Termagant Tuesday: “Jeeves and Wooster,” Annie Dudley

Standard

 

I’ve lived in D.C. for ten years now.  Before that, I lived in the U.K.  Both places have the same arresting, and misunderstood, quirk, which is this: everyone spends the first five minutes of each new interaction trying to size the stranger up.  This manifests itself in different ways in both places.  In the U.K., I was asked questions about what school I attended, where in New England precisely I had lived, and – delightfully – what my family was “in.”  (That one in particular made me feel like I was at Epcot Center and the British person to whom I was speaking was actually an acting student from Gays Mills, Wisconsin.)  The obvious purpose behind all this was to assess where in the crusty social strata I fell.  Here is where the misunderstanding kicks in.  I learned over the course of many years that it doesn’t stop there, that there was a further point beyond that one, which was to ascertain how much of their own life were they now going to feel comfortable divulging.  It really didn’t have much to do at all with stereotypical snootiness, beyond the tacit acknowledgement of the existence of a social strata in the first place.  They just wanted to know who they were talking to so they didn’t do anything stupid.

The exact same principle exists in D.C.  Washington also has social strata, layered on top of which is the fascinating reality that no one just sort of ends up here: people come to D.C. by choice.  Therefore, where you work can speak immeasurable volumes about who you are, and everything that means: your politics, your background, your values, your level of cultivation, your drive, your everything.  So, the very first question you get asked in D.C. is, “So where do you work?”  Again, like the U.K, this isn’t only a yardstick of how you stack up against this stranger as much as it’s a gauge of how much you can relax around them.  Say you and your work friends from the E.P.A are out at a bar blowing off steam after a terrible day, and you run into an old college acquaintance who’s got some friends of her own in tow.  You’re not going to ask people where they work so you can pat yourself on the back again for going to Bennington.  You’re going to ask them where they work so that you know whether you can sound off about that coal country Senator who is still deciding whether or not to block the passage of muscular clean water legislation, or whether that new guy in the madras shirt is his legislative aide.

This is one of the many reasons I felt so at home in the U.K., and why I feel equally – if ironically – at ease in D.C.  I like living a life that cautions me against gum-flapping about Russia because I might be sitting next to the new President of the German Marshall Fund at the symphony.  True story.  (It was so awesome OMG.)  Puts me mind of my favorite Wodehouse quote, whose hilarious “Jeeves and Wooster” stories were turned into one of the best TV shows ever made:

“I’m not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping.”  — P.G. Wodehouse, “Carry On, Jeeves”

Salubrious Saturday: “Takin’ Pills,” Pistol Annies

Standard

 

So, I have this friend.  I’m going to call her Alice.  Alice is a pediatrician.  Alice is a respectable, honorable, upright citizen of her community.  She helps little kids stay healthy.  Alice was my partner in crime in college.  Alice was my go-to trouble buddy.  One time I interrupted her studying for some “important” medical thing (like clinical exam or whatever, psh) because some disgusting sea slug had been dropped on the sidewalk by an over-zealous bird outside our dorm.  Did she get shirty with me for interrupting her study time?  Calumny!  She ran down four flights of stairs, without her shoes on, to go outside and see said disgusting sea slug.  And then she said we should put it in a certain person’s bed.  And then she went back to studying.  This other time?  She helped steal all the traffic cones in town (it was a really small town), and the next day, the town council pasted a letter on almost every telephone pole issuing an amnesty for said missing traffic cones.  I should have kept the letter.

My friend Lily?  She biked through a blizzard to meet at a bar during finals in grad school.  We had many rounds.  Then she biked home.  …In a blizzard.  Charlotte?  She and I had Manhattans on the roof of our graduate program’s central building the day before we graduated.  Were we supposed to be up there?  Are you kidding?  Grace picked me up from work at 10:30pm at night, drove me to her house, set me up on her sofa in front of a roaring fire, woke me up the next morning at 7am, and drove me back to work.  All so I wouldn’t have to spend the night at the office.

The older you get, the more the list of “Friends who will bail me out of jail,” and “Friends who will be in jail with me” blurs.  I’m a (more) responsible adult now, and, for a whole variety of reasons, the likelihood of serious hijinks has seriously diminished.  But knowing I have a group of women who I can call and say, “hey, you remember that time…” is the thing that will keep me young and happy forever.

 

Funk Friday: “! (The Song Formerly Known As),” Regurgitator

Standard

So, like everyone, I have a number of circles of friends.  Some of them overlap, some of them don’t.  Within each circle is a person or set of people that know me really well.  And these people form their own special little subgroup – the sanctum sanctorum, if you will (or even if you won’t.  This is my blog.  Get you own, you crank).  These are people I tell everything to, who let me be crass and laugh at my dumb jokes, and don’t wig out when it’s a Friday night and I all want to do is hang out with them in our PJ’s and enjoy some microwavable chicken pot stickers and crap $3 wine from Trader Joe’s and ask questions like, “how weird would it be if humans evolved to not need noses anymore?”  People who would be down to join me if I said “I’d rather dance in ugly pants in the comfort of a lounge room in suburbia.”  Parties are where your people are.  So thank you, sanctum sanctorum.  You know who you are, and man, “things don’t get no better – better like you and me.”

