A friend of mine posted this on her blog ( http://bringmebackakangaroo.blogspot.com ). I thought it was quite wonderful, so I am reposting it here. Somehow the rhythm is easier for me to hear in this- kinda like beat poetry. I don't know of the poet, so it might be, for all I know.
What I Know
by Lee Robinson
What I know for sure is less and less:
that a hot bath won't cure loneliness.
That bacon is the best bad thing to chew
and what you love may kill you.
The odd connection between perfection
and foolishness, like the pelican
diving for his fish.
How silly sex is.
How, having it, we glimpse
our holiness.
What I know is less and less.
What I want is more and more:
you against me—
your ferocious tenderness—
love like a star,
once small and far,
now huge, now near.
There's a lot of truth and beauty to be found in something so honest and unassuming, I think.
... and recently I decided to try my hand at actual poetry- like... without music or anything. This is my first attempt- somewhere between poetry and straight up advice. It might not be the greatest, but... fuck it. I had something to say. Sharing and all that. Ahem:
When you are cut
You will heal
If you allow
Do not tear at your cuts
Hoping someone will see
That you are lame
And love you for it
Their blood will run with yours
Do not hide your cuts
Under dirt and coarse cloth, afraid
To be seen and painted weak
Your infection will spread
And you will be weak indeed
Let wounds heal
Carry your scars
Proudly
All will see
And love you for it
For while wounds seem to speak
Of pain
Of weakness
Of failure
Scars only care to say
I was here
I lived
I am strong
-Me
That's it for now...
-Mojoe, out!
Oops... I almost forgot to leave you a song. This chick is now one of my favorite vocalists... Smooth as silk, baby... but soulful too. She's helping get me through the blues I've had for a few days.
Gaby Moreno- Little Sorrow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6pQkmkeVCY
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Blues 1 (Grit, Grime, and Hard Times)
Hello, all!
Well, here it is-my first real blog post.
The intro was a gimme, so I'm not counting it. Excepting a somewhat delirious 4 a.m. attempt about a week ago (which was rapidly deleted upon waking the next morning) I have not written since. I'll try to be more coherent this time, and actually leave it up.
I've had a number of ideas of what to write on rattling around in my head. Most either begin to seem inconsequential by the time I get a chance to write, too grandiose for public consumption (everything's far more epic in my head, as anyone I've ever dated will no doubt tell you), or just too large for me to know where to start. I've decided to tackle the big subjects one piece at a time, while I figure out how to make the little ones more interesting and the grandiose ones more down-to-earth.
So here we are. The subject of my first blog will be one of the biggest through-lines of my life these days- the blues. This will probably come up several times, hence the number in the title. At first I had anticipated just giving you a summary of my views on the subject, and maybe throwing a couple random samples at you. But I'm too excited and my day's been too weird, so I'm going to do the expected introductory bit, and then jump with both feet into our first bluesy subject. It might be a long one, people.
Blues Defined
Well... it's music, obviously. After that, it gets a little trickier to define than you might think. I remember my music history instructor telling us that blues is a form of music that operates within the blues scale (minor pentatonic + flatted 5th), that it always has a 12 bar format, harmonized with 7th chords. This is, of course, utter bullshit. It doesn't take much listening to blues to realize that there are no real rules.
Yes, the blues scale is fairly constant (or more accurately the presence of the "blue note" and "bent notes" are pervasive), but folks like Lonnie Johnson and Robert Johnson (no relation) threw in all kinds of stuff that can't be strictly defined as a blues scale. 7th chords, while common, are by no means a given, and the 12 bar format bit is complete nonsense. There are many blues songs in 8 and 16 bar formats, not to mention the fact that most of those guys didn't stick to ANY format besides what sounded good. They were not classically trained and some had probably never even heard the term. Lightnin' Hopkins was pretty famous for throwing extra bars in wherever he took a notion, for instance.
But that's really not the point. Even if these things were true, it would simply serve to prove academia's unfailing ability to completely miss the point of any given subject through over-intellectualization. Henceforth music theory shall not be spoken of in our study of the blues. Take that, mathematics! Fuck you, Academia! But I digress...
