I have a vision of the northern Sahara at dusk. There are bare scrubby trees, and sentient-looking rocks carved by wind and sand. It looks like a place called Tassili N’Ajjer Plateau, in Algeria. This is where the Tuareg group Tinariwen recorded their 2011 album “Tassili,” from which this song comes. The album was recorded outside in the desert. I have a lot of wanderlust by nature, but this song – and the vision this song gave a tune to – makes me all but grab my passport and run out my front door.
Tassili N’Ajjer Plateau, Algeria
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Imidiwan ma tennam dagh awa dagh enha semmen? Tenere den tas-tennam enta dagh wam toyyam teglam Aqqalanagh aljihalat tamattem dagh illa assahat Tenere den tossamat lat medden eha sahat Aksan kallan s tandallat taqqal enta tisharat Aqqalanagh aljihalat tamattem dagh assahat
What have you got to say, my friends, about this painful time we’re living through? You’ve left this desert where you say you were born, you’ve gone and abandoned it We live in ignorance and it holds all the power The desert is jealous and its men are strong While it’s drying up, green lands exist elsewhere We live in ignorance and it holds all the power
It’s gonna be a big week this week, Tune-Up fans. Work is picking up, a dear friend is moving across the country to start a new chapter in her life, another dear friend is interviewing for a new job – the list goes on. This is a good song to boost morale and energy levels.
So here’s something twisted: kids who were born in 1993, when this record came out, are old enough to drink now. They’re gonna be hitting the bars tonight buying drinks with real IDs. Curse you, relentless passage of time.
I remember buying my first legal drink. I ordered a glass of red wine in a Legal Seafood restaurant in a mall. I didn’t get carded, the wine was a bit blech, it felt very anti-climactic. Ordering a drink at a bar, of course, was very different. I really did feel like I was getting away with something. I kept waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and give me a condescending “Okay, honey, let’s go.” But no one did. So, bars were no longer mythic – less Mists of Avalon, more Terminal B Airport Lounge.
So, a bar is a bar is a bar. (You of course are a bar, but were always a bar. (Robert Frost, up top!)) The best bar I have ever been to is basically an enormous living room, filled with squashy sofas and arm chairs. The drinks are reasonably priced, the food is delicious, and the service just desultory enough to allow you ample time to wonder if you’ll die in the chair you selected, and then realize you won’t really mind because it’s so very comfortable. In fact, the bar in “Tukka Yoot’s Riddim” slightly resembles this Elysium of bars. So, while drinking tends to cram a half-hour of loose amusement into three hours of unpleasantness, you might as well do it sitting in a blue velveteen low-rider sofa listening to an upright bass player. Word to the wise, newly-minted 21-year olds.
Oh and one more thing: shots are the Devil’s plaything. Shots are how the Saxons fell. Don’t do shots. Promise me. Ok? Look me in the eye. Ok. Now be home by 11. And would it kill you to wear pants that fit?
I was living abroad during September 11th and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, so it was easy to know what the world thought about these things. I’d talk to my neighbors, the woman who worked at the coffee shop, my local friends. It’s harder to keep your finger on the pulse of international public opinion when you’re in the States, and ten years of living on American soil again can leave one feeling oddly disconnected. When I want to remember what it was like to watch my country from afar, I put on this song.
MC Solaar, a Senegal-born French rap and hip-hop artist, wrote and recorded this in 2003 about the U.S. invasion of Iraq. (Interestingly, the album from which this song is taken wasn’t released in the U.S. until 2006. But that’s neither here nor there.) MC Solaar is known for his nuanced, interesting lyrics, which certainly why I love him so much, and I find the lyrics to this song so arresting. The line “like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball” always stuck with me since I first heard it.
English translation follows after the French lyrics. Apologies for the mistakes.