Termagant Tuesday: “Big Noise from Winnetka,” Cozy Cole

Standard

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FB-s-pMt-9U

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.

Oooh...how alluring.

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.

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.

Funk Friday: “Down In The Valley,” Otis Redding

Standard

I have been saving this song for a very special day.  Today is such a day.  It doesn’t matter why today is special – who really cares – but let’s dig into the song.

This is one of those songs that I would consider to be absolutely perfectly constructed.  What is a song composed of?  I would posit (because I love to posit) three things: tempo, melody, and rhythm.  First of all: the tempo.  The tempo is absolutely right on the money.  It’s slow enough to give it a real sultry groove, but it’s fast enough that you want to get out of your chair and dance to it.  Secondly: melody.  This song has a simple enough melody that you can remember it after you hear it once, and then sing along with it the next time it comes on.  It’s also just intoxicatingly bluesy.  And third: rhythm.  The rhythm of this song is straight up four-square, meat-and-two-vegetables, staple-diet stuff.  It musical bedrock.

So why in the world is such a song, with such simple bones, so extraordinary?  Obviously part of it is Redding’s voice, that manages to be so gritty and on pitch at the same time.  Another part is the strategic use of – yeah, you guessed it – horns.  But for me, it’s how everything drops away before the next verse.  What do I mean?  I mean that the song starts with Redding singing alone.  He sings a verse.  Before he asks us whether we’ve ever been lonely (lo-oh-oh-oh-ohnly), it’s just him and the drums – and then the horns come it.  And god help me when Redding can’t help himself at 1:03 (“ooh yeah”) – he knows it’s cooking.  It just keeps building until we can’t take it.  And then what happens?  The guitar lick at 1:58, straight out of a Temptations song – and then song slips into minor.

It’s just…man.  I just can’t even.  This is like the Hope Diamond of songs for me.

 

Worldly Wednesday: “Csiki, Csiki,” BraAgas

Standard

Clearly my soul is wandering around the planet without permission because, while I started the week being homesick for New England, now I find myself longing to be back in Prague.  Fortunately, the wonderful female group BraAgas has me covered.  This saucy little minx of a song is from their 2009 album, “Tapas,” which won the Anděl Award, the Czech version of a Grammy.  In addition to world music, BraAgas is also proficient in medieval music – one of their members plays the shawm, which, I mean, if there is a more direct way to my heart, I haven’t found it yet.

Lyrics (which I’m pretty sure are in Romani) below.

Adjatok egy szalmaszálat,
Égessem el a világot!
Adjatok egy szalmaszálat,
Hadd fújjam fel ezt a házat!
Lábam termett a táncra,
Szemem a kacsintásra.
Ha táncolok, szikrát szórok,
A világra fittyet hányok!

Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Me zhanav me ka zhivav

Vesz ő nékem selyemruhát,
Gyöngyöt, láncot, piros szoknyát,
Reám költi a vagyonát,
Lopja-lopja édesanyját,
Bolondítom, hevítem,
Kiáltozza a nevem,
Csiki-Csiki, így hív engem.
Megöllek én, szép szerelmem!

Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Csiki-Csiki, aj ke te merav,
Me zhanav me ka zhivav

Lábam termett a táncra,
Szemem a kacsintásra.
Ha táncolok, szikrát szórok,
A világra fittyet hányok!
Bolondítom, hevítem,
Kiáltozza a nevem,
Csiki-Csiki, így hív engem,
Megöllek én szép szerelmem!

Aj Chiki-Chiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Chiki-Chiki-Chiki, aj ke te merav,
Aj Chiki-Chiki, aj ke te merav,
Me zhanav me ka zhivav

Give me a piece of straw to set the world on fire
give me a piece of straw to blow up this house

My feet were made for dancing
my eyes were made for winking
when i dance I spread sparkles all around
and don’t give a damn about the world

Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, i should die
Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, i should die
Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, i should die
I know I’m going to live

Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, he dies for me
Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, this is how he calls me
Ai,Tchiki-Tchiki, this is how he calls me,
With me, he go where I want

He will buy me a dress of silk, necklace of pearls, red skirt,
he’ll spend his fortune on me
he will steal his mother again and again
and I make him crazy, I set him on fire

He only shouts my name
tchiki tchiki – that’s what he calls me
I will kill you my beautiful love !

Salubrious Saturday: “Ghostwriter,” RJD2

Standard

I’m going to go out on a limb here with you good readers and suggest a hypothetical.  Press play on that video and come with me for a mental walk.

Your week was, shall we say, lame.  You didn’t get a whole ton of stuff done at work a) because your boss gave you weird tasks with non-deadline deadlines, and b) people kept stopping by your office every ten minutes to talk.  Because of the non-deadline deadlines (or NDDs), and the convivial bonhomie of your colleagues’ interruptions, you were in a good enough mood that you didn’t really fire up the ol’ engine but coasted in neutral, taking advantage of a rare bit of calm.  You got to work at a reasonable time, you left at a reasonable time.  It was all very…reasonable.

