Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
Did you know that even thinking about the phrase "call-and-response" makes me feel dirty and wrong? And yet. And yet.
We ate at Fujiya tonight, the first time I'd had sushi (it was excellent); for a while it sounded like I was DJing. Some housey non-house shit; my favorite Outkast song, "Spottieottiedopalicious"; a Tribe Called Quest song; "Just the Two of Us"; some Biggie (I think, I had never heard it but I'm pretty sure he was MCing). It made me quite happy.
Thing I like most about this Christgau essay on Al Green: the phrase "its emotional referent (by which I mean sex)". I imagine Christgau had a tweed jacket on when he wrote that, of course. Or maybe a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Or maybe a leather jacket with tweed patches on the elbows. Thus ruining two perfectly good jackets.
Rather than St. Paul, josh blog is now comin at ya from lovely Minneapolis. Yo. What up Minneapolis.
I should be done moving later this week.
Soundtrack to the move (at least earlier today): Digables and Pixies.
Today while in a dining establishment I heard "Love Theme From Top Gun" over the house music system. OK, I don't really mean that, because I mean the Kenny Loggins "Danger Zone" song rather than the Berlin song. Yet I am going to persist in calling it that. Here, then, is a memory for you.
When I was young, before probably even junior high school, I lived across the street from some neighbors who probably provided me, perhaps not coincidentally as far as this memory is concerned, with some early awareness of class differences, as it was unmistakeable to me that their family was of a lower class than mine. One day the older boy who lived there decided, for whatever reason, that he would have a wrestling match in the yard with some other neighbor of ours. This was before professional wrestling's resurgence (?) in popularity, but apparently this wrestling match had something to do with that kind of wrestling. Maybe. Anyway. This boy was quite convinced he would win, and boasted about this a great deal.
Then when they started he put on "Love Theme From Top Gun" on his boombox, in order to get psyched up. Yes.
Today when I heard the song I remembered this, of course, but could think of nothing else besides just how utterly, terribly misguided a choice that would have been, had the same thing taken place today.
It was probably just about as misguided then, only I didn't know, because I was young enough that music from Top Gun (don't you get to see Kelly McGillis naked in that? and doesn't Goose die and stuff? that's pretty heavy shit) seemed terribly (well, sufficiently) adult.
"Lonely Fire" (which apparently shows up on Big Fun) sounds more than vaguely eastern, but something about the sound renders it less satisfying to me than I might otherwise expect. My immediate points of comparison, the ones I can't help but think of, are Coltrane's later-period performances (not too late, but at least after the "India" at the Village Vanguard) and Keith Jarrett's more ecstatic mode-locks. On "Lonely Fire" the bassline walks a lot, and probably boogies (I wouldn't claim to know the technical term, ha), so it feels a lot less stable than say a Jimmy Garrison pulse-line (punctuated by smaller runs), and so even though the whole song seems harmonically pretty monotonic, it still moves more and my sense of solidity, long-lastingness, is compromised. Also, with Zawinul and Corea on electric pianos, and Miles and others playing above them, the difference in timbres matters a lot - there's way more space here, compared to a group like Coltrane-Jones-Garrison-Tyner or Coltrane-Sunders-Jones-Ali-Garrison-Tyner, where even if there is some variety of timbres, I'm so used to hearing those timbres together that it all comes as one big meta-tibre, the "jazz sound" (the "the" should be in quotes too) where I hear it almost as one very complexly timbred sound, ongoing through the course of a song. So it's thick somehow, I don't hear the gaps in that sound as gaps, as opposed to the space in trumpet over electric pianos and electric bass. Now, when it's Jarrett over a rhythm section, or even by himself, I do get a different sense of space, one closer to what I hear on these Miles tracks, but in my head it still seems more of a piece with the Coltrane stuff just in the sense that it occupies a similar timbral space.
So far everything I've heard from the Complete Bitches Brew Sessions box that's new to me sounds more reminiscent of tone poem slow-burn vamps like "Sanctuary" than what I tend to consider the meat of the original album - songs like "Pharaoh's Dance" or "Bitches Brew" or "Spanish Key" (notice, all the longest ones - and sides one through three of the two LPs). And though this material was unreleased or even lost for a long time, and thus already selected out as not as good somehow, the difference between the new tone poems and the old ones seems clear as day to me. I remember reading somewhere - some other liner notes, maybe - how a later-period Miles group, maybe after his unretirement in the 80s, would go along, vamping, with not much distinction, and then somehow, magically, Miles would come in again, so authoritatively that the limp band was suddenly energized, unified, dynamized, just by virtue of one of his usual long-tone trumpet lines. I can hear something similar here. On the unreleased tracks, he's got much less presence - he's just as tentative and searching as the rest of the band. Things are slightly better on faster numbers like "The Little Blue Frog" - I'd like to say that's due to some more planning, but then in his liner notes Belden says the song is "just a jam", more than once. I guess just that much more rhythmic understructure does a lot.