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La vie est belle La vie est belle La vie est belle
Seul dans ma chambre un jour normal J’apprends dans les journaux que j’ suis dans l’axe du mal Je lis entre les lignes et j’ comprends qu’on veut me killer J’ ferme la serrure pour être un peu plus tranquille Dehors c’est la guerre et j’ crois qu’elle vient vers moi Malgré les manifs qui vivra la verra Je mets des sacs de sables dans mon salon Des salauds veulent me shooter Comme au foot le stoppeur veut shooter le ballon A la télé j’entends qu’ j’ suis l’ pire des mecs Longue vie aux non violents, la propagande est impec J’flippe: des troupes spéciales des B52 J’ regrette ce que j’ai fait, j’ crois qu’ j’aurais pu faire mieux Mais l’erreur est humaine, j’avoue j’ai fais des erreurs Prendre position c’est prendre une pluie de terreur Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin Plus jamais ceci
Comme un oiseau sans ailes Je vole vers le ciel Mais j’ sais qu’la vie est belle
Comme un oiseau sans ailes Je vole vers le ciel Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Moi j’ suis un missile J’ suis pas coupable On m’ guide par satellite Pour faire un travail impeccable Toutes les technologies sont mises à mon service Dans le but de chasser le mal Et que j’agisse pour un monde peace J’ suis dans un porte avion et fais c’ qu’on me demande Ce soir je dois frapper un type qui est tout seul dans sa chambre J’ suis un oiseau sans aile suppositoire de fer 500 km à faire et puis pour lui c’est l’enfer Ca y est j’ suis parti j’ vole vers son domicile Et je préserve la paix en commettant des homicides J’ perce les nuages vers l’abscisse et l’ordonnée Objectif mémorisé j’ connais les coordonnées J’ suis de fer, nu de chair, arrive à l’improviste Vole au dessus des manifs de ces millions de pacifistes Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin Plus jamais ceci
Comme un oiseau sans aile Je vole vers le ciel Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Comme un oiseau sans aile Je vole vers le ciel Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Et sur la chaîne info j’apprends qu’un missile arrive Il s’invite chez moi pourtant c’est pas mon convive On bombarde ma ville mon quartier mon bâtiment Ce soir tu vas mourir tel est mon ressentiment Tranquille je range ma chambre et puis je vois les photos De moi même, de mon ex, vacances au Colorado des bivouacs en montagne avec nos sacs à dos Là-haut donne des discours avec tous ces ados Je vois mon père et puis ma mère sur des clichés loin de là haut Moi qui les trouvais durs j’ fais la même à mes enfants Ils dorment tranquillement, ils doivent compter des moutons Ou bien faisaient des rêves quand il y a eu l’explosion On a tué ma famille sans même la connaître Moi, ma femme et mes enfants semblent ajouter aux pertes Des missiles kill, dans le civil, kill Des enfants dociles, le monde est hostile J’ai rien fais, ils n’ont rien fait, ils n’avaient rien fait Ils parlaient de bienfaits mais je ne vois que des méfaits Non ce n’est pas du rap c’est, crever l’abcès Que s’ils sont absents, c’est grâce à vos excès J’appelle les synagogues, les mosquées et les temples L’Eglise les chapelles, militant et militante Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin Plus jamais ceci
Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin Plus jamais ceci
Life is beautiful (x3)
Alone in my room, a normal day I learn in the newspapers that I’m in the axis of evil I read between the lines and I understand they want to kill me I lock things up so I can be a little calmer
Outside, it’s war, and I believe it’s coming towards me Despite the demonstrators who’ll live, who’ll see it I put some sandbags in my living room Some bastards want to shoot me Like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball
On the TV I hear that I’m the worst of the guys Long life to non-violents — the propaganda is flawless I flip: some special B52 troops I regret what I did, I believe I could’ve done better
But mistakes are human, I swear I’ve made mistakes Taking a position is just asking for a rain of terror In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi Let this never be again.