What did you do with your free time?  Well, in this rare moment of calm (or RMOC), you decided to indulge in your favorite suite of activities: a blended purée of Buzzfeed personality quizzes, reading a few more chapters of the six-pound historical fiction novel you (for some reason) decided to buy at one point, more Buzzfeed personality quizzes, an amusing animal meme or two that you dutifully posted to a friend’s Facebook page, looking at colors to paint your bedroom, and puttering around the kitchen considering why you have so many cookbooks when really all you eat is butternut squash ravioli and BabyBel cheese rounds.

Did you see friends?  Yeah, more or less, when you weren’t looking at photos of cats with melon rinds on their heads.  Did you exercise?  Well, you took the stairs and walked a lot.

So, to summarize: you worked an average amount, accomplished average tasks in an average way, and did average things in your average amount of free time.

And now, it’s Saturday, and what’s your overwhelming feeling?  “Aw the hell with this – average is the enemy of awesome.  I need to do something.”  And that, my friend, is what Saturday was made for.

If you pressed play when you started reading this then right…about……now those horns at 1:30 should have kicked in.  So kick yourself in the ass and get outside.  I’ll meet you there.

REMIX WEEK! Worldly Wednesday: “Voodoo Child,” Jimi Hendrix meets Angelique Kidjo

Standard

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7OX1uKE2jho

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.

 

Hendrix’s original version:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvmKlZGTTU4

Termagant Tuesday: “Your Mind Is On Vacation,” Mose Allison

Standard

The Office of Personnel Management, in its infinite sagacity, closed the federal government yesterday because the District got a bit of weather.  So, I and my fellow govvie types got to spend the day entertaining ourselves, either with work at our kitchen tables (hello), or feverishly filling out March Madness brackets, or having snowball fights, or getting terrifically soused at a “bottomless brunch,” or all four.  This was just gravy as far as I was concerned.  The older I get, the more I enjoy spending the entire day at home.  Not because my place is amazing, which it is, or because I hate the outdoors, which I don’t, or because I neither own nor know how to operate a pair of pants, both of which are incorrect.  No – it’s just, sometimes…people.  I mean, seriously.

I was strolling to my favorite coffee shop this weekend when a woman turned from the upcoming corner onto my street and came to be walking in front of me.  She was solitary, dressed in as normal an outfit as you’re likely to find in D.C., and all of a sudden, she started to laugh.  Loudly.  Then, started talking as if she were interrupting someone.  Except, there was no one else around for a city block.  Was she insane?  Was she some sort of yuppie reincarnation of Teresa of Avila having her own private confab with God?  Was she a one-person flashmob?  An acting student?  I sped up considerably to pass her in case she had a shiv and a plan, and in so doing noticed that she had one of those little blinking in-ear widgets.  She had been on her phone.  It’s entirely possible she was insane and on her phone.  And somehow, I was supposed to accept this blithely and without comment, or – get behind me, Satan – conform and get my own little blinking in-ear widget so to numb the minds of others with one-way conversations about the pointless intangibles of my own life.  No wonder Putin grabbed Crimea so handily.  We were all on our cell phones talking about Swiffer Wet-Jets.

Things like this happen all the time now.  It is a defining characteristic of the modern urban human condition.  And it drives me absolutely mental.  I should like there to be little quizzes administered after I run my errands, otherwise all my knowledge of a visiting man’s proclivity for miniature biscotti, a man whose chatty grandmother has just spent the past eight unhappy minutes trailing me around Trader Joe’s (does she have magnets in her skull? Go. Away.), will have gone to waste.  Perhaps there could be gate-side therapists with Xanax-scented sound-proof booths for deplaning passengers so they can cleanse themselves of the knowledge of the woman in 13C – that she just landed, that her flight was on time, that it was a little bumpy, and that she plans to get home the usual way and will arrive at the appointed time because, I mean, at this time of day – well, you know – right, exactly.

I’m fully aware that I’m having a full-blown, unfettered “get off my lawn” moment, but I don’t care that, in this aspect, I’m turning into a crank.  So pardon me if I don’t jump at the opportunity to be out amongst the great muttering unwashed when I have a day to myself.  If you need me, I’ll be at home. And it’s extremely unlikely I’ll let you in.

Modernism Monday: “Don’t Fence Me In,” David Byrne

Standard

love good cover songs.  I love them.  When they’re done well, they’re really a stroke of genius – they take the song to an entirely new level.  This is such an example.  What was a melodic but fairly hum-drum song about and sung by (sorry, I have to say it) a white guy becomes a global human rights anthem, an immigration song, a manifesto about personal freedom, and all the good and bad parts of America and its history, sung to a world beat rhythm by men and women of every color and background you could cram into three minutes.  It’s magnificent and it supercharges my social justice batteries when I need it, which, let’s face it, is pretty frequently.