Monday, November 21, 2011

Stimulating sounds: "Afro Temple" by Sabu Martinez

Year released: 1973
Personnel: Sabu Martinez (bongos, congas, bukoba, talking drums, tympani, gong, all other sound and percussion effects), Johnny Martinez, Per Arne Almeflo, Bo Oster Svensson, Conny Lunstrom (congas), Stephen Moller, Ali Lundbohm (drums), Peter Perlowsky (extra percussion), Bernt Rosengren (tenor sax, piccolo flute), Christer Boustedt (alto sax, flute), Red Mitchell (bass), Margarita Martinez, Christina Martinez (vocals)

One of the all-time rare groove classics, this was Sabu's last proper album as a leader. And what a send-off, an intoxicating mix of pulsating rhythms and hippy-dippy psychedelic flourishes. Here's the review, from allmusic.com.

The final release of conga master Sabu Martinez is an out-in-the-psychedelic-ozone masterpiece. Featuring a politicized Martinez reciting poetry, his own manically exotic percussion ensemble, and a slew of reeds, woodwinds, and brass, this is a heady brew of poetry expressing Latino and indigenous pride, political indictments against the white man, and killer Afro-Cuban jazz. Think of Archie Shepp's "Attica Blues" or Abbey Lincoln's and Max Roach's "Freedom Now Suite" done by Chano Pozo and you get the idea.

The layers and layers of congas and djembe drums, the wailing saxophones à la Coltrane and Pharaoh Sanders and swirling flutes played as if they were Eric Dolphy or Prince Lasha hypnotically elocuting Martinez's poetic recitations--after he's finished speaking. The title track is the best example of this, though it is a cut without poetry at the top.

There's a mesmerizing rhythm that creates a kind of speech between the drums. The saxophones-- and I have no ideas who is playing them because this company in Italy that issued this provides no credits--act as singers punching into the stratosphere with the cry of birds. Next, in "All Camels Hump," to a frenetic polyrhythmic orchestra of drums--some heavily reverbed-- a pair of flutes play blues licks back and forth until they are drowned out by electronically distorted percussion.

From the camels we move to the "Hotel Alyssa-Souisse, Tunisia." Here a drum kit and a choir of congas go to work as a saxophonist plays alternating lines from R&B records and Sonny Rollins solos! It's a mind-bending experience to think that someone heard music like this in his head and then went out and made it. This record is essential for any fan of Latin jazz, Vanguard jazz, Cuban music, or just plain sound. This guy went out riding the crest of a creative wave of pure genius.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Stimulating cinema: Tony Manero

Year released: 2008
Director: Pablo Larrain

This Chilean comedy is so black that you can't even see it--but the review posted below by Xan Brooks of the Guardian hits the nail right on the head. You do feel someone uneasy when watching it, but upon reflection--and provided you stick with it--there is a lot to be gained from this engrossing look at the lengths to which one will go in the name of an unhealthy obsession. And the cinematography--all grey grime, filthy apartments and rusting salvage yards--is depressingly beautiful to behold. And Alfredo Castro, in the (sort of) title role, does a tremendous job in a role that features practically no dialogue. Looking forward to checking out Larrain's "Post Mortem," which was the featured review in the October issue of "Sight and Sound."

How many actual laughs are there in "Tony Manero," a Chilean black comedy about one man's obsession with "Saturday Night Fever?" Probably not that many--unless one counts the scene in which our hero defecates on the pristine white suit of a rival, or the one in which he becomes so enraged by a screening of Grease that he opts to break into the booth and club the projectionist to death. And yet a comedy this is-- and one that perversely becomes more hilarious in hindsight, when the initial horror has had time to subside. Watching Tony Manero is like being accosted by a disturbed loner on a late-night bus. Assuming we survive, we may one day find it funny. Alfredo Castro plays Raul, a 52-year-old nobody who models himself on John Travolta's disco idol, ineptly mouthing movie dialogue and essaying dance moves with a frowning, joyless concentration. Chances are that you could put a jacket on a dog and teach it to walk on its hind legs and it would make a more convincing Manero. But no matter, because Raul's monomania is enough to draw a gaggle of adoring disciples. His harassed lover dotes on him, as does her nubile daughter and the elderly owner of the local ballroom. All of them want Raul, but Raul just wants to dance. Specifically, he wants to dance, as Tony Manero, in a TV talent contest. First prize is a blender, second prize is a poncho. And "no political talk" please, for this is 1978, the darkest days of the Pinochet regime, when loose talk can get you shot.

"Tony Manero," the second film from writer-director Pablo Larrain, makes for a brilliantly clammy and unnerving piece of work. The action unfolds in a shiver of handheld camerawork and grainy, overcast colours. There is sex and larceny and random acts of violence. Some scenes literally lose their focus as the fog of madness blows in from the wings. You might file this as an acid satire of 1970s Chile, a time when imported escapism served to distract the masses from the real business of political oppression.

Alternatively, it can be viewed as a broadside against globalisation as a whole, spotlighting a sub-continent hopelesly hard-wired to US culture and stumbling blindly in search of an identity. This point is driven home in a brief but telling exchange between Raul and his girlfriend. "Manero is an American," she tells him gently. "You're not. You belong here."

Except that Raul, true to form, has no desire to ponder this statement. He's too busy killing people, too intent on rehearsing his routine or fashioning a makeshift glitterball from shards of broken glass. So off he goes, this shambling bulk of articulated body parts and crudely firing synapses, slouching towards the TV studio to be born.

What a terrific performance Castro gives us here: funny, scary and pathetic by turns. When Raul Peralta finally slithers on stage, it's a wonder the audience doesn't run for the exit. Perhaps they recognise one of their own. A round of applause for Dr Frankenstein's movie star; the sharp-suited mascot of a zombie nation. Wind him up and watch him dance.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Curling up with a good book: Electric Eden

Full title: Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain's Visionary Music
Author: Rob Young
Year published: 2010

Essential reading for anyone with an interest in music, history, the British Isles or actually just life itself. Two reviews of this fascinating journey into the "old weird Britain" as it were. The first is from Michel Farber in the Guardian and the second is from Dwight Garner in the New York Times Book Review.

In 1968, a beautiful young minstrel called Vashti Bunyan (right) forsook the city and set off on an 18-month journey along the leafy lanes of Albion, in a rickety cart pulled by her horse Bess, heading for a remote Scottish island where the Pied Piper himself had promised to set up a happy haven of artists, musicians and poets. No, this isn't a fable, it's the true story of one of Britain's less famous folk singers, chosen by Rob Young for the opening chapter of Electric Eden, his survey of British "visionary" music and, more broadly, Britain's love affair with the notion of a pastoral paradise. When Vashti reached the Pied Piper's island, Donovan had fled for LA, but Bunyan's bittersweet tale--replete with the noble hopelessness of her determination to live as if the 20th century never happened--is emblematic of a whole generation of youth who seemed keen to drop out of industrialised society and "get back to the garden".

The core of Young's book is the late 1960s and early 70s, when pop's aristocracy dressed in archaic raiment and a cornucopia of folk-rock groups had names such as Tintern Abbey, Oberon, Dulcimer, Parchment, Mr. Fox, Fotheringay, Fuschia and the Druids. But "Electric Eden" does an admirable job of tracing folk's origins back to the 19th century, when upper-class academics first sought to capture the exotic ballads of rural Britain in annotated form. In a 664-page exploration with plentiful side trips, Young casts his net over just about everyone in this country who ever revived or preserved the past: William Morris, morris dancers, Vaughn Williams, David Munrow's Early Music project, the makers of the movie "The Wicker Man," Cecil Sharp's English Folk Dance and Song Society, and so on.

It's a hugely ambitious undertaking that could be tackled from any number of angles. Young tries out quite a few, including quasi-fiction ("The battered Austin, its 50 years clearly legible in rust and mud flecks ..."), meditations on the theme of the four elements, and straight scholarly record. What keeps it consistently readable is the happy marriage between Young's incisive observation and his talent for a vivid phrase. He praises the "arachnoid fingerwork" of Nick Drake's guitar technique, speaks of "a tidal spray of cymbals", drumming that "patters like butterflies trapped in a balsa wood box". Contemplating the bucolic cover image of an album by Heron, he sums it up perfectly: "John Constable has become court photographer to the counterculture."

"Electric Eden" is by no means the first book to trace the modern reinvention of folk music. A farrago of essays called "The Electric Muse," originally published in 1975 to accompany a triple-LP set, was the standard text in its day, but several comprehensive studies have been published since the millennium. Britta Sweers's 2005 overview, "Electric Folk: The Changing Face of Traditional Music," features valuable interviews and is pitched at a reader with no prior knowledge (dutifully explaining who Bob Dylan is), but it shows its origins as a young German's university dissertation. Michael Brocken's "The British Folk Revival, 1944-2002," which focuses more on the mainstream and politics than Young's tome, would suit readers who wish to study the "movement" rather than have their tastes expanded.

In his coverage of leftwing balladeers such as Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger, Young does acknowledge British folk as a voice of anti-authoritarian protest but, as the 1960s advance, he dismisses them as irrelevances "holding their breath until the revolution came". In Young's account, the true revolution occurred inside drug-expanded heads, when disaffected youngsters went in search of their inner elf (or hobbit). An oversimplification of 60s/70s counterculture, but a crucial aspect of it, and Young explores it in juicy detail. The story gets especially rich when the sylvan nostalgia of British folkies blends into the worldwide hippy dream. The founders of Glastonbury festival wished to "stimulate the earth's nervous system with joy, appreciation and happiness so that our Mother planet would respond by breeding a happier, more balanced race of men". Or, as one Stonehenge camper put it: "We want to plant a garden of Eden where there will be guitars instead of guns and the sun will be our nuclear bomb." Young doesn't sneer, but allows the quixotic dignity of these doomed idealists to resonate in all its sadness.

In any case, Arcadian idealism, like John Barleycorn, dies only to be reborn, as "Electric Eden," with its wide historical scope, attests. The late-60s blossoming of Glastonbury was a revival of a Utopian project by Rutland Boughton, "communist, vegetarian and suffragette sympathiser", whose 1916 Glastonbury festival, supported by George Bernard Shaw, staged an Arthurian opera on a shoestring budget. ("The battlements of Camelot castle were delineated by four stout yeomen.") Young has a special fondness for madcap eccentrics, and Albion has always been well stocked with those. We meet the composer Peter Warlock during the second world war, riding his motorcycle naked and drunk through a sleepy Kent village, "indulging in threesomes with local girls", and "singing raucous sea shanties ... in an attempt to drown out the hymns being sung in the neighbouring chapel". Had time machines existed, Warlock might have hung around with magick enthusiast Graham Bond, whose quirks included performing exorcisms on Long John Baldry's cat.