Wikipedia has this to say about the origin of the term;
"the term "the blues" refers to the "blue devils", meaning melancholy and sadness; an early use of the term in this sense is found in George Colman's one-act farce Blue Devils (1798). Though the use of the phrase in African-American music may be older, it has been attested to since 1912, when Hart Wand's "Dallas Blues" became the first copyrighted blues composition. In lyrics the phrase is often used to describe a depressed mood."
Interesting theory. I can dig it... but, once again it falls a little short. While the subject of the blues is frequently sad, there is plenty of happy, lovey-dovey blues out there too. So it goes a ways further than the theory bit, but we're not quite there yet. The format, execution, and subject matter is as difficult to nail down as the exact history of the blues. Slaves were brought from Africa to the states, then... They heard whatever of Whitey's music they would have heard at the time, got their hands on some instruments, and somewhere between African folk music and instruments, and Anglo music and instruments, blues was spawned. That's what I love about this stuff- you can know all the pertinent facts about it, and still be no closer to understanding it. So much like life itself...
Enough teasing. Here's what I, a self-proclaimed bluesman, have to say about it:
There's one of those grandiose sounding bits, but I think if anything can stand up to the claim, this is it. Hopefully after I've shown you how pervasive and articulate this stuff is, you might see your way clear to agreeing.
-Blind Willie Johnson
Well, here it is-my first real blog post.
The intro was a gimme, so I'm not counting it. Excepting a somewhat delirious 4 a.m. attempt about a week ago (which was rapidly deleted upon waking the next morning) I have not written since. I'll try to be more coherent this time, and actually leave it up.
I've had a number of ideas of what to write on rattling around in my head. Most either begin to seem inconsequential by the time I get a chance to write, too grandiose for public consumption (everything's far more epic in my head, as anyone I've ever dated will no doubt tell you), or just too large for me to know where to start. I've decided to tackle the big subjects one piece at a time, while I figure out how to make the little ones more interesting and the grandiose ones more down-to-earth.
So here we are. The subject of my first blog will be one of the biggest through-lines of my life these days- the blues. This will probably come up several times, hence the number in the title. At first I had anticipated just giving you a summary of my views on the subject, and maybe throwing a couple random samples at you. But I'm too excited and my day's been too weird, so I'm going to do the expected introductory bit, and then jump with both feet into our first bluesy subject. It might be a long one, people.
Blues Defined
Well... it's music, obviously. After that, it gets a little trickier to define than you might think. I remember my music history instructor telling us that blues is a form of music that operates within the blues scale (minor pentatonic + flatted 5th), that it always has a 12 bar format, harmonized with 7th chords. This is, of course, utter bullshit. It doesn't take much listening to blues to realize that there are no real rules.
Yes, the blues scale is fairly constant (or more accurately the presence of the "blue note" and "bent notes" are pervasive), but folks like Lonnie Johnson and Robert Johnson (no relation) threw in all kinds of stuff that can't be strictly defined as a blues scale. 7th chords, while common, are by no means a given, and the 12 bar format bit is complete nonsense. There are many blues songs in 8 and 16 bar formats, not to mention the fact that most of those guys didn't stick to ANY format besides what sounded good. They were not classically trained and some had probably never even heard the term. Lightnin' Hopkins was pretty famous for throwing extra bars in wherever he took a notion, for instance.
But that's really not the point. Even if these things were true, it would simply serve to prove academia's unfailing ability to completely miss the point of any given subject through over-intellectualization. Henceforth music theory shall not be spoken of in our study of the blues. Take that, mathematics! Fuck you, Academia! But I digress...
Wikipedia has this to say about the origin of the term;
"the term "the blues" refers to the "blue devils", meaning melancholy and sadness; an early use of the term in this sense is found in George Colman's one-act farce Blue Devils (1798). Though the use of the phrase in African-American music may be older, it has been attested to since 1912, when Hart Wand's "Dallas Blues" became the first copyrighted blues composition. In lyrics the phrase is often used to describe a depressed mood."