It's been a strange day. Though I woke up a tiny bit hungover (I went to Linda and Stephen's last night, and didn't get home on the bus until about four), that wasn't really too much of an obstacle. I just couldn't bring myself to get up and go to class. Or do anything else. So I went back to sleep a few more times and then got up at four. I developed a pretty good habit of skipping classes when I was an undergraduate, often for similar reasons, but in the time since I went to graduate school (even my year as a math student), I've been pretty conscientious about going to class. The contrast makes it easier for me to see the connection between the way I felt today and the way I've felt more generally lately, a slight downturn compared to most of March and before. Wait, "slight" is putting it too lightly. It hasn't been that good. But in that peculiar way where everything is not so great but not so bad, most of the time.
Tonight, because it seemed it might fit my mood while giving me a bit of clarity, I reread a bit of Dance Dance Dance. I read a passage where the narrator walks around in a gray haze, affectless and directionless, and found myself sighing a little at Murakami's heavy-handedness (though I should note that I was probably forgetting about how important hard-boiled thrillers are for him, so maybe I wasn't taking that influence on his style into account). But then a few pages later I forgave him, even while aware that part of my reason for doing so was just the typical Murakami trick of (almost merely) mentioning drinking, food, pop music, and a girl. As it happens, I can do that today too.
This afternoon, luckily after I had finally woken up and showered, a group of girls rang my doorbell and asked for my landlord's home phone number, because they were interested in renting but he hadn't been returning their calls to his work number. Once I gave them the phone number, they asked if they could walk through the place quickly since two of them hadn't gotten to see it yet. I would have shown anyone anyway, but since they were cute, of course, there was no question - even though we're in the middle of moving and the place is even more of a dump than usual. So I showed them around, even my frightening room. Aside from the slight strangeness of the group showing up unannounced, the connection to Murkami is of course that the girls' leader (from the way they talked to each other, and the way she talked to me, it seems it could only be that they decided beforehand that one person had to do all the talking, and no one wanted to, but everyone else in the group thought this girl should, so she lost) was compellingly and mysteriously beautiful, with long black hair. Murakami narrators are a little sharper than me in that respect, though, because it wasn't until I showed the girls out that I noticed to myself: self, that girl with long black hair is compelling and mysteriously beautiful.
Murakami staple numbers two and three: alcohol and food. Somehow even his simple or banal ones have a little something to them. I'm not sure that the pizza I ate tonight did, at least not in the novel-about-contemporary-man's-existential-doubts-and-appreciation-of-the-small-things sense. The Jameson probably did, though, just because I am happy to romanticize any whiskey. (I can't claim that Murakami didn't have something to do with this, but I will deny it was substantive.)
While I read and ate and drank I put on Entroducing, somewhat at random since it was at the top of the box of CDs I had just packed. It had been a while, but it was a nice choice. Suddenly it seemed - even though I really started to finally like the record last year - as if I had made leaps and bounds in my appreciation of it. Enough that later I popped down the street (in my winter coat - it snowed today, hello there Prince) and bought The Private Press, and also Digable Planets' Blowout Comb which I had been planning on buying for a while since hearing it at Jeff's anyway. The new DJ Shadow was interesting, I suppose, and I need more time with it, but it didn't really help me continue my earlier mood (or, to put it better, my way out of my earlier mood). Blowout Comb did, though. I suppose maybe my comparison to Murakami calls for something less abstract - and the abstract quality of the music I liked tonight, especially the zen-monk-satori that comes with a beat stretched out for seven minutes, the sound of a sample repeating in that beautiful mid-90s way. Even when the narrator of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle listens to classical, it's often Rossini or something, light music, for whistling, occupying time with, relating to ("But back then I never thought about it, and it was just great listening. Didn't matter what it was. I was a kid. I was in love. And when you're a kid you can relate to anything, even if it's silly," the narrator to Dance Dance Dance tells Yuki). But, hello refrain - and abstraction is just as good a way of making that temporary space as anything else, especially if it's me making the space. (Not that it's something particular about me, I mean - just that it's well, it's not up to anyone else. Whatever.)
I am sick with the definitiveness disease; I don't want to write things down unless I am absolutely sure that they are right, and what's more, significant. (A number of things do slip by.) The cure has to be regular writing - taking advantage of the diaristic aspect of my format. Simple, direct.