Young's background is editing "The Wire," a magazine devoted to marginal music, so it's not surprising that he has scant regard for the more commercially successful folk-rock acts, such as Jethro Tull and the later incarnations of Steeleye Span. Cult figure Bill Fay (right), whose achingly compassionate social commentaries achieved sales so meagre that he was reduced to packing fish in Selfridges, is allotted several pages, while Ralph McTell's "Streets of London"--one of the most popular English folk records ever--is not even mentioned. This favouring of the obscure over the bestselling lends somewhat dubious support to the argument that folk had a brief heyday which was brought to an end by glam, punk and/or Thatcherism. If many of the acts that "flourished" during folk's glory years sold zilch, while other acts enjoyed brisk business after the genre was supposedly in terminal decline, does this mean that Young's generalisations are based purely on aesthetics? Are the stars of later decades--Billy Bragg, Clannad, the Pogues, Enya, et al--evidence of folk's perennial ability to adapt to new musical fashions, or did Young disqualify them as redundant postscripts to a closed canon? The absence of chart placings and cash registers from this narrative is artistically commendable but muddies the historical picture.

In the concluding chapters, Young offers lengthy profiles of Kate Bush, Talk Talk and David Sylvain–-fine musicians all, but a far cry from Fairport Convention. The book ends with avant-garde luminaries Coil, whose work is undeniably suffused with the paganism that attracted the folkies, but whose actual sound --lysergic, eerie electronica--is galaxies removed from folk. Young wants us to accept that his theme is not a specific genre but visionary musical landscapes in general. If so, various realms to which this book gives little or no attention (the misty peaks of prog rock, the fantasised Zion of Rastafarianism, the ecstasy-enhanced Eden of 90s rave) are glaring omissions.

Better to regard "Electric Eden" as what it is, at heart: the best of the currently available books on the modern British folk phenomenon. Despite its biases and digressions, it is a thoroughly enjoyable read and likely to remain the best-written overview for a long time. While unadventurous souls may feel Young takes them on a ramble too distant from the safety of their local CD store, I've already made several precious musical discoveries thanks to this book and I expect to make more. Just as there are unspoilt bits of British countryside hidden in the spaces between the motorways, there are musical pleasures hidden in the overgrown woods of an enchanted past.
The brilliant and largely forgotten critic Seymour Krim (1922-1989) grew up, as have so many American readers, worshiping those writers who captured what he called “the unofficial seamy side of American life.” The excitable Krim put it this way: “I dreamed Southern accents, Okies, bourbon-and-branchwater, Gloria Wandrous, jukejoints, Studs Lonigan, big trucks and speeding highways, Bigger Thomas, U.S.A.!, U.S.A.!”

Krim’s ecstatic catalog suggested a sense of the “old, weird America” that fed Greil Marcus’s essential 1997 book about American folk culture and music, "Invisible Republic: Bob Dylan's Basement Tapes." (That book has since been issued under the title “The Old, Weird America.”) Mr. Marcus examined, through Dylan and the Band, as if in Imax wide-angle, “how old stories turn into new stories.”

The British rock critic Rob Young’s excellent new book, “Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music,” is a response of sorts to Mr. Marcus’s volume, and to Krim’s longing for a raw-boned alternative America. Mr. Young’s book, which is largely about England’s amped-up folk music during the late 1960s and early ’70s, is ardent and learned in its search for what the author calls “a speculative Other Britain.”

Mr. Young is a former editor of "The Wire," the eclectic British music magazine. He originally conceived “Electric Eden,” he says, as a group biography of artists including Nick Drake, Fairport Convention, Sandy Denny, Pentangle, Vashti Bunyan and the Incredible String Band. Collectively, this music means a lot to him; it represents, he argues, “British folk-rock’s high-water mark.”

Gathering string for this project, he tripped into a sonic wormhole. His book becomes an insinuating meditation on how British music — and all British literature and art — “accumulates a powerful charge when it deals with a sense of something unrecoupable, a lost estate.”

England didn’t have a W.P.A. or a Leadbelly or a Jack Kerouac. It has no tradition of the open road, so urgent an injection into American culture. But Mr. Young, working his way through poets like Blake, Wordsworth and Shelley; through William Morris’s novel “News From Nowhere” (1890) and “Paradise Lost”; through films up to and including "Withnail and I" among many other cultural artifacts, provides a sense of British music as “a primordial soup waiting for an electrical spark.”

That spark arrived from musicians who glanced back in order to rush forward. They intelligently plundered, Mr. Young writes, “pagan chant and Christian hymns; medieval, Tudor and Restoration secular sounds; the nature-worshiping verse of the revolutionary Romantics.” They developed, he says, “an occult communion with the British landscape.”

The resulting agrarian noise thrills Mr. Young. About an early record by the band Steeleye Span, he observes the way acoustic and amplified instruments “rub up against each other like a shedload of rusted, notched and pitted farm implements.”

Mr. Young charts the history of Britain’s folk movement, through the work of early song collectors like Cecil Sharp and Vaughan Williams, and the songs (both original and traditional) of ruddy midcentury performers like Ewan MacColl. He is quite hilarious while dispatching effete, drawing-room folk singing. He quotes one critic lambasting the championing of “clodhopping bumpkin folderol” by, all too often, “prancing curate(s) in cricket flannels.”

The author is blissfully quotable. He calls Nick Drake (left) “a lost, inchoate genius that you sometimes wish you could grab by the shoulders and shake.” Talking about Fairport Convention’s talented drummer, Dave Mattacks, he doesn’t note just the “funky plod” of his attack. He writes: “In his hands, the beats fall with a heaviness that seems to gouge at the earth itself.”

These lines about the early years of the British psychedelic movement are so terrific that they contain the seeds of a sour, funny, lovely Philip Larkin-ish poem: “When Joni Mitchell sang of getting back to the garden, you felt she pictured a host of naked longhairs disporting themselves in love games on the cliffs of Big Sur. For Brits, the image that springs to mind is a cheeky reefer in the potting shed before getting back to work on the allotment.”

Artists like Van Morrison, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles and Pink Floyd are considered in this volume. But Mr. Young is more interested in the era’s crisscrossing undercurrents. He resurrects and contemplates the work of many lesser-known musicians, among them John Martyn, Mick Softley, Shirley Collins and Bill Fay.

The second half of “Electric Eden” grows, occasionally, mossy. There’s an awful lot of earnest talk about Druids and Stonehenge and Tarot cards. You may begin to hear the clotted chords of the Spinal Tap song “Break Like the Wind” welling up in the background.

“The sonic wizardry made heads smoke,” he writes, feebly, about an Incredible String Band album. “The pantheistic fusion flared like a bonfire of religions.” At this and other moments you suspect someone’s been having a cheeky reefer in the potting shed.

Mr. Young traces the way the current freak-folk movement has picked up on much of this music. (Ms. Bunyan sang on a 2004 Devendra Banhart album). He is less convincing when arguing for more recent performers, minor enthusiasms like Kate Bush, David Sylvian and the band Talk Talk. Are these really the finest he can come up with?

At its frequent best, though, “Electric Eden” is a lucid and patriotic guided tour, as vigorous as one of Heathcliff’s strolls across the moors. “Britain’s literature, poetry, art and music abounds in secret gardens, wonderlands, paradises lost, postponed or regained,” he writes, before announcing some of them: Avalon, Xanadu, Arden, Narnia, Elidor, Utopia.

“Electrification comes in many forms,” Mr. Young says. His book throws plenty of lightning, and it will have you scrambling to download some of the music that’s filling his head.

Mr. Young’s book is a declaration: England is not just older than America. It’s weirder, too.

Otar Iosseliani: The man who loved birds

Here is a thoughtful piece on the Georgian director Otar Iosseliani, originally written for the Cinemascope web site.

A couple of years ago Edgardo Cozarinsky, an Argentine filmmaker who has lived in Paris for the last 40 years, said that nothing important was happening in France culturally but, at the same time, artists were still welcome to live and work there. Otar Iosseliani was born in 1934 in Tbilisi, and moved from Georgia to Paris in the early ‘80s, after censorship halted his career as a Soviet filmmaker in Georgia, where he made three features plus shorts and documentaries. In France he started anew, and so far he has made seven features, as well as a number of docs and shorts. Iosseliani is one of the adopted French filmmakers, a category that includes the likes of Raúl Ruiz and Eugène Green, and can be understood to encompass Manoel de Oliveira, Michael Haneke, and Ousmane Sembène. (It’s likewise tempting to describe the Swiss Jean-Luc Godard as a foreign filmmaker who sometimes works in France.)

Iosseliani once said, “Culture, in the sense of a well-constructed system of human relations, has collapsed [in Georgia]. Maybe it was one of the last countries. But everything collapsed, practically, with the departure of the previous generation.” He was talking about the devastation of war and communism, but the statement could well apply to the subjects of many of his films—such as And Then There Was Light (1989), a film about the destruction of an African village by the arrival of so-called progress. Iosseliani’s films are parables, and parables have many possible meanings. Also, in the director’s words, “the secret of your vision dies with you.” But his new feature, Jardins en automne, seems mainly to comment on the dissolution of the French film community, at least in the form he knew it when he became one of its members in 1984, the year of his first French-made film, Les Favoris de la Lune.

Sharing the designation which Ruiz frequently ascribes to himself, Iosseliani can be called “the best known of the unknown directors.” Ruiz is seven years younger than Iosseliani, but emigrated to Paris seven years earlier, fleeing from the Chilean dictatorship. Both are considered minor masters in the French nomenklatur, and they share a sense of subtlety, irony, a love of long shots and a hatred for explanation, psychology, and conventional storytelling. In a way, they are complementary: while Ruiz is definitively urban, nature is very important in Iosseliani’s work. And while both share an interest for the fine arts and the pleasures of alcohol, Ruiz opts for literature and philosophy while Iosseliani is deeply immersed in music. A pianist and composer in his own right, music plays an essential part not only in Iosseliani’s soundtracks, but also in his plots. Iosseliani’s films are musical in their form and structure, and music is the link between his usually disjointed scenes. But mostly, Iosseliani is a tonal filmmaker. His films can be thought of as the movements of a unique, consistent musical oeuvre.

This tone has to do with Iosseliani’s unique pace, which is rhapsodic and joyful, but with a paradoxical grace that follows from detachment and a lack of sentimentality. Iosseliani’s primary Western influence is Tati, with whom he shares a peculiar serendipity in the contact between people, objects, and animals. He prefers non-professional actors, and because of this, coupled with his lack of attention to dialogue, his fiction films aren’t far away stylistically from his documentaries. Some motifs are common to all of Iosseliani’s films: love for drinking, talking and singing amongst friends; hatred of work in any routine sense; the despising of bureaucrats; love for women as long as they are friends and lovers and never wives or mistresses; the presence of plants and animals among the human.

