Category Archives: Culture

(P)raising The Dead

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George Frazier (1911-1974) was an original.  And an occasional pioneer.  He was the first writer to have a jazz column in a major city newspaper when he authored Sweet and Low in the Boston Herald during the winter of 1942.  Eventually he moved on to a more wide ranging weekly column for The Boston Globe.  Although often derided and harshly criticized because of his totally politically incorrect positions on major issues (for example, Woman’s Liberation—though he did make it onto Nixon’s “enemy list.”), Frazier lives on in my memory primarily because of his ability to write scathingly, sarcastically beautiful prose.  And, more importantly, introduced me to the world of “duende.”

In his words:  “It’s not easy to explain…except to observe that when someone or something has it, we feel icy fingers running up and down our spine….it’s not measured in terms of surpassing skills…nor does it have anything to do with honor or integrity or valor…just as John Dillinger was all duende while the mafia, at least since Lucky Luciano is not…duende isn’t merely class, or just style either…yet I cannot offhand think of anyone who has duende who does not also have style…and to say that duende is merely charisma or panache or flair is rather to demean it, for while it is certainly all those things, it is the nth power of them.

In Frazier’s world Sinatra had it, but Joey Bishop most certainly did not.  Fred Astaire yes, Gene Kelly no.  According to Frazier, “It was what Ted Williams had even when striking out, but Stan Musial lacked when hitting a home run.”

Now there’s no doubt that duende is entirely subjective.  (Cardinal fans, for example, might turn Frazier’s quote on its head.)  But subjective or not, his columns struck a chord that remains as I think about duende in terms of people in my world–people I know or have met, some I’ve read about or seen on screen or in concert.

By now you undoubtedly know where I’m going with this.  Yep.  Paul Newman had duende but Robert Redford doesn’t.

Ghandi had it, Che didn’t.

I can’t quite decide whether Matt Damon has duende, but Ben Affleck doesn’t get close.

George Clooney has duende.

Morgan Freeman worked together with Clint Eastwood in three movies, but only Freeman has it, no matter how much Eastwood’s acting or directing are touted by the media. (Actually, in my opinion he only directed one really good movie:Unforgiven.  And, as much as I love jazz, Bird was an abomination.  Even his “Boston” movie, Mystic River, despite terrific actors, was blown away by Gone Baby Gone which incidentally was directed by Ben Affleck and also starred Morgan Freeman)

Lauren Hutton had and still has duende, but Heidi Klum with all her cheek-kissing “auf widersehens” won’t get there. (A shame since I have a picture of my son Matt with his arm around her at some function.  Or maybe the shame is that his armwasn’t around Hutton.)

Michael Moore reinvigorated documentary film making and I enjoy most of what he creates, but never in a million years will he have duende.  Neither will John Stewart or Bill Maher as quick on their feet as they are—after all, Stewart is gracious, classy and fun but doesn’t have it and however quick, clever, and political Maher might be, he is a bombastic twit.  But Stephan Colbert has duende.

As does Michelle Obama, while her husband, despite many attributes, simply does not.  (And I’m not saying that just because he dances like a white guy.)

Sometimes you can both have it and not.  Clarke Peters in his role as Lester in The Wire has duende.  But not as Albert Lambreaux in Treme.  Makes me wonder whether he has it as Clarke Peters.

John Lennon had duende but Paul McCartney, nah.

Susan, my partner has it, I don’t.

Obviously I could continue to traipse through the list of public figures, politicians, writers, actors, musicians (Wynton Marsalis has duende, Kenny G., ha! ) and singers (Billy Holliday had it as well as Sarah Vaughn, but not Ella) but this notion, this concept, this duende is in the eyes of the beholder.

What do your eyes tell you?

When people tell you how young you look, they are telling you how old you are.
Cary Grant

Independence Day

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(Happy 29th Anniversary to Jeff & Donna, my brother and sister-in-law.)

At first I resisted writing about July 4th.  I figured everyone else would.

I rationalized that there was nothing to celebrate.  I thought about a class taught by William Appleman Williams while I was at Madison.  He lectured about the American Revolution, but used data to show it really wasn’t a simple popular uprising, but rather one initiated by those who wanted expansionist capital to be housed in the New World and not just in London where it was locked and loaded.  Hardly a grassroots revolution.

Then came the usual “I want to be different” bullshit, which seems lodged in my DNA, never to completely disappear.