Interesting theory. I can dig it... but, once again it falls a little short. While the subject of the blues is frequently sad, there is plenty of happy, lovey-dovey blues out there too. So it goes a ways further than the theory bit, but we're not quite there yet. The format, execution, and subject matter is as difficult to nail down as the exact history of the blues. Slaves were brought from Africa to the states, then... They heard whatever of Whitey's music they would have heard at the time, got their hands on some instruments, and somewhere between African folk music and instruments, and Anglo music and instruments, blues was spawned. That's what I love about this stuff- you can know all the pertinent facts about it, and still be no closer to understanding it. So much like life itself...
Enough teasing. Here's what I, a self-proclaimed bluesman, have to say about it:
The blues is about being alive. Through rhythmic and melodic roots that doubtless go back all the way to the beginning of music itself, the blues articulates, clearly and simply, the highs and lows of life. From the depths of our pain and suffering to the heights of joy and love, it shows our common ground and helps us understand what it means, as a dear friend of mine would no doubt put it, to be A Human.
There's one of those grandiose sounding bits, but I think if anything can stand up to the claim, this is it. Hopefully after I've shown you how pervasive and articulate this stuff is, you might see your way clear to agreeing.
So that's it-blues expresses the human condition. Many great bluesmen have expressed different views on it (someday I'll find a clip for you of Son House and Howlin' Wolf, shitfaced and arguing about that very thing-it's priceless). But that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Now, let's jump into our first subcategory.
Grit, Grime, and Hard Times
If blues expresses the entirety of the human condition, obviously it must run a pretty long gamut of subject matter. I intend to tackle those one at a time. There are probably more friendly ways to start our discussion, but this is the one I'm feelin' today. I suppose a word of explanation is in order.
I got up this morning, tired as fuck, and went to work.
As I was opening the little sandwich shop that I have the dubious pleasure of calling home on weekends, my boss (the shop owner) showed up. Apparently she had sent me a message the day before informing me that my services would not be needed today. Despite my failure to respond, she assumed that I had gotten the message. I had not. My $30 phone service acts as a bermuda triangle for calls and texts with some regularity, much to the detriment of my personal and social life. This was not the first incident since the café took on new ownership.
As I was opening the little sandwich shop that I have the dubious pleasure of calling home on weekends, my boss (the shop owner) showed up. Apparently she had sent me a message the day before informing me that my services would not be needed today. Despite my failure to respond, she assumed that I had gotten the message. I had not. My $30 phone service acts as a bermuda triangle for calls and texts with some regularity, much to the detriment of my personal and social life. This was not the first incident since the café took on new ownership.
This may seem fairly inconsequential to an outside observer, but... straws and camels, ya know? The increasing stream of frustrating incidents coupled with the knowledge that it is not an issue of whether, but when my place of work will die, not with a bang but with a whimper (brought home by the spontaneous firing of one of my -admittedly less discreet- co-peons the week previous). These joined with my increasing desire to strangle my employer for her latest bit of flakiness. Those joined forces with my near-total lack of sleep. That of course reinforced the ever-present low-level despondency in the back of my mind over once again waking up alone, to send me sailing home with the blues on my mind, contemplating lost jobs, poverty, failure, and spirit-crushing job options (everything's more epic in my head, remember?). Basically the shit that may well be close in my future if I don't find a way to get a career soon.
Needless to say, I went back to sleep. Later on in the day I was afforded the opportunity of visiting the home of one of my father's old friends, who had recently committed suicide. The man in question was an odd duck, with his share of problems (clearly), who led an increasingly fringe-y life previous to his demise. His widow (who I met today) was nice , but another odd duck, with no shortage of funk and physical maladies to her claim. This being a social occasion, I was refreshed on of some of my dad's choice stories about the old days (like the one about one friend waving a shotgun in another's face for a practical joke). I get the impression that my dad hung with some pretty grungy people back in the day. In the funk-tastic and tragedy laced air of the deceased's estate, my mind turned farther toward damaged people, death and loss. This was not helped by the subject of my mandatory in-car dosage of NPR- a feature on homelessness.
