Composition 20- Naama Tsabar

Photo: © S. Banos

I was in Manhattan's former Meat Packing District (one of the most gentrified areas imaginable) during the magic hour one late Spring day, when I heard this loud "ambient" music coming from... seemingly everywhere. It was "atmospheric" yet edgy, and I was immediately drawn to it (unlike so much of music today)- so I set about trying to discover its source. Eventually, I realized it had to be originating at The Highline, and so it was. With Composition 20, what one eventually realized was that Naama Tsabar had devised an open environment in which one could travel directly within an ever changing musical landscape, as opposed to a single wall of sound aimed directly at you. 

The tiny snippet below of the entire 3 hr experience is more "traditionally" melodic than the portion I stumbled upon. But it was quite the experience walking in between the musicians, walking in between the music, as it incrementally changed from corner to corner, side to side, musician to musician, as one traversed the entirety of the area- the "back" side playing a considerably different tune from the "front," while the more harmonizing midground somehow balancing both. One of the more memorable, interactive and public musical/art experiences I'll remember in my hometown...

PS- Hopefully, there will be a high quality recording of the event available in the near future... but it just occurred to me- how would it be mixed? Since several melodies were being played concurrently, which one anyone heard at any one time depended on where they were situated...

Losing One's Voice

Don't know if the movie was all that great, but the content sure was, and her talent was as real and rare as it ever gets. I didn't know Amy Winehouse from shit while alive, by the time I found out who she was, she had already become the mumbling, fumbling, public butt of jokes; and that is, I must confess, how I happened upon her. A joke, a sham, a vapid publicity stunt gone terribly wrong.

Truth is, she was an exceptionally rare talent with a gift that comes along only once in several generations. Most recording artists artists in general must strain to get every last ounce of whatever talent they possess to make themselves shine and be counted. Amy's voice was an absolute force of nature, she had to corral and tame its sheer brilliance. And she could do so with surprising ease and regularity. I have to go back to a young Aretha to think of someone who actually had to restrain their voice of its own natural intensity, a voice that could just wail seemingly of its own accord and volition. She didn't have the Biblical soul of Aretha, but the subtle intonations she delivered were nothing short of magical- so unlike the squeeze every note into every syllable histrionics of the Mariah Carey School of Yarbling.

Unfortunately, she could not curtail and control the very demons that lived within that voice. And she very rapidly regressed into the same sad story of an enormous talent imploding under the pressure of drugs, stardom and wanton self destruction. 

Ironically, and unlike so many others- she wanted neither the fame nor celebrity, and knew it would be the death of her...

Back In The Day...

A Boy and His Dog  (aka- Stan & Bob);  Photo: © S. Banos

One often looks back on one's youth through a nostalgic haze that conveniently filters out the negative- until you cut through the haze and start remembering in earnest. Moving into NYC (even from its outer boroughs) would mark a definitive milestone in anyone's life, it most definitely did in mine. It was 1980, the height of the Punk/New Wave scene, and New York still had a coupla remaining years before being meteorically launched into warp speed gentrification. 

The New Year's Eve photo that will never be surpassed, Studio 54- Photo: © Tod Papageorge

Thirteen in '69, I desperately craved to participate in my own version of The Sixties (which really started in '63 and ended in '72), but had well given up as the mid seventies devolved into a "modern" version of the '50s- the advent of disco pretty much signalling the final death knell. And then, a funny thing happened at the end of the decade, this thing called... Punk. And all of a sudden there was this crazy energy out on the streets again. No, it wasn't the unavoidable, universal sea change of the sixties; it was on a much smaller scale, but there nonetheless, if you chose to acknowledge it- in all its pre-digital, unconnected wonder!

New York was still in its post Gerald Ford, Drop Dead doldrums- ads in the Village Voice still advertised 3rm apts in Alphabet City/Loisaida renting for $650 (with the understood agreement that anything you were foolish enough to move in would be automatically removed free of charge), a heroin renaissance was still to occur, and crack had yet to be invented. Williamsburg was still Hasidic and/or Puerto Rican and nowhere near hipsterdom- in fact, anyone from the outlying boroughs was condescendingly referred to as "Bridge and Tunnel." This was also the time when you could walk out unto any East Village street on any given day and see the likes of Quentin Crisp, Afrika Bambaataa, The Beastie Boys or any of thousands of indie rock celebrities and wannabes. Robert Frank drunkenly burned original prints from The Americans in his loft on the Bowery, Alex Harsley held shop at The 4th St. Photo Gallery, and Hip Hop was about to spill from the Bronx and invade the the rest of NYC, the nation and the world.

Photo: © Ken Schles- who & where to go for more of a sense of the period...

Of course, this last ditch reverberation of The Sixties could not possibly endure unabated; it too would implode, and  by 1985- the tsunami called gentrification, fueled by unbridled greed, crack and mass Madonna commercialization inevitably dawned and triumphed. And just as jellyfish are now consuming the earth's vast oceans filling the void once occupied by fish- bodegas and local, centuries old Lower East Side storefronts were replaced, seemingly overnight, by a plague like torrent of small art galleries whose owners saw and promoted not art, but their own dreams of $$$ and art world stardom. Within a year, most would not even linger long enough to become memories, replaced by... upscale boutiques- it would never be quite like Paris.