On this last count, Iosseliani can be acclaimed for bringing some of the best birds to the silver screen, with a high point being the gigantic, unbelievable, and hilarious stork from Adieu, plancher des vaches! (1999). But in Iosseliani’s films, birds are more than just birds—they illustrate an aesthetic principle. In Brigands, chapitre VII (1996), a medieval tyrant is poisoned by his mistress. The man falls down in agony, and she says, “Die you lousy swine!” But the man doesn’t die, and a parrot that hears the words and repeats them is used as a key witness in the mistress’ trial. So, without realizing it, the animal plays an important part in history. In Iosseliani’s films, you can see birds and quadrupeds like the boars that, alive or in photographs, punctuate Jardins en automne (together with a caged bird that’s called “the bird of truth”). These untamed animals are a presence that we humans cannot understand, and we look at their mysterious nature with the same perplexity as they might look at us. Maybe that’s the secret of Iosseliani’s view of human affairs: his camera shows people from the point of view of an animal, and, like men see animals, it finds humans weird, colourful, and potentially dangerous.

Over that basic layer of strangeness and involuntary cruelty, civilization tries to build a network between isolated individuals. But “civilization” doesn’t mean technology nor political order, but a series of rites and traditions that appeal to a much more primitive and, at the same time, sophisticated bond among equals—one that can be named kindness. Kindness is what leads to affection, to communication, to the pleasure of sharing. It has elementary manifestations in the ways to greet people, to ask for a match, to continuously offer cigarettes and drinks to others (Jarmusch!). Kindness is what contradicts brutality, the arrogance of dictators, the sadism of bureaucrats, the greed of capitalists, the pettiness of spouses, and all the other evils in Iosseliani’s films.

The balance of forces is uneven, however. As shown in Brigands, Iosseliani’s most political film, brute force prevails, and the autocrats, the party members, and the arms dealers impose their ignoble rule over tenderness and joy, dispossess the innocent, the rebels, and even the bad guys from their jobs, their homes, and their lives. Not much can be done against the determination of wrongdoers. In There Once Was a Singing Blackbird (1970), a masterpiece from the Georgian period, the main character is a musician who needs to be in perpetual motion and whose optimism and joy of life contradicts his boss’ desire to make him ordinary and disciplined. In the end, a car hits the young man, revealing that the director, in spite of the film’s light, bubbling atmosphere, doesn’t share his character’s naiveté.

As a result, Iosseliani’s films are far from being optimistic. On the contrary, they convey a deep sadness that has been especially apparent in his last few films. Although the filmmaker is very reluctant to show the actual death of his characters, there is a bleak cloud hanging over them, a sense of vague melancholy, of a loss with no precise object. In Jardins en automne, events go smoothly and nothing terrible happens; we seem to be watching a gentle comedy about an ex-politician who finds himself fully free to play the guitar, party with friends, and make love to women. The film’s protagonist, Vincent (a spectacular performance by Séverin Blanchet), is a minister in the French government, whose official duties seem to consist of keeping up with protocol. He’s bored with his job and his mistress. One day he’s fired and finds himself alone, with no job, no home, no girl, and no money. It’s the ideal Iosseliani situation, like in Adieu, plancher des vaches! or Lundi matin (2002). So, he behaves like he’s supposed to: he meets his old pals and girlfriends, and goes around drinking.

But there is a new element this time. Vincent has a rich mother, played by none other than Michel Piccoli, from whom he demands protection, shelter, and money. This is, to say the least, very unusual casting, and it’s almost impossible to avoid giving a meaning attached to this choice. This peculiar lady lives in a huge mansion with a big park, almost a palace, where she gives parties and conducts official ceremonies. In one of these ceremonies, she calls out the names of some soldiers, like Lt. Pierre Grandrieux and Sgt. Philippe Léon, who happen to be dead in the battlefields—Philippe Grandrieux and Pierre Léon are two French filmmakers, younger than Iosseliani, and in the hardcore cinephile camp. On the other hand, one of Vincent’s pals is legendary Cahiers du Cinéma critic Jean Douchet, and another is Iosseliani himself, who plays Arnaud, a character interested in painting, music, and gardening (and a transparent liquid that probably is vodka).

During the party the house is attacked, and Vincent and his friends are beaten. It’s very tempting to see Piccoli as a symbol for the French cinema (the actor, also a director himself, has worked with every major French director, and was even cast by Godard as the grey eminence of 1995’s Deux fois cinquante ans de cinéma français) and to see the attack on the house as a metaphor for the state of film in France, where people like Iosseliani seem not to matter any more. Vincent’s loss of privileges, yet with some remnants of his former official protection, speaks to the fragile situation and threatened careers of Iosseliani and his cineaste colleagues. A crowd sings Marxists hymns and throws tomatoes at Vincent, like they used to do in Stalinist Georgia. He is dispossessed of his official ministerial residence, as well as from his private apartment by squatters. The bistro where the group hangs around is shut down. The walls of the café, full of drawings made by Arnaud, are painted over. The new owner of the house tells the painter to “eliminate all that crap.” It’s an obvious reference to the oblivion to which Iosseliani’s images will be thrown in the future. This is not just a goodbye—it’s a dark one.

To contradict that view, at the end of the film we see another party in a garden, where all Vincent’s lovers, friends, and relatives are talking, drinking, and having fun. They all seem very relaxed, very happy. Then the camera turns up, showing the blue of the sky and the green of the trees. It’s a beautiful shot, full of lyricism and tenderness, one that perfectly integrates with the bright spirit of the last meeting. Then the screen turns black for a moment, and the credits begin to roll. At that point, the viewer might very well remember that the first shot of the film, a prologue that precedes the title, is a long shot in the shop of a coffin-maker, where Douchet, among other people, is trying to buy a casket that will fit him. With this in mind, the last shot becomes one of overwhelming sadness, and the party a definitive farewell.

About 12 years ago, another adopted French filmmaker, Krzysztof Kieslowski, completed his famous Three Colours trilogy, which was supposed to comment on the keywords of the French revolution. Iosseliani once said “the problems of a foreign country can never become truly, intimately yours… For you they will never have the same concreteness as they do for a real human community of people that are born and raised within that community.” However, this foreigner who saw his country destroyed to the verge of the unrecognizable and has, since then, been a well-treated guest—but with very limited recognition—in his new home, has not only showed today’s crisis in French cinema in a way that his native colleagues don’t dare, but deals in a clever way (and in a much less pompous one than Kieslowski) with the principles of liberté, egalité, and fraternité. Something is happening in Paris, after all. The problem is that the French don’t see it.

Stimulating cinema: Otar Iosseliani FilmFest Day 3

Film: Pastoral
Year: 1976

Last, but certainly not least, in Iosseliani fest is "Pastoral." In the commentary that accompanies the two-disc set of the director's work that was the source of this fest, one of his mentors (I believe) says that this movie was Iosseliani's farewell to his Georgian homeland. A few years, the director emigrated to France, where I would guess he still lives. What a treat it would be to talk to this man now--to get his insights into these remarkable works and to hear his thoughts on what has transpired both in the world of cinema and in the world in general since this movie was made. Does anyone know of any recent English-translated interviews he has done in recent years that might be found online somewhere?

If this movie was Iosseliani's farewell, he went out with a blaze of glory. The ending of this movie, in particular, is one of the most poignant, human moments you'll ever see on the screen. When watching it I thought to myself "this is about as good as it gets." The quality of this movie (and the other three I've discussed) is uniformly high and filled with liberal doses of humanity, spirit and warmth.

The movie begins with a group of classical musicians being sent to a rural village for the summer. The reason for this, at least as far as I could tell, wasn't really clear. But, just accept it--they're there. The sophisticated artsy folks from the city (one of whom is played by Iosseliani favorite Marina Kartsivadze) are plopped into the middle of an alien world. And of course, the feeling is mutual--the unpretentious, hard-working country folk don't quite know what to make of their unexpected visitors, but extend them plenty of warmth and courtesy and try to help them feel right at home. The contrasts are striking--the only thing these people have in common is that they are all Georgian. They're way of lives, though, are complete polar opposites. I think it's fascinating to think that even today (I'm thinking of a place like Brazil but I am sure there are many, many others), there could be such disparity between the lives of all the citizens. Here in the United States, there are differences between north and south, city and country, etc. but the gaps aren't that huge and there is frequently a common ground. For the characters in this movie, though, it's really like two different worlds coming together.

The musicians go through their day, warily keeping an eye on their surroundings while rehearsing. The villagers go on about their business too, farming and raising their animals with the wafting music as a constant accompaniment to their chores. In one of the best scenes, the musicians start playing for the first time and everyone in the village, young and old, is captivated by the sounds. Slowly, the two groups begin to find common ground--and Iosseliani shows this brilliantly. It's the little things--helping take in laundry before a storm arrives for example or recording a brother and sister singing traditional songs--that help bring the groups closer together. Helping to bridge the two worlds is Edouki, a teenage girl played by Nana Iosseliani (who I would have to assume is the director's daughter). Edouki is a hard-working girl, devoted to her younger brother and sister. But the arrival of the musicians (and a crush on one of them) fires in her imagination the possibility of a better life. Eventually, the musicians have to leave--goodbyes are said and promises are made. And then the scene I described earlier which I won't reveal, but which is truly magical.

Iosseliani's works are often described as "lyrical" and this might be his most lyrical work. In the literal sense, there is always music in the background and it underscores the emotions and actions of the characters. But also lyrical in the poetic sense of expressing personal feelings--it's never hard to know where these characters stand or what they are feeling. Everything, warts and all, is right there on the surface.

There are so many things that made me smile when watching this movie. Small gestures really say a lot--like when the musicians first arrive, one of them carelessly tosses and empty pop bottle on the ground. Shortly thereafter, we see an old man--his back bent almost perpendicular to the ground under the weight of a heavy load--stop and pick up the bottle before continuing on his way. Another moment comes when a pick-up truck carrying a group of peasants on their way to pick a crop is forced to stop at a railroad crossing. The passengers on the train gaze at them as if they were aliens, and the peasants return their gaze in similar fashion. Two worlds in conflict--and I think this scenes best illustrates where Iosseliani stood. There is also a sly tribute to his earlier film "Lived Once a Song Thrush" and lots of moments of high comedy. I'll come back to Iosseliani's movies again and again and I'm sure I'll always feel slightly uplifted after watching them. They do make you feel better about yourself and the world in general somehow.

Stimulating cinema: Otar Iosseliani FilmFest Day 2

Film: Lived Once a Song Thrush (original title: "Iko shashvi mgalobeli," also known as "There Was Once a Singing Blackbird")
Year: 1972

I really hate guys--and more often than not it is guys--like Gia, the main character in the third film in the Iosseliani festival. In my personal and in my professional life, this kind of personality has always rubbed me wrong for some reason. The glad-hander. The guy with a smile or a flirtatious word for every lady. The guy who breezes through life oblivious to the constraints of time and oblivious to how his irresponsible ways impact others. Probably I'm jealous of guys like Gia to a point--I don't have the gift of gab among strangers and I have always been awkward around women (how I even got married is quite a miracle in itself!) So sure, I do wish I could be a little more like Gia. But ultimately though, people like this have no substance; they might no everybody in town but do they really have any deep friendships? Do they ever really fall in love? Or do they love themselves to much to ever give themselves up to another?