So, it's been a bluesy day- spent mostly in contemplation of humanity's lows. But when I have the blues, nothing makes me feel better quite like... The Blues. I Figure to show you a couple songs on the subject of the gritty, dirty, evil and poverty-stricken side of the blues. I really only have patience to set up about three tracks, and you are no doubt getting weary of reading, but feel free to contact me for further recommendations.
The first song I want to show you now is obvious. One of the most recorded blues/folk songs in history. It speaks of ambiguous experiences in the nastier places in the world, of the fall from grace of the narrator's already tenuous life, ending in "Goin' down to New Orleans, to wear a ball and chain".
I had hoped to show you my own version of this song, but my computer is decreasingly capable of processing audio/video simultaneously (I fear its days, too, are numbered- more expensive shit I can't afford). All you faithful fans out there are gonna have to wait awhile for the appearance of my youtube channel, it seems.
I had hoped to show you my own version of this song, but my computer is decreasingly capable of processing audio/video simultaneously (I fear its days, too, are numbered- more expensive shit I can't afford). All you faithful fans out there are gonna have to wait awhile for the appearance of my youtube channel, it seems.
I can't bring myself to do the Animals version. It's too cliche. The earliest version I can find is Leadbelly, but I'm not such a fan of his. So we'll compromise and do Nina Simone instead. I'll get you a straight-bluesier version later.
-Blind Willie Johnson
Blind Willie Johnson was a brilliant guitar player. He played slide in a style that, even today, nobody seems to have the guts to imitate. His astounding slide was trumped only by a painfully individual voice, that somehow changes between smooth-as-silk and gargling-thumbtacks gravelly.
The story goes that when little Willie was about 8 years old, his father caught little Willie's stepmother cheating. Little Willie's stepmother received either a beating or a figurative boot out the door, I forget which (possibly both). Out of spite and vengeance, she took a handful of lye, and threw it in Willie's eyes, blinding him for life.
Blind Willie spent most of his life playing and preaching on street corners.
In 1945, his house burned down. With nowhere else to go, Willie took to sleeping in the ashes of his own house. He died the same year at the age of 48, of some combination of exposure, malaria, and syphilis. Clearly, Blind Willie Johnson knew a little about hard times.
I'll probably share more sometime later, but for now I want to show you his most famous track. It's an old gospel song (he pretty much only did gospel tunes). The song was well known, but Willie's rendition is more or less devoid of lyrics- voicing a pain and loss so strong that it seems to brim over any words.
In 1945, his house burned down. With nowhere else to go, Willie took to sleeping in the ashes of his own house. He died the same year at the age of 48, of some combination of exposure, malaria, and syphilis. Clearly, Blind Willie Johnson knew a little about hard times.
I'll probably share more sometime later, but for now I want to show you his most famous track. It's an old gospel song (he pretty much only did gospel tunes). The song was well known, but Willie's rendition is more or less devoid of lyrics- voicing a pain and loss so strong that it seems to brim over any words.
Blind Willie Johnson- Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground
I'll leave you with one more song- this time a little more contemporary, and a little more danceable. I found this song last week. I discovered a great bluesman by the name of Ben Prestage, referenced in an article on the musician's curse of 27 (more on that another time). This was one of the tracks on the album I bought. Turns out the song's by Tom Waits. This one is less of a lamentive number, and more an exposition on nasty and gritty. Tom does those rather well. I'll give you both versions because they are equally awesome. Enjoy!
Ben Prestage-Mexican Whorehouse
"Lost all my money
In a mexican whorehouse
'Cross the street from a catholic church
I wiped off my revolver
And buttoned up my burgundy shirt.
I shot the mornin' in the back
With my Red Wings on
Told the sun he better go back down
If I can find a book of matches
I'm gonna burn this hotel down.
Why don't you tell me
Brave captain
Why are the wicked
So strong?
Why do the angels get to sleep
When the devil keeps his porchlight on?"
Fuck, that's badass, man.
Anyway, that's it for now. Hope it wasn't too dark- I promise I'll try to post something lighter next time.
Peace, Y'all!
-Mojoe
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