So I’m writing about the 4th.  What the hell, despite my democratic socialist views and cynical eye, I still believe there’s “…a lot to like in America…”

I know the politically correct thing is to begin with regret about the lost and maimed soldiers who have fought in all our wars–but it wasn’t the first thing that popped to mind.

I just never before thought about war on the 4th–I thought fireworks.  (Yeah, I know, pretty fucking stupid not to have made the connection between fireworks and bombs, but give me a break.)

The 4th ended with fireworks in my hometown park (Carteret, exit 12 off the N.J. Turnpike), but better yet was the earlier parade where I could see Spot, the Dalmatian my family once owned in his new digs.  He was riding the fire truck since we had given him to the local department when he grew too large for the house.  Bittersweet, but cool.  (Probably more associations to be made with that last sentence fragment too-but not today.)

All in all, it was a great day because I always pretended my birthday was July 4th (even though it was the 6th) so that all the parades and parties were for me
.
Then the next fireworks blast (sorry) hit me on Miami Beach when my youngest son was still an infant.  The day featured The Jefferson Starship with Grace Slick belting out songs all afternoon.  Come evening, we met up with the family of my older son’s friend and walked the beach.  Fireworks were cascading from the top of the Art Deco hotels toward the ocean, met in the middle by more fireworks aimed toward the beach from a flotilla of boats along the shoreline.

The experience felt like walking under the overhead canopy of flashing neon in downtown Las Vegas or the scene inApocalypse Now where the river boat meets up with soldiers protecting a bridge under rocket and mortar fire. (Another connection between Independence Day and war.  Hmmmm.)

But the funniest and most frustrating firework memory happened right here in Boston during my father’s first visit.  It was the Bicentennial and the city had been bragging for weeks about the magic that would light the sky after the traditional Boston Pops concert on the Esplanade next to the Charles River.  I had a close friend who lived in an apartment with a perfectly located roof for viewing.  As everyone at the party, including my father, climbed the stairs to the sound of THE 1812 OVERTURE (always played to introduce the fireworks), we walked into a cloudless night.

With a breeze.  A fucking windy breeze.  That July 4th may have been the greatest show on earth, but all we saw was smoke.  And more smoke.  ‘Coulda been a factory stack belching nonstop black and grey.  At least some smokestacks have fire burning off their tops and it would have been more light than we saw that entire night.

Welcome to Bicentennial Boston, Pop.

My final 4th story has nothing to do with fireworks or even Independence Day, per se.  I was working as a teacher’s aide in a Chicago high school right before I moved to Boston.  I had long since mailed my draft card back to the local board but it was the day they instituted the lottery for the Vietnam War draft and the numbers were published in the newspaper.  Each number corresponded with a birthdate.  I grabbed the paper, skimmed the dates, and saw my hideously low number thirteen.  My gut tightened ’cause I knew my shit was gonna hit the fan one way or another.  It was a really long anxiety ridden afternoon until something inside whacked me upside the head.  I had looked at July 4-that childhood idea had stuck around painfully long.  I scrambled back to the garbage where I’d stuffed the newspaper and found July 6.  My real number was in the three hundreds.

Although I now sometimes forget how old I am, I haven’t made that mistake again.

“I guess if the 4th looks like a war, sounds like a war, it is indeed connected to a war.”
Zachary Klein

Back In The Day

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 No, not back in the days when Ozzie and Harriet were huge or my cousin had his 1958 gold Chevy Impala with music notes dancing along its curved fins (he was a top shelf sax man).  I’m just going back as far as the 80s, but if you measure that in computer time, it was the Bronze Age.  It was also when Sue, my life-partner, and I bought our first computer-a KayPro lV

I remember it well.  We’d paid a fortune for it-over three grand in 2011 dollars.  And there it was, sitting on our old oak dining room table in all its then modern grey box glory.  We unclamped the keyboard, which served as the cover of this 26 pound metal suitcase, turned it on, and stared blankly as its 9-inch phosphor screen lit up with a flashing green C:> in the top left corner.

We were stumped, stupefied.  Didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as we wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.  Eventually we learned how to use the machine and Sue had an easier time writing her magazine articles (She’s now a prolific nonfiction children’s book author–www.susangoodmanbooks.com) while I churned out my first novel.

