighbors), cannot be classified as anything but malicious lies. The decision to divest is an independent issue, and while I am strongly opposed for the reasons I outline here, reasonable minds certainly can differ. But if people base the decision on Waters’ lies, they are doing a great disservice to the dialogue.
The answer? We do need education. Indeed someone just wrote a good book on the subject…
Is it possible that the Man in Black was America’s first Christian Zionist? So says Professor Shalom Goldman in this article from the Jerusalem Post excerpted below:
Click here to read the entire article, “The Man in Black’s Zionist roots”
Maggie and I went in a small room with a really friendlye auditioner who asked us a lot of very friendly questions. I was a liltte nervous and explained I was Oliver in the play named, well, Oliver, at camp when I was 12 and choked when signing “Where is Love,” and that today–37 years later–was my chance to vindicate myself. The auditioner lady, Katie, told me to stand on the star and sing for 30 seconds acapello. My daughter nudged me toward the star. I cleared my throat and bagan. My voice quivered at first, but I immediately broke out and was nailing the song –just like I did practicing it at age 12. But the finale approached and I swung for the fences but missed the final note. I didn’t think I missed it too badly and hoped that the auditioner didn’t notice. Even though my daughter was laughing uncontrollably just a few feet away. Katie complemented me and my musical ear and asked if I played any instruments. I answered her, but mostly just wanted to know if I had made it to the second round. I explained that my daughter –the one laughing really hard–made it to the second round yesterday. Hinting that we had the same genes, so, you know….that should count for something. And I mentioned again that I’d been waiting for 37 years to make this right.  A pic of me at Disney today. Hanging my head in shame after failing to make it past the first audition at American Idol. Katie asked me my name and began writing. I was hopeful. It was a Disney button with my name on it. A consolation prize for not making the second round. The equivalent of a giant loser button you can wear for the rest of the rrip so people will know you didn’t make it past the first round at the American Idol audition. As she handed it to me I imagined Chuck Berry gonging me from the old Gong Show and saying someting insulting. I took the button and threw it away as soon as I was outside– as I munbled “Bitch” under my breath 15 minutes later my daughter is still laughing. It was a magical experience, still. Becuase I learned that when I choked at age 12 and refused to sing “Where is Love” solo in the play Oliver, I made the right decision. Today vindicated me.
For those of us who read this less as an interesting factoid and more as a diagnosis, fear not. There are two apparently successful approaches for treating Monkey Mind. 1) Ratchet down with meditation, yoga, diet, lifestyle changes, and medication. 2) Ratchet up. Like The Stones. And become a Monkey Man. Although the first option is preferred, there is merit to option two as well.
I knew every single word to this song….and was happy to prove it to you. It was impressive. And very embarrassing in retrospect. But at the time I felt it would help distinguish me as a new student “to watch.” I was wrong about that. And I still know most of the words to Rapper’s Delight. And worry there will never be much of a pay off for me. A lesser-known part of my biography is that my first elected office was serving as Co-President of The Lexington School’s Bee Gees Fan Club. I was 10. During my college years, I arrogantly scoffed at my youthful indisrections. But by the time my own kids were at The Lexington School, I resumed my fanaticism for the Brothers Gibb. Like all Bee Gees fans, I was very saddened by the recent death of Robin Gibb, and I was moved by this beautiful tribute by the only remaining Gibb brother, Barry, that also features his other deceased brothers, Maurice and Andy. I hope you enjoy as well:
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