Gia (Gia Agladze) is the center of attention in this movie, both literally and figuratively. He moves to the march of his own clock--deadlines are flexible, meetings and appointments are often forgotten or ignored outright and the feelings of others don't matter. It's not that Gia is a bad person--early on, his mother urges him to attend an aunt's birthday party and he does manage to make the scene, clearly delighting the older woman--it's just that he's clueless to how his frivolity gets in the way of the serious side of life. It's not all play and Gia hasn't figured that out yet and it's doubtful he ever will as there are too many admirers (male and female both) who will let him keep on with his flighty ways.

As the film opens, Gia is running late once again. A harried stage manager is looking all over the place for him. There is a concert going on and Gia is nowhere to be found. Just in the nick of time though he arrives to play his part (he plays the kettle drums in a symphony orchestra). And so, smiles all around. That Gia--he almost blew it that time! This flying-by-the-of-you-pants style annoys the conductor and the orchestra head and even though both express indignation, they never punish him. As one character says "all we ask is that you be on time" and Gia can't even do that.

The following morning--the film unfolds in a 36-hour time period, give or take--a kind, vacationing couple arrives at Gia's home. They are friends of a friend and Gia has been asked to put them up for a bit, maybe show them around and be nice. Gia promises to show them the sights of Tblisi, then promptly ducks out for the rest of the day--leaving the couple in the hands of his befuddled mother. And he's off, chatting up almost every female he sees (I lost count of all the girls he flirted with), charming most and annoying a few. One of the annoyed ones is played by Marina Kartsivadze, who had a larger role in "Falling Leaves." And that's pretty much it--no lessons are learned and you get the feeling that nothing is ever going to change. At the end of the day, Gia lies in his bed, staring at the monotonous wallpaper. You get the sense that he wants to be different, but just can't. The movie ends on the following morning with a bit of a jolt and a lot of disarray.

This me sound like a negative review, and I surely don't want to give that impression. I liked this movie a lot, just not the main character's ways. There is a good message here and there are a lot of thought-provoking elements. And the director's work is excellent once again (I'm really delighted to have made your acquaintance Mr. Iosseliani.) He keeps his touch light and makes the city of Tblisi positively thrum with energy. Gia flits about from situation to situation like a busy bee and the camerawork and editing help enhance the chaos.

Stimulating cinema: Otar Iosseliani FilmFest Day 1

Film: April
Year released: 1962

and

Film: Falling Leaves
Year released: 1968

For my first FilmFest, I'm digging into some works by the great Georgian director Otar Iosseliani. And I'm really glad too, because Iosseliani's movies are opening up a whole new world for me. I have to say that before starting this blog and getting heavily involved in movie-watching, I'd never heard of him and I'd wager to say that even if you are student of film history, he might be way down on your radar. That's one of the neat things about this project--I'm always learning and there are wonderful new discoveries around every corner. The joy of finding someone new (to me) and immersing myself in their art and their vision is incredibly gratifying and rewarding.

Iosseliani was born in Tblisi, Georgia in the former Soviet Union on Feb. 2, 1934. The rest of his biography follows, courtesy of allmovies.com

He studied at the State Conservatory and graduated in 1952 with a diploma in composition, conducting and piano. In 1953 he went to Moscow to study at the faculty of mathematics, but in two years he quit and entered the State Film Institute (VGIK) where his teachers were Alexander Dovzhenk and Mikhail Chiaureli. While still a student, he began working at the Gruziafilm studios in Tbilisi, first as an assistant director and then as an editor of documentaries. In 1958 he directed his first short film "Akvarel." In 1961 he graduated from VGIK with a diploma in film direction. When his medium-length film "Aprili" (1962) was denied theatrical distribution, Iosseliani abandoned filmmaking and in 1963-1965 worked first as a sailor on a fishing boat and then at the Rustavi metallurgical factory. "Aprili" was finally released only in 1972. In 1966 he directed his first feature film "Giorgobistve" that was presented at the Critics' Week at the 1968 Cannes Film Festival and won a FIPRESCI award there. When his 1976 film "Pastorli" was shelved for a few years and then granted only a limited distribution, Iosseliani grew sceptical about getting any artistic freedom in his homeland. Following "Pastorali's" success at the 1982 Berlin Film Festival, the director moved to France where in 1984 he made "Les Favoris de la Lune." The film was distinguished with a Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival. Since then Venice became a showcase for all his subsequent films. In 1989 he again received a Special Jury Prize for "Et la Lumiere Fut" and in 1992 the Pasinetti Award for Best Direction for "La Chasse aux Papillons." After the disruption of the Soviet Union he continued to work in France where he made the documentary "Seule Georgie" (1994) which was followed by the sardonic and allegorical "Brigands: Chapitre VII" (1996).

A key thing to remember when watching Iosseliani's films: They ran afoul of the Russian censors and were either banned outright or similarly restricted upon release. That, to me, is really mind-boggling in that there is nothing in these two films that would merit that. Granted, there is some symbolism that could be interpreted one way but of course it could be interpreted in others too. It just confirms (as if we needed any more at this point) the paranoia that was permeating the Soviet leadership at the time. If you are looking hard enough for subversion, you're sure to find it. And I am pretty certain that Iosseliani meant for his works to be taken at face value (although I'd be interested to know if this is not the case. Can anyone help out with a link or an article?)

Take the first movie in our Fest--"April." According to allmovies, the film was banned upon release due to it's "excessive formalism." I think this is party doublespeak for "we don't understand this so there must be something subversive here. Best to ban it." "April" though, is really a charming little film. It has a message that resonates across cultures and eras--don't get too caught up with material things. Remember what's important. Take joy from a lover's kiss, a tree or a sunny day. It's really a universal message but it's made more poignant perhaps by the setting (a depressed, run-down Tblisi).

As many other critics have noted, "April" is similar in style to the works of Jacques Tati (I've seen his "Playground" and will certainly do a future FilmFest on him one day.). There's little dialogue in the movie and what is spoken isn't subtitled (it's hardly necessary though; the characters are fighting with one another and what's being said isn't as important as what's going on between them. Instead, the movie focuses on astounding camerawork--figures moving about at all angles--and constant motion. It's like peering into a beehive; there's always something moving and objects or people that at first appear insignificant frequently become so in the course of a scene or two. It's really amazing, creative work and a style that's fresh and always full of enjoyment.

"April's" plot is simple--a young man (Tanya Chanturia) and a young woman (Gia Chiaqadze) meet and fall in love. Early on, their attempts at a simple kiss are constantly thwarted by passersby. When a brand new apartment complex goes up, the two move in. Alone in their bare space, they finally kiss and when they do it's magic! The lights come on, the water runs and the stove burners light--all from this one kiss. Life is good. But slowly the couple's idyllic existence changes as they are seduced by the creeping disease of materialism. It starts slowly--first a chair then a vase. Soon, their apartment is jammed with all types of furniture and gadgets (two vacuum cleaners!) Their quiet tender moments are replaced with quarrels and eventually they make the only choice they can.

By contrast, the feature-length ("April" runs for about 45 minutes) "Falling Leaves" is more conventional in terms of plotting and structure, but still maintains the characteristic Iosseliani touches. The movie begins with sort of a prologue as we see Georgian villagers harvesting grapes, making them into wine and enjoying the wine along with good food and fellowship. We switch then to the city, where two young men are on the verge of new jobs. Otar (Georgiy Kharabadze) is a by-the-book opportunist who is still living at home and is hilariously brow-beaten by his parents before going off on his job interview. Niko (Ramaz Giorgobiani) is a younger man with a lot of weight on his shoulders. He needs this job because he's now the man of the house and has a mother, grandmother and and four younger sisters to support. It's clear right away that Niko is a good boy, serious, kind-hearted yet very strong, earnest and principled.

The two land jobs at a wine collective. Otar quickly sets about on a course of trying to become a success by becoming Mr. Company Man. Niko, meanwhile, quickly endears himself to his co-workers by being their equal and by working side-by-side with them. Niko's status grows when he reveals his father's name (Alexander Nijoradze). His co-workers are sympathetic--Alexander who has apparently just recently passed was "a good man" and Niko is highly respected as his son. Otar and Niko vie for the affections of Marina (Marina Kartsivadze), who feels she is better than Otar but is too flighty for the serious-minded Niko. One of the more poignant parts of the movie comes when Niko realizes Marina isn't the person he thought she was (and takes a punch in the face to add insult to injury).

Niko takes a stand early on--it's time to bottle the wine from vat 49 (a strange number, would there be any connection with Pynchon's "The Crying of Lot 49?"). The wine is clearly subpar, yet for the sake of cost and efficiency, the powers that be want it bottled anyway. Niko refuses to sign off on bottling a bad product and is forced to stand firm. Eventually, with the help of the workers he has developed deep friendships with, Niko resolves his conflict.

Clearly there is symbolism here--the character Otar represents the staid, non-conforming bureaucrats, yes-men and lackeys without an ounce of creativity or passion in their souls. Niko represents the people and the inherent power we all have inside of us to do good for mankind. Along the way, there's comedy, sorrow and more of the Tati-esque moments and shots that Ioselliani excels at. Excellent film.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Stimulating cinema: Biutiful

Year released: 2010
Director: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu

Darkly magnificent and hauntingly memorable, this film deservedly earned an Oscar nomination for lead actor Javier Bardem. More so than even the story, what I will remember most from this film is the images--the snowy Pyreneean prologue, the wild chase through the streets as the cops try to apprehend the drug-dealing Senegalese, the tortured, failed beauty of Uxbal's ex-wife Marambra. Such a good film--I wonder why more didn't like it. Review is from the London Observer's Philip French and was published on January 29, 2011.

Barcelona is one of the world's most photogenic cities, as demonstrated in more than three decades of movies, from Antonioni's dazzling "The Passenger" to Woody Allen's touristy "Vicky Christina Barcelona" and Jim Jarmusch's elegant "The Limits of Control." All three play up the glories of its architectural heritage and the works of Antoni Gaudí. In Alejandro González Iñárritu's "Biutiful," which is entirely centred on the turbulent suburbs occupied by desperate immigrants from Africa, Asia and eastern Europe, we're hardly aware of being in that city at all. It is a shock suddenly to see in a distant cityscape the familiar outline of Gaudí's Sagrada Família and later to be faced with an idyllic Mediterranean beach littered with the dead bodies of illegal immigrants.

Biutiful
brings together for the first time the brilliant Mexican director of Amores Perros and the greatest Spanish actor of his generation, Javier Bardem, after both have enjoyed considerable success in the States, Iñárritu having worked with Brad Pitt on Babel and Bardem having won an Oscar in the Coen Brother's "No Country for Old Men" as well as having been Julia Roberts heart-throb in "Eat Pray Love."

If the film has a model, it's Akira Kurosawa's masterly "Ikiru" (aka "Living"), which took a hackneyed subject--the way a middle-aged Japanese civil servant reacts to the news that he has terminal cancer--and transformed it into a profound statement about the human condition. The protagonist of "Biutiful" is Uxbal, a man from southern Spain, who at fortysomething looks in poor physical shape and first reveals his true condition to us when he passes blood. It transpires that he has neglected to have medical check-ups and his painful prostate cancer has been metastasising, leaving him with a couple of months to live.