But the real hook for me was my eventual upgrade, the Kaypro 4 with a 300 baud modem.  These were pre-Internet days but folks had already figured out that computers would change communication.  People across the world had set up electronic “post offices” that relayed messages to and from each other and allowed those people who had free computer programs provided by the local “post office” to send and download their mail.

The Great Leap Forward, though, was the development of different interest groups that used this new form of pony express.  I jumped into a writers’ circle that eventually became Pen & Brush and away we went.  Although there were plenty of conversations about writing, the group became a home for open-ended discussions about all things political, religious, cultural, and of course the government.

For decades, it was the same group learning, chatting, arguing through evolving communication processes until the Internet hit and we landed on Yahoo Groups as Keyboard and Stylus.  And there a few of us still remain, more as alter kockers rocking on the porch than engaging in all out debates.

But, there’s life in me yet.  I’ve joined a new group that has fresh blood hungry to view the world through its many facets and a desire to express what they see.

Face (book) the Nation Open Group, housed on Facebook, was created by my college roommate Mark Kruger, now a professor of humanities in St. Louis, with the tireless help of Indira Freeman.  Let me quote her description:

“University of St Louis students and non-students from the entire nation are discussing and seeking to raise awareness about national issues. Topics have included global climate change, wars, homosexuality, education, interest groups, party systems, Wall Street, banks, government power, etc. Our goal is to create a healthy, open environment where everybody has a right to talk about various subjects.  We are group that wants to let every sluice of knowledge be open and set a-flowing. We respect all and believe in equality. Please become a part of this great environment.”

Since I began participating about a month ago, I’ve found the conversations thoughtful, stimulating, and very reminiscent of the old Pen & Brush.  Indira’s description is pretty right-on, though there are some wild and wooly moments. The group is incredibly diverse and the opinions expressed run the full spectrum on a whole host of subjects.  There are trolls, but few and far between.  All in all it’s an experience that engages and one that I fully enjoy.

I say “all in all” because this “alter cocker” finds navigating through all the various topics on the page petty damn difficult–though I have found a personal method to keep track of the various subjects.  But first let me explain how to participate if you’re interested:

1. You need a Facebook account.

2. Once you have a Facebook account (and I urge anyone who signs up for one to go over the privacy settings with a fine tooth comb), type “Face (book) the Nation OPEN GROUP” in the search box at the top of your page, and it will take you to where you can click on “JOIN.” (Given Facebook’s propensity to change how it does things about every twenty minutes, if you have any difficulty enrolling, just leave a note here and I’ll add you the group as my “friend.”)

That’s it.  But if you have trouble with the way Facebook organizes its pages here’s my system:

I created a dedicated email address for the page. In the “Edit Settings” box on the Face (book) the Nation Open Group I have set: NOTIFY ME WHEN A MEMBER POSTS OR COMMENTS, EMAIL NOTIFICATIONS TO the email address I set up,and finally I checked the box that says SEND ME GROUP CHAT MESSAGES.

This allows me to click on emails that take me directly to the specific conversations in which I have interest.

I understand this seems like a convoluted way to screen and follow discussions, and I’m also aware that many people are reluctant to join Facebook.  But if you aren’t uncomfortable with joining, or you already have a page, Face (book) the Nation Open Group is worth the price of admission.  Especially if you enjoy intelligent free-wheeling conversations about a variety of important topics.

Great spirits have always found violent opposition from 
mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not 
thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and 
courageously uses his intelligence. Einstein

Why I Love Television, Part I

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Now that laws and attitudes are changing, it’s one of the last “don’t ask, don’t tell” situations.  In fact, in my circles, it’s the love that dare not speak its name.  But I’m here to say it—loudly, proudly, to the world—I LOVE TELEVISION.  And this has been true my entire life.

Why?  First and foremost it keeps me company.  Even when I’m not paying any attention to what’s on, the background murmur reassures me I’m not dead.  And when I’m not paying attention, the TV doesn’t even complain—it’s selfless that way.

Television was my first “virtual” friend and, despite all these years together, we’ve never had an argument.  Sure, I sometimes get pissed.  Why isn’t there anything good on?  Why isn’t anything bad that I like on?  But, TV, as I like to call it for short, has figured that out.  Now you can easily record shows or go On Demand for those barren hours.  Hell, if you’re desperate there’s always a Law and Order variation somewhere.