REFRAIN: (x2) Like a bird without wings I fly towards heaven But I know that life is beautiful
Me, I’m a missile I can’t be blamed They guide me via satellite To do a flawless job All the technologies are put at my service In the goal of hunting evil And so that I act for a world of peace
I’m in a carrier plane and I do what they ask me to Tonight I need to hit a guy who’s all alone in his room I’m a bird without a wing: a suppository of fire 500 km to go, and then it’s Hell for him
There it is, I’ve left, and I fly towards his home And I preserve the country while committing homicides I pierce the clouds towards the abscess and the ordered My objective memorised, I know the coordinates
I’m made of fire, he’s made of flesh. I arrive at the improvised protest I fly over the demonstrations of these millions of pacifists In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi Let this never be again.
(REFRAIN)
And through the chain of information I learn that a missile is coming It invites itself to my home, although I don’t welcome it It bombards my city, my quarter, my building “Tonight you’re going to die; such is my resentment.”
Calmly I tidy up my room and then I see the photos Of myself, of my ex, of vacations in Colorado Of walks in the mountains with our backpacks There I had conversations with all these youths
I see my father and then my mother on black-and-white plates I, who found them difficult — I did the same to my children They sleep peacefully… they must have been counting sheep Or maybe having dreams, when there was an explosion
They killed my family without even knowing them Me, my wife and my kids seem to be added to the casualties The missiles kill — in the civilisation, kill — docile babies; the world is hostile.
I didn’t do anything, the babies didn’t do anything, and they wouldn’t have done anything. They talk about benefits but all I see are misdeeds … that is, to burst the abscess. If only they weren’t around! It’s all thanks to your excess.
I call upon the synagogues, the mosques and the temples The Church, the chapels, military men and women In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi Let this never be again.
I fly towards heaven, but I know life is beautiful. (x2)
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi, Let this never be again.
To say this is one of my personal theme songs – me, a woman who lives for music – would be like a devout Christian saying that the ten commandments were the rules they lived by. It’s so obvious it sounds dumb. It’s not at all lost on me either that there are few well-known female funk musicians, so I also bow down to Ms. Davis for kicking it in a male-dominated field. And finally, she’s belting out a funk song about how people think she’s weird for loving the music she does. That’s a pretty baller combination. So, whenever I’ve been made to feel weird, or whenever someone patronizes me because I’m a woman, I lean on Ms. Davis for a little pick-me-up. Works like a charm.
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They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane Sweet to the core that’s why I got rhythm My Great Grandma didn’t like to foxtrot, no instead she spitted snuff and boogied to Elmore James
Spit On!
They say I’m different ’cause I eat chitlins I can’t help it I was born and raised on ’em That’s right, oh, every mornin’ I had to slop the hogs and they be gettin off humpin to John Lee Hooker
Gettin off!
They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane and when I kick my legs I got rhythm My Great Grandpa was a blues lover He be rockin his moonshine to B.B. King and Jimmy Reed
Rock on pappy!
That’s why they say I’m different That’s why they say I’m strange
Talkin bout Big Mama Thornton Talkin bout Lightning Hopkins Talkin bout Howlin Wolf I’m talkin bout Albert King Alright Alright Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry When I was sweet sixteen
And that’s why they say I’m different That’s why you think I’m strange
I’m talkin bout T. Bone Walker I’m talkin bout Muddy Waters I’m talkin bout Leadbelly, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Son House, and Freddie King Bessie Smith! Bessie Smith! Oh, Oh, Hey
Oh Bo Diddley have you heard it?
That’s why they say I’m different That’s why they say I’m strange and that’s why they say I’m funky
Little Richard, Wild Lou, sunshine you sure can sing Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson! You play the blues for me
That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m different That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m strange
Vo is a Vietnamese musician who specialized in traditional music. The instrument she is playing is called the đàn bầu. The đàn bầu is a single-stringed instrument whose pitch you change by pulling it with the bar on the end, which is made of buffalo horn. Vo is an incredibly cool person for a whole variety of reasons, not least of which is that it is a seriously big deal to play traditional music as a woman – it’s (now almost) entirely dominated by men. After she emigrated to the U.S., she collaborated with a number of groups, most notably Kronos Quartet (one of the major interpreters of Steve Reich’s music), and won an Emmy for her music in the documentary film, “Bolinao 52.” Vo is a a big fan of blending eastern and western music, and this interpretation of the Johnny Cash song is touched with genius. A hearty thanks to a friend and colleague who sent this to me.