The movie has a circular motion, beginning and ending with Uxbal handing his mother's ring to his young daughter and recalling a dream-like encounter in a snow-covered forest. This sets the mood for a harsh, unsentimental narrative of redemption and putting one's life in order as a prelude to death. Uxbal does not have the time or the social privileges that allow him to indulge in the doubt and despair of Kurosawa's civil servant or to negotiate those five stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross taught Americans to prepare for in "On Death and Dying."

Uxbal is too poor, hard-pressed and desperate for that, which is not to say that he isn't a man of sensibility and moral intelligence beneath his tough peasant exterior. In league with his brother, Tito, he's up to his neck in petty criminality while exploiting and helping Chinese and African immigrants who make a living on the streets of Barcelona. He's divorced from his wife, the good-looking, chain-smoking, hard-drinking Marambra, and he's raising his two small children Ana and Mateo on a small income. Moreover, his apparent psychic gifts allow him to earn a bit of dubious extra cash.

Without recourse to social counselling, Uxbal must continue his dodging and weaving in his 24-hour-a-day hustling to feed his family, cope with the problematic Marambra and look out for his immigrant clients. In the event, his good intentions don't help and very little turns out well. He goes to jail, people die as a result of his actions and he's forced to sell the family tomb and have his father's embalmed body cremated. One could say his life ends in tragedy. Yet what we see is a decent man striving to do his best in terrible circumstances. Sharing his pain and observing his struggle, we think of Browning's lines: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,/Or what's a heaven for?" In this light, his end seems a kind of moral triumph.

Iñárritu's previous films have been multilayered narratives. Here, he sticks to a single, admittedly richly vibrant milieu and a central character who appears in virtually every frame. He's brilliantly served by the handsome, imposing Bardem, whose expressive face and large battered nose resembles a deposed Roman emperor who's spent a lifetime in fairground boxing booths. This is a further contribution to an astonishing gallery of characters Bardem's created these past few years, ranging from a troubled intellectual and a police chief to a romantic artist and a sadistic killer. The versatile actor he most reminds me of is Anthony Quinn.

One must also mention the harsh, atmospheric photography by Rodrigo Prieto, who's shot all of Iñárritu's films to date as well as Ang Lee's "Brokeback Mountain" and "Lust, Caution." Bardem is unlikely to win the best actor Oscar for which he has been nominated, but in the absence of "Of Gods and Men" from the shortlist, it seems likely that "Biutiful" will win the Academy Award for best foreign language film.


Stimulating sounds: "Burned Sugar: The 1973 Swedish Radio Recordings" by Sabu Martinez

Year recorded: 1973
Personnel: Sabu Martinez (congas, bongos, talking drums, gong, vocals); Bernt Rosengren (saxophone, flute), Wlodek Gulgowski (electric piano, keyboards); Mr. X (bass), Stephan Moller (drums)

Jazzy, funky grooves from the deepest depths of outer space--or the deepest archives of the Swedish National Radio, where the tapes comprising this session were accidentally discovered. The biography of this funky man comes from allmusic, while the short review comes from those almighty purveyors of all things wonderful, dustygroove.

Louis "Sabu" Martinez was one of the most prolific conga players in the history of Afro-Cuban music. In addition to his own albums, Martinez recorded with such influential jazz musicians as Dizzy Gillespie, Horace Silver, Buddy DeFranco, J.J. Johnson, Louis Bellson, Art Farmer and Art Blake and jazz vocalists including Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Jr. Emigrating to Sweden in 1967, he continued to apply his highly melodic rhythms to a lengthy list of recordings by top-notch Swedish performers.

A native of New York's Spanish Harlem, Martinez spent his childhood beating rhythms on tin cans on 111th Street. By the age of 11, he was performing every third night on 125th Street for 25 cents a night. He was still in his early teens when he began playing with Latin bands including those led by Marcelino Guerra and Catalino Rolon. In 1944, he spent an extended period living in Puerto Rico.

After serving a year in the military, at the age of 17, Martinez resumed his musical career as a member of mambo originator Joe Loco's trio. Within a few months, his playing attracted the attention of jazz musicians. In 1946, he began a long association with drummer Art Blakey.

Martinez and Blakey continued to periodically work together until 1959. In addition to leading the rhythm section on Blakey's groundbreaking album "Orgy in Rhythm" in 1954, he was featured on the Jazz Messengers albums "Cu-Bop" and "Messages" in 1957.
Martinez continued to be a much-in-demand session player. In addition to playing traditional Latin music with the Lecuono Cuban Boys, he collaborated with Charlie Parker and Max Roach during a 13-week stint at the New York club the Three Deuces.

In April, 1949, he performed with swing clarinetist Benny Goodman.
The high point of Martinez's career came in 1948 when he joined Dizzy Gillespie's band, following the murder of influential conga player Chano Pozo. During the nine months that he performed with the group, he played on five albums: "Dizzy," "Dizzier and Dizzier," "16 Rare Performances," "When Be-Bop Met the Big Band" and "Diz." In return, Gillespie nicknamed Martinez "Sabu" when he noticed a resemblance to popular Indian actor Sabu, the "Elephant Boy."

Despite his fame, Martinez struggled with heroin addiction. In the mid-'50s, he briefly left music to run a strip joint in Baltimore. Although he overcame his addiction in 1956, it took several years for him to become "psychologically free" from the grasp of the drug. Forming his own quintet, Martinez recorded three memorable albums: the Afro-Cuban masterpiece "Palo Congo" in 1957, and two, "Safari" and "Sorcery" in 1958, that have been described as "the wildest exotica records ever."

In 1960, Martinez collaborated with Louie Ramirez to record the history-making Latin jazz album "Jazz Espagnole." Four years later, he relocated temporarily to Puerto Rico, where he performed with several bands including the Johnny Conquet Orchestra and met his future wife, Agneta.

In 1967, they were married and moved to Agneta's homeland in Sweden. Martinez
remained there for the rest of his life. Shortly after moving to Sweden, Martinez took a gig with Lill Lindfor's Musical Revue. This began a long involvement with Swedish musicians. In addition to sharing his knowledge of music and the conga as a teacher, he performed and recorded with such artists as Cornelius Vreeswick, Merit Hemmingson, Radiojazzgruppen, Björbobandet, the Eero Koisvistoinen Music Society, the Peter Herbolzheimer Rhythm Combination and Brass, Gugge Hedrenius' Big Band and Ivan Oscarsson. While in Sweden, he occasionally collaborated with American musicians including Kenny Clarke, Art Farmer and George Russell.

In 1973, he formed his own band, New Burnt Sugar, and released a book of conga exercises. His final recording sessions came while working on Debbie Cameron and Richard Boone's album "Brief Encounter" in 1978. Martinez died on January 13, 1979, of a gastric ulcer.

Review: Amazing lost funk from Sabu Martinez--rare work recorded in Sweden in the early 70s, and some of his heaviest work ever--as great, if not better than, his legendary "Afro Temple" album! The tunes are all long and very jamming--fierce Latin funk numbers that feature Sabu on a range of percussion instruments--alongside lots of electric piano, plus sax and flute from Swedish jazzman Bernt Rosengren--who's pretty great too! In addition to congas, Sabu also handles talking drums, gong, and bongos – plus a range of other percussion effects too – all heard to great form on the 17 minute jammer "Burned Sugar", plus the cuts "Bernt" and "Mambollo"

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Stimulating sounds: "His Band and Street Choir" by Van Morrison

Year released: 1970
Personnel: Van Morrison (vocals, guitar, harmonica, keyboards, tenor saxophone); John Platania (guitar, mandolin); John Klingberg (bass); Dahaud Elias Shaar (drums, percussion, bass clarinet, backing vocals); Jack Schroer (piano, alto saxophone, baritone saxophone, soprano saxophone); Alan Hand (organ, piano, saxophone); David Shaw (clarinet, percussion); Larry Goldsmith, Janet Planet, Andrew Robinson, Ellen Schroer, Martha Velez (backing vocals)

Released just seven months after "Moondance," Morrison continues his winning streak with an album of smartly executed little songs. Oddly, the two songs I like the best--"I'll Be Your Lover Too" and "Gypsy Queen," a pair of lovely, gentle tracks, are the two that get the lowest rating in the track-by-track analysis, but to each his own.

1. "Domino": Hammering out the sounds from the first note, energetic and inspired it’s a jazzy opener to the second album of 1970. Horns drive the sound from end to end as the guitar sways back and forth along with the bass. Steady percussion rounds out the sounds as the brass pushes the song into its signature chorus complete with the revolving resetting instrumental outro\intro. It’s the unbridled love and admiration Van delivers this number with that makes it more then a pop song and a hit single. It’s a damn good song that’ll move you side to side.

2. "Crazy Face": This one will sneak up on you, and before you know it, you’ll love it. Each listen provides a new level to the lyrical or musical composition that adds to the overall picture and purpose of the song. The horns scream out the chorus in place of Vans signature vocals. The verses and mesmeric and melodious and packed with nuance and feeling. Core-shaking instrumental interludes and forays into variable vocal registers and cadence. An abrupt but satisfying finale completes the pact.

3. "Give Me a Kiss": Old style R&B number that never fails to satisfy. The addition of the horns in the second verse give the song the pep and panache necessary to fit the album and serve justice to van’s creativity. Do-woppy back-up vocals and punchy horns that define an era define this song. Surprisingly delightful if not as original as a number of Vans’s other work and this and surrounding albums.

4. "I've Been Working": A definite stand out. This songs pulls you into a smoke filled studio on the day of its creation and immerses you in it’s essence. Jazzy and with a soulful swing as it motors from end to end in with a stammering swagger. Funky at its soul; it blends funk\jazz\blues\R&B seamlessly. With its “one word say’s it all” chorus there is no doubting the drive behind this song. Rumored to have been reworked from an original version jettisoned from Astral Weeks, that’s not beyond belief although it’s hard to see where a version like the final product would have fit, the origins are unquestionably alike.

5. "Call Me Up in Dreamland": An elegant and effortless soul churner. Graceful spirit and urgent anxiety are the catalyst for this forceful remnant dropped from "Moondance" into perfect place at the tail end of side one. Included amongst a cavalcade of instrumentation is a simple but satisfying sax solo inspired by or inspiring the round about ageless lyrics of the song. “Never to grow old on the saxophone” Van spits and snarls as the lyrics to open each verse are unleashed. This contrasting style along side the harmonious and full chorus propel this one to elite status.

6. "I'll Be Your Lover Too": Soft and slow with guitar plucking lead and vocal emphasis put where needed. It’s a bit of a slow if ever developing song, but a style that Van had visited before and would revisits several times over in the future. Strong lyrical performance with poetic prose and phrasing to match. The influence on Lyrics of T.S Elliot and William Blake is most notably present on this album and this song in particular.

7. "Blue Money": Another old time styled R&B tribute number, with as much playful and self effacing innocence as any Van track prior or since. Typical Van the Man musical evolution from section to section and bar to bar. Incorporating the entire arsenal including some of Van’s goofiest vocal bridge work ever. The piano pounds away the rhythm as the lyrics dance to and fro amongst a brass background. Blue Money was one the biggest hits from the album and remains critically acclaimed and universally loved by fans.