The look Madonna popularized the world over... several years before she appropriated it; London,  Photo: © S. Banos

Youth would expend its final, semi-glorious gasp, my dog would soon depart- and New York, of course, has always had a way of cashing in on one's dreams, sweat and determination... and crushing them all the same. The photo biz (like everything else both seen and/or imagined in this town) was incredibly cut throat and competitive even then, I wanted no part of that hustle and would soon embark on a Special Ed career that would well occupy my time for years to come in Harlem and Oakland, CA when I made the move to the Left Coast. Marriage, a blog, pet cemeteries and the dawdling years of middle age awaited...

Ibeyi

Spill The Wine

Good music (like good photography) creates its own universe, in which it reigns immortal...

New York City (aka- Home)

I'm an expat New Yorker currently residing in San Francisco; it's an uneasy coexistence. I'd like to think our parting was mutual, but I could gauge her patience was done with me- and too often had I seen how she'd lash out when ignored.

My NYC is one rooted in time; it no longer exists. My NY was dirtier, scarier, poorer and yet, somehow more humane. That doesn't particularly make sense, but then neither does wholesale gentrification (also occurring right here, right now in SF- more on that soon). My NY remains within, a part of who I am, and what I will always be.

NY, of course, could not care less of me, or any of its own. It is a solitary, monolithic creature devoid of sentiment, nostalgia or human kindness. Greater than its parts, it simply carries on, however wounded or emboldened. It woos, uses, discards- no exceptions. Be thankful for the ride, however long or short the day or night.

New York City, you're a woman.
Cold hearted bitch, oughta be you're name.
Oh, you ain't never loved nobody,
Yet I'm drawn to you, like a moth to flame...
-Al Kooper

Yeah, this is the real NYC anthem, perhaps a mythic or no longer existent NY, but one thing's for sure- you can dump that overstuffed, overblown Frank Sinatra bombast of a homage deep down in the Hudson where it belongs; all due respect Frankie Boy!

PS- To those offended by the female metaphor, my apologies- it's an old fave... but no excuse. Some day a woman will compose a fitting counterpart. And old goats like me will soon depart...

FREE!

Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika

There are anthems, and then there are anthems. Some are moving, all are patriotic- but none stirs the very soul, none disturbs it, and none ultimately soothes as South Africa's. None...

AMANDLA!

Blatant Nepotism At Its Absolute Best...

None other than the daughter of Groucho Marx makes her all out bid for sixties pop song fame and posterity! Joyous and utterly innocent in execution- they must have worked on the choreography for hours in her bedroom. (via Boingboing)

The Lost Legend- Rodriguez

Walk down any city block in any given city, and depending on the size of that city, you'll automatically walk past dozens, hundreds, thousands of legends in their own minds. Now what is completely and genuinely rare is- how many legends have you heard of who aren't even aware of their own uniquely singular status? And how is it that a living legend of South Africa with his roots in the Sixties is "discovered" alive and anonymous in his native America of the 21st Century?

Such is the very bizarre and intriguing story of one Sixto Rodriguez now revealed in the new documentary Searching for Sugarman- the story of a (supposedly) dead legend whose music helped inspire a political (anti-apartheid) movement in a foreign country while he remained unknown in his own to the very day. Hearing his debut album Cold Fact, one is surprised to hear a work that still resonates with a voice and poetry eerily reminiscent of equal measures Dylan and Cohen.

I Just Have This Feeling...

Was watching this interview on PBS where a senior citizen was asked if she supported Obama's new health care legislation. When she replied in the negative, she was then asked what exactly she didn't like about it. The response was immediate, "I don't know exactly what- I just have this feeling." Nothing more than...

A Well Respected Man

Guitar Wizards Of The Future

The nude torso variations caught my eye on the street; the video images below work well with the music.

I'm Part A Da Union!

Till the day I die...
(from your friendly, neighborhood SEIU Local 1021 Union Shop Steward)


Thanks, Damon.

Homage To A Holiday

Photo: Ben Rosenzweig

Three years of my life... four? The better part of my PM existence between '80 and '82...  If you ever saw one of the more infamous scenes from M, it pretty much gives you an idea of what the atmosphere was like there, and by atmosphere- I mean... atmosphere. You would literally walk into a visible cloud chamber of nicotine and automatically give up any and all rights to the future of having lungs as soon as you ambled on inside. Shit ass Bud bottles were... $1.00!!! Someone just wrote to remind me that drinks were...  $1.25.

It was THE neighborhood bar of neighborhood bars, long before Brooklyn was repatriated by like numbers of wannabe artists, musicians and poseurs of every imaginable shape and calibration. More importantly, it was one glorious shithole of dreams personified for those of us living in the big city of Talking Heads, Ramones, and Bush Tetras... and surviving on a steady diet of pizza, beer, and those aforementioned, bigger than life, New York City dreams!

We Love You!

Two of the same name- and don't ask me to choose between 'em. Both pull the plug, non stop, all out!!!

It Only Takes 1

Not exactly a fan- but god, I so do love this song...
(And god bless Claudia Lanier)

1 Thing The Internets Helped Ameliorate

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence, a time of confidences

Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph

Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you