A Western, a Tarantino film, a Dragnet episode, and a burlesque show walked into a bar. Cozy the bartender put them in a blender, added some rum, and poured the results into some instruments and called it “Big Noise From Winnetka.” This song makes me want to race out to the nearest store and get some leopard-print horn-rimmed sunglasses, cigarette pants, a pack of smokes, and a guy who calls me a “broad.” This song sounds so raunchy – I mean the whistle sounds like a cat-call, for one thing. But there’s a real disconnect between this song, written in 1962, and American culture at the time. For one thing, fashion.
Oh baby.
Does that woman look like this song sounds? Correct! Not even close. That’s a Doris Day woman. What does her family look like?
Oh stop – stop – you’re driving me crazy.
Yep, like that. What television shows do they watch? The Andy Griffith Show, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Red Skelton, and Danny Thomas.
So there is some serious cognitive dissonance going on between saucy Cozy Cole’s jazz track and “normal” American life. This is another reason, Tuners, why music is my favorite art medium. It’s always ahead of the curve, carving out space for new ideas and feelings and emotions. Without Cozy Cole, there could be no Prince. Without Prince, there could be no Common. I would also argue, without Cozy Cole there could be no feminist movement, but that’s another argument for another day. People get so wrapped around the axle about time-travel when really, all you have to do is turn on your stereo.
This awesome song, by an artist named Bobby, is from Sierra Leone, where hails another incredible human being: 15-year-old Kelvin Doe. Kelvin is an inventor, a total autodidact, whose mental agility and curiosity are jaw-dropping. Thanks to the work of a man named David Sengeh, a PhD student at MIT, kids like Kelvin in Sierra Leone, Kenya, and South Africa are getting mentored to develop their skills – all with an eye towards helping young minds around the world find solutions to their country’s problems. People, Tune-Up fans – people are our biggest resource.
Kelvin’s story is here. It’s ten minutes. It’s worth it. And if you want to know more about Sengeh’s campaign, go here.
I have listened to this Elgar cello concerto hundreds of times. I bought a cheapo bargain basement recording during one of the many trips my parents and I took to visit colleges. Years later, I bought this Venetian Snares album. It took me another year to put the two together: the beginning of “Szamar Madar” is so demented, I always skipped over it. One morning, while on the train to work, I listened to the entire thing and finally got to main meat of the piece and thought, “…wait…I know that line… …Holy $%&! that’s Elgar?!?” I was practically effervescent, I was so excited.
To save you the hassle, here’s a cheat sheet. The cello line arrives in earnest around 1:47; before that there’s only snippets. At 2:14: fasten your seatbelt. Venetian Snares takes a beautiful and somber Elgar cello concerto, adds cocaine, and puts it in a blender. My favorite part is at 2:54 when it smoothes out on top while the drums go bananas beneath. And after all that, it just sort of slowly fades away, like a bruise, and you’re left wondering what just happened. You have to love a band who hears Elgar and says, “yeah, that’s pretty…but what if we sampled the main cello lick, sped it up, and added a breakbeat beneath it?” I just can’t get enough.
When I’m getting my head in the game for a big meeting, when I need to suit up, when I need to kick the tires and light the fires, I turn to this song. Hendrix’s version is very sexy – that naked, shimmering guitar riff, the thumb of the bass drum, the crash of the chord at the entrance. It has real swagger. But after I heard Kidjo’s version, it sounds…vaguely pompous. Like there wasn’t any doubt that the protagonist could make an island out of the pieces of the mountain. Like he could always just do that. Kidjo sings it like this comes from experience, from hard work, practice, and struggle. That’s why this version gives me that extra boost – it’s a song of strength learned from difficulty. It’s a “oh, you don’t even know what I can do” kind of song. A “you think this is difficult?” song. It’s a very human sort of voodoo.
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