8. "Virgo Clowns": A noble and punchy sort of ballad amongst an R &B country canopy of acoustic guitars and well placed stings and brass backing. The Fog horn provides another subtle note to a song that delicately adjusts itself from punchy to strummy throughout while instructing the occupant to “let your laughter fill the room”. You’ll discover another level of the music with every listen. Impossible not to enjoy if for nothing else it’s originality and nuance.

9. "Gypsy Queen": Feathery light and gentle as Van ventures to falsetto and whispery tones in this reassuring walk through the clouds. Guided by bass and brass mainly the starry bells musical backdrop sets the necessary mood. An interesting song that can turn off a novice listener or fan. Another solid number amongst a quality compellation and while not a personal favorite all the time a song I occasionally really enjoy.

10. "Sweet Jannie": Simple bar-blues style number, which seems out if place other then the fact it’s clearly a style Van has always had allegiance towards. Very safe and limited because of its structure it fails to excite and evolve in the necessary manner. A well executed but unneeded break from the already loose format of the album.

11. "If I Ever Needed Someone": Soulful and spiritual foreshadowing though almost certainly unknowingly. There is no question the conviction of Vans pleas for divine intervention from the opening moments of the song. With gospel style back-up vocals and a step-up style bass and drum section, it’s strong musically, spiritually and lyrically. Still if there is a critique it is another somewhat safe and predictable musical effort leaving you wanting just a little more.

12. "Street Choir": The clear cut standout performance from the album. Prodigious and prestigious with an ambiguous central dynamic revolving around Van’s potentially rhetorical inquiry “Why did you leave America, why did you let me down” It’s impromptu opening, church style organs as the yin to the bellowing and fluttering horns yang, a harmonica led interlude in the songs late-middle and the fraught and frantic vocals are the elements that drive the song to excel as it does. Still a personal favorite.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Stimulating cinema: The Maid

Original title: "La Nana"
Year released: 2009
Director: Sebastian Silva

Well-acted and engrossing little film that examines the gulf between the haves and have-nots in modern day Santiago. Catalina Saavedra is wonderful in the title role and the remainder of the cast is spot-on as well. The review is from Peter Bradshaw in the Guardian and was originally published to coincide with the film's UK release in August of 2010.

Sebastián Silva's film is an unexpected combination: a gripping psychological thriller and also a poignant human drama. It really is edge-of-the-seat stuff, with a startling denouement, and an outstanding central performance from Catalina Saavedra. She plays Raquel, the live-in uniformed maid, working for a well-to-do family in Santiago, Chile, in a handsome house with a pool, attending to the needs of the master and mistress along with their lively teenage children. She must also show respect to the children's very haughty and patrician grandmother, who comes to visit and does not hesitate to give her views on how the household should be run.

Raquel is treated as one of the family--that is, like a tiresome, but affectionately regarded cousin or poor relation--and the film opens with an uneasy and embarrassing birthday celebration that the children's mother Pilar (Claudia Celedón) insists on organising for her. Poor Raquel is now 41, with no man or children of her own, and at an age at which she might be wondering if she has wasted her life in the service of people who don't care about her. Silva cranks up the tension as the atmosphere becomes more oppressive and dysfunctional. Raquel becomes more needy and resentful, more bad-tempered, affecting selective deafness when she does not want to hear an instruction. She has headaches and fainting spells, and when her employers timidly suggest a secondary maid to help her with the chores, Raquel begins a sociopathic guerrilla war against the unfortunate new arrival and against the family itself.

The maid, in her uniform, is traditionally an ambiguous figure: a key player in her own secret theatre of power. She is intimate with authority, but emphatically beneath it, yet also conversely capable, in her very silent submission, of accumulating unspoken grievances with years of service and so increasingly menacing her employer with suggestions of some imminent uprising or unthinkable transgression. Silva's movie draws on the dark, erotic language of Buñuel, Genet and Losey, and it has something of Hollywood thrillers such as "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle" and "Fatal Attraction," together with Michael Haneke's icily parodic slant on this genre. But there is another strand to The Maid: a gentler, unalienated strand that invites the audience to recognise the servant's vulnerability, and here "The Maid" reminded me of Fernando Meirelles' "Domésticas" (2001) and Enrique Rivero's "Parque Vía" (2008).

Saavedra's portrayal is scary yet subtle, nuanced, and she appears almost to change physically with shifts in her character's mood. We can see the old woman that she is growing into, together with the shy girlish figure who first entered the family's service. It is a great star performance, reason enough on its own for seeing this.

Stimulating sounds: "Moondance" by Van Morrison

Year released: 1970
Personnel: Van Morrison (vocals, guitar, rhythm guitar, tambourine, harmonica); John Platania (guitar, rhythm guitar); John Klingberg (bass); Jef Labes (organ, piano, clavinet); Gary Mallaber (drums, vibraphone); Guy Masson (congas); Jack Schroer (alto saxophone, soprano saxophone); Collin Tilton (flute, tenor saxophone); Emily Houston, Judy Clay, Jackie Verdell (backing vocals on "Crazy Love" and "Brand New Day")

The antithesis of "Astral Weeks," "Moondance" is nostalgic, optimistic and celebratory. The title track is a heavyweight standout and a radio staple to this day, but there are several other wonderful moments throughout the album, especially the winsomely gorgeous side one closer "Into the Mystic." Here's a nice track-by-track take from a devoted Morrison fan lurking somewhere in the depths of the internet.

1. "And It Stoned Me": Country style R&B ditty recanting a day in the life of a young Van Morrison. Horn driven chorus as Morrison expresses his childhood apprehension towards leaving the countryside. The optimism builds from verse to verse as first the kids are soaked by the rain, then the sun comes out to dry them in verse two are their fortune changes. Arriving at their destination they embrace the day and jump fully clothed into the pond, their positive attitude is rewarded in the final verse when they while thirst encounter a stranger who shares who gives them a drink. This song’s placement is no accident. This is Van pulling his from the depths of "Astral Weeks" fatale finale into the celebration awaiting them.

2. "Moondance": Has probably become the most popular song from the most popular album Morrison has ever released and it’s doubtful that’s how it was envisioned in its infant stages. This jazzy and jumpy proclamation of confidence within the uncertainty of love has become a pop radio staple but was originally thought of as more of a sophisticated song, a foray into Jazz but a young man who prided him self of incorporating all elements of music he felt into his own. The stand up bass contrasts the flute behind a steady rhythm section as the songs snaps from note to note with that characteristic Morrison grace. Probably better then I give it credit because I take it for granted due to its success and relative over exposure.

3. "Crazy Love": Acoustic style ballad driven by a delicate vocal and a soothing bass line. As relaxing a track as the Van had introduced as of the time. A good song that has the ability to be even better when the listener is in the mood. There is almost no disturbance to the song, it paces along very consistently as one does when trying to pass through a room without waking someone. The bridge is as close to a step-up as there is. Best known version may be duet with Bob Dylan.

4. "Caravan" Some songs are better live then they are on LP, while great either way, Caravan is magical live. Van makes it this way by pouring his heart and soul into every performance. Caravan is a fun song that celebrates the radio and music in general while using gypsy life as a sort of parallel vehicle\metaphor. Highlighted by a gentle acoustic backup and a pulse setting horn section, includes on of Morrison’s more extended instrumental works on the albums final takes. With a powerful punchy bridge driving the song from verse to chorus and back the song is up-beat and energetic and mellow from the beginning; a real solid piece of the Moodance puzzle.

5. "Into the Mystic": The first four bars of this song are perfect. It just doesn’t get any better then this. This song gives me Goosebumps almost every time I hear it. The gentle rhythms of the verse lead into the dramatic escalating pre-chorus before exploding into the powerful symphonic chorus ascending “into the mystic”. With horns, strings, brass and keys all at work in perfect synchronization the song is a spiritual musical journey that takes a hold of you and won’t let go. As unselfish a song as there could ever be, it allows you to exist among it as if perfectly designed. Morrison describes it’s neutrality best: "Originally I wrote it as "Into the Misty". But later I thought that it had something of an ethereal feeling to it so I called it "Into the Mystic". That song is kind of funny because when it came time to send the lyrics in WB Music, I couldn't figure out what to send them. Because really the song has two sets of lyrics. For example, there's "I was born before the wind" and "I was borne before the wind", and also "Also younger than the son, Ere the bonny boat was one" and "All so younger than the son, Ere the bonny boat was won"... I guess the song is just about being part of the universe.” Exactly.

6. "Come Running": This is the song that made me buy this album. Poppy and confident Van instructs his admirer to simply “come running” to him. He even details the outcome of her actions as specifically as the lyrics can allow. Oddly, it was the only remaining song from Van’s initial "Astral Weeks" demos for Bang Records. A light hearted song of very care free subject manner it is simply a toe-tapper and a very good one. It’s in large part Van’s ability to go back and forth from a song like “Into the Mystic” to this that makes the album so successful. It’s strong, demanding chorus elevates this song for me. Van jumps out and back into place lyrically, adding to the care free nature of the song. Another extremely well placed horn section is the final piece to the puzzle.

7. "These Dreams of You": Van’s biography describes it as a song about a dream he had where as the lyrics dictate among other things “Ray Charles was shot down” and “We played cards in the dark”. Very surreal lyrically yet it keeps it’s story structure it’s more firm and structured musically and contrast creates an interesting mood for the song. Probably the strongest lyrically performance of the album all things considered. Sad at times, but never losing faith nor insistence (“… you are an angel”). Perhaps the most unfortunate of songs in terms of its outcome is Van is thrown out, kicked when he’s down and up against the wall. Still there is a determination and that prevailing optimism in the voice of Morrison as despite their unfortunate nature Van still cherishes the dreams of his love and would not trade them for anything even though it hurts.

8. "Brand New Day": With a soft and sanguine start, this song is about hope and it reflects that lyrically and musically. With a chilling steady strummed acoustic chorus and its electric bass fills backed by harmonizing vocals it give new life to a tried and true musical format. Van was “inspired” to write this song by hearing “The Weight” by The Band. He set out to write the song he felt when he was lifted by their song. Each verse is an ascending celebration with musical tempo and key to correspond. An excellent song and probably Van’s “favorite from the LP” as he’s hinted. The lyrics while not particularly insightful or original are secondary to the overall message and tone of the song which is supremely hopeful.

9. "Everyone": Another up-tempo and uplifting number but in a more care free way. The all-inclusive romp of song you may remember from the movie “The Royal Tenenbuams” is a ballad of hope as Morrison envisions, if somewhat indirectly as is his nature, for a quick end to brooding civil war in his home land of Ireland. “and make dreams come true if we want them to” and “we shall walk again…just like we use to” are among the song’s hopefully imagery. Musically highlighted by the organ and flute which had stand out performances amongst an otherwise very steady and circular musical pattern. A solid jumpy song that moves at a fast and fun pace.

10. "Glad Tidings": The final song of Moondance encapsulates the spirit of the album immaculately. With a strong and steady opening and lyrics of love leading into a celebratory chorus. The horns and strings build around the humming drum and bass rhythms which open the song and allow for continuity throughout while still having a free flowing and unpredictable aspect to the music. With a creative and beguiling lyrically structure. The song takes about faith and the happiness and satisfaction in seeing positive results from commitment. It is a song of well wishing and good intentions and an end to a cycle of a different kind with a much more desirable departing message.

Stimulating sounds: "Astral Weeks" by Van Morrison

Year released: 1968
Personnel: Van Morrison (vocals, rhythm guitar); Jay Berliner (guitar); Richard Davis (double bass); Connie Kay (drums); Warren Smith Jr. (percussion, vibraphone); Barry Kornfeld (guitar on "The Way Young Lovers Do"); Larry Fallon (harpsichord on "Cyprus Avenue"); John Payne (flute, soprano saxophone on "Slim Slow Slider")

"It was almost as if Van Morrison, elusive at any time, had deliberately created an album of music which would indefinitely withstand the vulgarity of music industry image-making. Later they might say that other albums were reminiscent of "Astral Weeks," but they could never claim that "Astral Weeks" was like anything else."--Australian music journalist Ritchie Yorke in 1975

"You can hear these moments of invention and gasping for air, and you reach your hand and close your fist and when you open your fist there's a butterfly in it. There was really something there, but you couldn't have seen it. You couldn't have known."--American music critic and writer Greil Marcus

High praise for sure, but this legendary, beautiful album is worthy of each and every adjective. What follows is a track-by-track analysis that I found on a thread somewhere and then Lester Bangs' classic review which was originally published in 1979.

1. "Astral Weeks": Emphatic and perfect. Beautiful and transcending of mood, age or station of life, a masterpiece introduction to a cycle of brilliant explanation pertaining to emotional truth and freedom. The greatest musical personification of love I’ve ever heard. Departs in a humming tranquility that exudes the message of the whole album perfectly. Playful guitar patterns palpable lyrics as violins hum builds drama and mood around the song alongside the flute which pickups on the guitars raw jubilation. A cycle itself while moving as freely as the soul and spirit of the music.

2. "Beside You": Melancholy illuminates the opening notes, desperation feeds the lyrical desperation. Urgency is the contrasting feel from the deliberate pace of the rhythm. Each measure is an experience; the story unfolds with brilliant dramatics, each chapter more compelling and critical then the last. Stand-up bass is a strong backdrop for the frantic acoustic lead and mystic tones of flautist John Payne. An amazingly relaxing song from start to finish.

3. "Sweet Thing": Carefree and effortless, the simple strumming and distant yet considerable vocals build with the supporting cast, a beautiful cavalcade of music. Featuring string interludes, interruptions and accompaniments; a cycle within a cycle gaining kinetic momentum with each revolution. The passion is unrelenting as each note pierces the willing soul. Van’s take; "Sweet Thing" is another romantic song. It contemplates gardens and things like that ... wet with rain. It's a romantic love ballad not about anybody in particular but about a feeling." A favorite of mine for quite a long time; as personally poignant as music gets for me.

4. "Cyprus Avenue": Easing into the design, simple rhythms follow exact fills as the lyrical phrasing, pacing and volume develop the story. As poetic as is necessary without an ounce of insincerity. The utilization of string instrumentals behind improvisational, stream of sentiment lyrics and phrasing develops the number into a pulsating uproar relative to the natural feel prior. The freedom Morrison allows the song gives it a chance to fully develop and come full circle with beautiful implementation. One of the better bass tracks on the album, controlling the music and moving the lot along. Cryptic and casual lyrically very interesting concept perhaps first revealed on this track. The violin’s entrance midway through the song gives it a bravado that is needed to maintain the flow of the story and the feel.

5. "The Way Young Lovers Do": A crucial vertex of a song within the unintentional concept. A swinging, dramatic number in a very different style then its predecessors yet falls into place completely at home amongst the seeming chaos. Mystery is its identity and it displays that within the album. With a wonderful musical build, it only fails to shine for me because it was initially my least favorite track on the album. Layered and precise, it uses the entire musical repertoire to create a personal stamp on Astral Weeks. A different type of love song, more bold and conceptual then on the nose and trite. Very surreal dichotomy between music and vocal style is the songs strong point.

6. "Madame George": Calling back to Cyprus Avenue and reversing the cycle using a different key and adjusting the pacing and building. The same type of calculated and captivating vocal performance persists to drive the song. A moving and motivating bone chiller; still brings me to tears on occasion. The song follows a persistent melody but evolves and emerges throughout with purpose and determination. Bass and acoustic strumming folk style opening gives way to elegant string breezes and graceful flute melody. Stream on consciousness lyrics demonstrate the commitment to tell the story inside the creators mind in a poetic and particular method.

7. "Ballerina": Energy and anticipation not embodied since “Sweet Thing” makes an entrance in the hearty and dynamic Ballerina. ‘Stepping up’ throughout, it builds with painstaking execution towards its goal of intoxication. A bold proclamation of Love beyond surrounding perception or analysis; dynamic at its surface, personal at its core. So many subtle evolutions throughout keeps the listener compelled and at attention. Pushing the cycle full circle, the track entertains and advances with outstanding assiduousness. Another fitting improvised finale pushes the song to its limits.

8. "Slim Slow Slider": The haunting, mellowing finale; a bitter sweet goodbye to what has been and rebirth of another day or way. The lyrics discuss saying good bye and death and the song ends as abruptly and ominously as it began. Completing the cycle that began during the title track (lyrics: "would you ... could you ... be born again"). "Slim Slow Slider" fulfills it purpose quickly and dissipates before you can say goodbye.

Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks" was released ten years, almost to the day, before this was written. It was particularly important to me because the fall of 1968 was such a terrible time: I was a physical and mental wreck, nerves shredded and ghosts and spiders looming and squatting across the mind. My social contacts had dwindled to almost none; the presence of other people made me nervous and paranoid. I spent endless days and nights sunk in an armchair in my bedroom, reading magazines, watching TV, listening to records, staring into space. I had no idea how to improve the situation and probably wouldn't have done anything about it if I had.

"Astral Weeks" would be the subject of this piece--i.e., the rock record with the most significance in my life so far--no matter how I'd been feeling when it came out. But in the condition I was in, it assumed at the time the quality of a beacon, a light on the far shores of the murk; what's more, it was proof that there was something left to express artistically besides nihilism and destruction. (My other big record of the day was "White Light/White Heat".) It sounded like the man who made "Astral Weeks" was in terrible pain, pain most of Van Morrison's previous works had only suggested; but like the later albums by the Velvet Underground, there was a redemptive element in the blackness, ultimate compassion for the suffering of others, and a swath of pure beauty and mystical awe that cut right through the heart of the work

I don't really know how significant it might be that many others have reported variants on my initial encounter with "Astral Weeks". I don't think there's anything guiding it to people enduring dark periods. It did come out at a time when a lot of things that a lot of people cared about passionately were beginning to disintegrate, and when the self-destructive undertow that always accompanied the great sixties party had an awful lot of ankles firmly in it's maw and was pulling straight down. so, as timeless as it finally is, perhaps "Astral Weeks" was also the product of an era. Better think that than ask just what sort of Irish churchwebbed haints Van Morrison might be product of.

Three television shows: A 1970 NET broadcast of a big all-star multiple bill at the Fillmore East. The Byrds, Sha Na Na, and Elvin Bishop have all done their respective things. Now we get to see three of four songs from a set by Van Morrison. He climaxes, as he always did in those days, with "Cyprus Avenue" from "Astral Weeks." After going through all the verses, he drives the song, the band, and himself to a finish which has since become one of his trademarks and one of the all-time classic rock 'n' roll set-closers. With consummate dynamics that allow him to snap from indescribably eccentric throwaway phrasing to sheer passion in the very next breath he brings the music surging up through crescendo after crescendo, stopping and starting and stopping and starting the song again and again, imposing long maniacal silences like giant question marks between the stops and starts and ruling the room through sheer tension, building to a shout of "It's too late to stop now!," and just when you think it's all going to surge over the top, he cuts it off stone cold dead, the hollow of a murdered explosion, throws the microphone down and stalks off the stage. It is truly one of the most perverse things I have ever seen a performer do in my life. And, of course, it's sensational: our guts are knotted up, we're crazed and clawing for more, but we damn well know we've seen and felt something.

1974, a late night network TV rock concert: Van and his band come out, strike a few shimmering chords, and for about ten minutes he lingers over the words "Way over yonder in the clear blue sky / Where flamingos fly." No other lyrics. I don't think any instrumental solos. Just those words, repeated slowly again and again, distended, permutated, turned into scat, suspended in space and then scattered to the winds, muttered like a mantra till they turn into nonsense syllables, then back into the same soaring image as time seems to stop entirely. He stands there with eyes closed, singing, transported, while the band poises quivering over great open-tuned deep blue gulfs of their own.

1977, spring-summer, same kind of show: he sings "Cold Wind in August", a song off his recently released album "A Period of Transition," which also contains a considerably altered version of the flamingos song. "Cold Wind in August" is a ballad and Van gives it a fine, standard reading. The only trouble is that the whole time he's singing it he paces back and forth in a line on the stage, his eyes tightly shut, his little fireplug body kicking its way upstream against what must be a purgatorial nervousness that perhaps is being transferred to the cameraman.

What this is about is a whole set of verbal tics--although many are bodily as well--which are there for reason enough to go a long way toward defining his style. They're all over "Astral Weeks": four rushed repeats of the phrases "you breathe in, you breath out" and "you turn around" in "Beside You"; in "Cyprus Avenue," twelve "way up on"s, "baby" sung out thirteen times in a row sounding like someone running ecstatically downhill toward one's love, and the heartbreaking way he stretches "one by one" in the third verse; most of all in "Madame George" where he sings the word "dry" and then "your eye" twenty times in a twirling melodic arc so beautiful it steals your own breath, and then this occurs: "And the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love that loves."

Van Morrison is interested, obsessed with how much musical or verbal information he can compress into a small space, and, almost, conversely, how far he can spread one note, word, sound, or picture. To capture one moment, be it a caress or a twitch. He repeats certain phrases to extremes that from anybody else would seem ridiculous, because he's waiting for a vision to unfold, trying as unobtrusively as possible to nudge it along. Sometimes he gives it to you through silence, by choking off the song in midflight: "It's too late to stop now!"

It's the great search, fueled by the belief that through these musical and mental processes illumination is attainable. Or may at least be glimpsed.

When he tries for this he usually gets it more in the feeling than in the Revealed Word - perhaps much of the feeling comes from the reaching--but there is also, always, the sense of WHAT if he DID apprehend that Word; there are times when the Word seems to hover very near. And then there are times when we realize the Word was right next to us, when the most mundane overused phrases are transformed: I give you "love," from "Madame George." Out of relative silence, the Word: "Snow in San Anselmo." "That's where it's at," Van will say, and he means it (aren't his interviews fascinating?). What he doesn't say is that he is inside the snowflake, isolated by the song: "And it's almost Independence Day."

You're probably wondering when I'm going to get around to telling you about "Astral Weeks." As a matter of fact, there's a whole lot of "Astral Weeks" I don't even want to tell you about. Both because whether you've heard it or not it wouldn't be fair for me to impose my interpretation of such lapidarily subjective imagery on you, and because in many cases I don't really know what he's talking about. he doesn't either: "I'm not surprised that people get different meanings out of my songs," he told a Rolling Stone interviewer. "But I don't wanna give the impression that I know what everything means 'cause I don't ... There are times when I'm mystified. I look at some of the stuff that comes out, y'know. And like, there it is and it feels right, but I can't say for sure what it means."

There you go/Starin' with a look of avarice/Talking to Huddie Leadbetter/Showin' pictures on the walls/And whisperin' in the halls/And pointin' a finger at me

I haven't got the slightest idea what that "means," though on one level I'd like to approach it in a manner as indirect and evocative as the lyrics themselves. Because you're in trouble anyway when you sit yourself down to explicate just exactly what a mystical document, which is exactly what "Astral Weeks" is, means. For one thing, what it means is Richard Davis' bass playing, which complements the songs and singing all the way with a lyricism that's something more than just great musicianship: there is something about it that more than inspired, something that has been touched, that's in the realm of the miraculous. The whole ensemble--Larry Fallon's string section, Jay Berliner's guitar (he played on Mingus' "Black Saint and the Sinner Lady"), Connie Kay's drumming--is like that: they and Van sound like they're not just reading but dwelling inside of each other's minds. The facts may be far different. John Cale was making an album of his own in the adjacent studio at the time, and he has said that "Morrison couldn't work with anybody, so finally they just shut him in the studio by himself. He did all the songs with just an acoustic guitar, and later they overdubbed the rest of it around his tapes."

Cale's story might or might not be true--but facts are not going to be of much use here in any case. Fact: Van Morrison was twenty-two--or twenty-three--years old when he made this record; there are lifetimes behind it. What "Astral Weeks" deals in are not facts but truths. "Astral Weeks," insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend. It is a precious and terrible gift, born of a terrible truth, because what they see is both infinitely beautiful and terminally horrifying: the unlimited human ability to create or destroy, according to whim. It's no Eastern mystic or psychedelic vision of the emerald beyond, nor is it some Baudelairean perception of the beauty of sleaze and grotesquerie. Maybe what it boiled down to is one moment's knowledge of the miracle of life, with its inevitable concomitant, a vertiginous glimpse of the capacity to be hurt, and the capacity to inflict that hurt.

Transfixed between pure rapture and anguish. Wondering if they may not be the same thing, or at least possessed of an intimate relationship. In "T.B. Sheets", his last extended narrative before making this record, Van Morrison watched a girl he loved die of tuberculosis. the song was claustrophobic, suffocating, mostrously powerful: "innuendos, inadequacies, foreign bodies." A lot of people couldn't take it; the editor of this book has said that it's garbage, but I think it made him squeamish. Anyway, the point is that certain parts of "Astral Weeks"--"Madame George," "Cyprus Avenue"--take the pain in "T.B. Sheets" and root the world in it. Because the pain of watching a loved one die of however dread a disease may be awful, but it is at least something known, in a way understood, in a way measureable and even leading somewhere, because there is a process: sickness, decay, death, mourning, some emotional recovery. But the beautiful horror of "Madame George" and "Cyprus Avenue" is precisely that the people in these songs are not dying: we are looking at life, in its fullest, and what these people are suffering from is not disease but nature, unless nature is a disease.

A man sits in a car on a tree-lined street, watching a fourteen-year-old girl walking home from school, hopelessly in love with her. I've almost come to blows with friends because of my insistence that much of Van Morrison's early work had an obsessively reiterated theme of pedophilia, but here is something that at once may be taken as that and something far beyond it. He loves her. Because of that, he is helpless. Shaking. Paralyzed. Maddened. Hopeless. Nature mocks him. As only nature can mock nature. Or is love natural in the first place? No Matter. By the end of the song he has entered a kind of hallucinatory ecstasy; the music aches and yearns as it rolls on out. This is one supreme pain, that of being imprisoned a spectator. And perhaps no so very far from "T.B. Sheets," except that it must be far more romantically easy to sit and watch someone you love die than to watch them in the bloom of youth and health and know that you can never, ever have them, can never speak to them.

"Madame George" is the album's whirlpool. Possibly one of the most compassionate pieces of music ever made, it asks us, no, arranges that we see the plight of what I'll be brutal and call a lovelorn drag queen with such intense empathy that when the singer hurts him, we do too. (Morrison has said in at least one interview that the song has nothing to do with any kind of transvestite--at least as far as he knows, he is quick to add--but that's bullshit.) The beauty, sensitivity, holiness of the song is that there's nothing at all sensationalistic, exploitative, or tawdry about it; in a way Van is right when he insists it's not about a drag queen, as my friends were right and I was wrong about the "pedophelia"--it's about a person, like all the best songs, all the greatest literature.

The setting is that same as that of the previous song--"Cyprus Avenue", apparently a place where people drift, impelled by desire, into moments of flesh-wracking, sight-curdling confrontation with their destinies. It's an elemental place of pitiless judgment--wind and rain figure in both songs--and, interestingly enough, it's a place of the even crueler judgment of adults by children, in both cases love objects absolutely indifferent to their would-be adult lovers. Madame George's little boys are downright contemptuous - like the street urchins who end up cannibalizing the homosexual cousin in Tennessee Williams' "Suddenly Last Summer," they're only too happy to come around as long as there's music, party times, free drinks and smokes, and only too gleefully spit on George's affections when all the other stuff runs out, the entombing winter settling in with not only wind and rain but hail, sleet, and snow.

What might seem strangest of all but really isn't is that it's exactly those characteristics which supposedly should make George most pathetic-- age, drunkenness, the way the boys take his money and trash his love--that awakens something for George in the heart of the kid whose song this is. Obviously the kid hasn't simply "fallen in love with love," or something like that, but rather--what? Why just exactly that only sunk in the foulest perversions could one human being love another for anything other than their humanness: love him for his weakness, his flaws, finally perhaps his decay. Decay is human--that's one of the ultimate messages here, and I don't by any stretch of the lexicon mean decadence. I mean that in this song or whatever inspired it Van Morrison saw the absolute possibility of loving human beings at the farthest extreme of wretchedness, and that the implications of that are terrible indeed, far more terrible than the mere sight of bodies made ugly by age or the seeming absurdity of a man devoting his life to the wobbly artifice of trying to look like a woman.

You can say to love the questions you have to love the answers which quicken the end of love that's loved to love the awful inequality of human experience that loves to say we tower over these the lost that love to love the love that freedom could have been, the train to freedom, but we never get on, we'd rather wave generously walking away from those who are victims of themselves. But who is to say that someone who victimizes himself or herself is not as worthy of total compassion as the most down and out Third World orphan in a New Yorker magazine ad? Nah, better to step over the bodies, at least that gives them the respect they might have once deserved. where I love, in New York (not to make it more than it is, which is hard), everyone I know often steps over bodies which might well be dead or dying as a matter of course, without pain. and I wonder in what scheme it was originally conceived that such an action is showing human refuse the ultimate respect it deserves.

There is of course a rationale--what else are you going to do-- but it holds no more than our fear of our own helplessness in the face of the plain of life as it truly is: a plain which extends into an infinity beyond the horizons we have only invented. Come on, die it. As I write this, I can read in the Village Voice the blurbs of people opening heterosexual S&M clubs in Manhattan, saying things like, "S&M is just another equally valid form of love. Why people can't accept that we'll never know." Makes you want to jump out a fifth floor window rather than even read about it, but it's hardly the end of the world; it's not nearly as bad as the hurts that go on everywhere everyday that are taken to casually by all of us as facts of life. Maybe it boiled down to how much you actually want to subject yourself to. If you accept for even a moment the idea that each human life is as precious and delicate as a snowflake and then you look at a wino in a doorway, you've got to hurt until you feel like a sponge for all those other assholes' problems, until you feel like an asshole yourself, so you draw all the appropriate lines. You stop feeling. But you know that then you begin to die. So you tussle with yourself. how much of this horror can I actually allow myself to think about? Perhaps the numbest mannekin is wiser than somebody who only allows their sensitivity to drive them to destroy everything they touch--but then again, to tilt Madame George's hat a hair, just to recognize that that person exists, just to touch his cheek and then probably expire because the realization that you must share the world with him is ultimately unbearable is to only go the first mile. The realization of living is just about that low and that exalted and that unbearable and that sought-after. Please come back and leave me alone. But when we're along together we can talk all we want about the universality of this abyss: it doesn't make any difference, the highest only meets the lowest for some lying succor, UNICEF to relatives, so you scratch and spit and curse in violent resignation at the strict fact that there is absolutely nothing you can do but finally reject anyone in greater pain than you. At such a moment, another breath is treason. that's why you leave your liberal causes, leave suffering humanity to die in worse squalor than they knew before you happened along. You got their hopes up. Which makes you viler than the most scrofulous carrion. viler than the ignorant boys who would take Madame George for a couple of cigarettes. because you have committed the crime of knowledge, and thereby not only walked past or over someone you knew to be suffering, but also violated their privacy, the last possession of the dispossessed.

Such knowledge is possibly the worst thing that can happen to a person (a lucky person), so it's no wonder that Morrison's protagonist turned away from Madame George, fled to the train station, trying to run as far away from what he'd seen as a lifetime could get him. And no wonder, too, that Van Morrison never came this close to looking life square in the face again, no wonder he turned to "Tupelo Honey" and even "Hard Nose the Highway" with its entire side of songs about falling leaves. In "Astral Weeks" and "T.B. Sheets" he confronted enough for any man's lifetime. Of course, having been offered this immeasurably stirring and equally frightening gift from Morrison, one can hardly be blamed for not caring terribly much about Old, Old Woodstock and little homilies like "You've got to Make It Through This World On Your Own" and "Take It Where You Find It."

On the other hand, it might also be pointed out that desolation, hurt, and anguish are hardly the only things in life, or in "Astral Weeks." They're just the things, perhaps, that we can most easily grasp and explicate, which I suppose shows about what level our souls have evolved to. I said I wouldn't reduce the other songs on this album by trying to explain them, and I won't. But that doesn't mean that, all thing considered, a juxtaposition of poets might not be in order.

If I ventured in the slipstream/Between the viaducts of your dreams/Where the mobile steel rims crack/And the ditch and the backroads stop/Could you find me/Would you kiss my eyes/And lay me down/In silence easy/To be born again--Van Morrison

My heart of silk/is filled with lights/with lost bells/with lilies and bees/I will go very far/farther than those hills/farther than the seas/close to the stars/to beg Christ the Lord/to give back the soul I had/of old, when I was a child/ripened with legends/with a feathered cap/and a wooden sword.--Federico Garcia Lorca