The notion that it dumbs down our society?  Please.  Can our society get any dumber when 60-some percent of our country doesn’t believe in evolution?

No one trots out that this is stupid, empty entertainment shit when they bow down  to TV’s “Golden Years.”  Do folks really believe that Red Skelton raised IQs?  Or Jackie Gleason with the June Taylor Dancers?  Milton Berle?   Ok, Ernie Kovacs appealed to hipsters and The Honeymooners helped salvage marriages.

If those years were “Golden,” then today’s are Platinum. (Though a warmth lingers still for spotlights and “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”)

But really:

Has there ever been better satire than The Daily Show?

Has there ever been better performance art than The Colbert Report?

Did Playhouse 90 present better dramas than The Sopranos or In Treatment?

Is there anyone better than Rachel Maddow to make progressives feel smug?

Or Papa Bear O’Reilly to make Tea-baggers salivate?

Sorry, if people want to talk about the dumb down, television isn’t the place to start.  Not when programs like The Wire are being written and shown on a regular basis.  And I can’t imagine any comparison between Gunsmoke and Deadwood, which might very well be the best western ever presented in any form.  (And yeah, I’ve seen Red River, and all the Spaghetti’s.)  Tell me, humanitarians and Quincy Jones fans, whether “We Are The World” brought smile and tear.  Damn, even ads have their moments.  “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke,” and China’s Olympic Opening Ceremony (also a commercial—albeit an expensive one) kept people watching.

So why do I feel so protective about my best friend?  Primarily because of where it’s placed in the cultural pecking order—down in the dirt as chicken feed.  And many, probably most, of those who tout the “higher” pecks spend more time watching it than any other medium.

I like watching the best that television has to offer, and also the worst. (Come out of the closet, people.)  Sure I get kick out of the emasculation of Bruce Jenner on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, The Iron Chefs (though I haven’t cooked a meal in 25 years), the weirdos who make the cut on Project Runway, and even the Dog Whisperer , though his magic does nothing for our cats.

And, of course sports.  Perhaps the only thing left in our country where the outcome isn’t preordained.  (I’m not really talking about cage fighting though there was a time when wrestling with those buffed, sweaty bodies…uh, better leave it there.)

But ultimately I’m just glad television is here, 24/7, 52 weeks a year with no chance of dying before me.  How can you have a safer relationship?  Despite no sex, with serious exceptions, very little meaning.  Don’t need that cigarette after NCIS–either of ’em.

Now understand, I really wouldn’t trade Sue or my kids for a television.  Trudat.

But I’m lucky—I don’t have to.  I can have it all, TV never says a jealous word.

(Eventually there will be a PART, 2)

Virtue is insufficient temptation.
-George Bernard Shaw

Dylan, Ochs: A Conversation

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(Artistic License Taken)

Thursday night I’d anticipated going to the documentary Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune. This edited instant message conversation took place between me and my blogger friend Rawrah (http://rawrahs.blogspot.com/ or see “Links” on this site):

Rawrah: From what I’ve read he hated Dylan. Ochs would torture himself to write and Dylan would simply pull magic out of his ass.

Me: For sure Ochs poked fun at Dylan. In one of his songs (forgot the name) he did it in a self-deprecating way. But I would call Dylan’s lyrics poetry, not magic.

Rawrah: Ochs believed in what he was singing. Dylan rejects the idea of “meaning” in his songs.

ME: Hell, I’ve used that line about my Matt Jacob books. Don’t make it true.

Rawrah: You might bullshit but that doesn’t make Dylan a liar.

ME: Trudat—but I still think he’s doing a throwaway.

Rawrah: Good to be a mind reader, huh?

ME: Asshole. It’s interesting. Dylan is talked about at the music studio. Probably ’cause I bring him up.

Rawrah: About whether he actually knew what he was saying in his songs?

ME: No. Because I say he’s the most important songwriter in our lifetime. The argument is usually about his “musicality.” I’m hit with “He can’t sing and his music is at best rudimentary, if that.” I say the poetry of his lyrics supersedes—but that don’t really fly at a music school.

Rawrah: I think people attribute a lot more depth than is actually displayed.

ME: Thanks, pal.

Rawrah: I read he’d skim a newspaper and dump out three or four songs of lyrics. Or eavesdrop on a conversation then spew out its essence. A savant.

Me: Depends on the definition. Savant means “sage” or, as in “idiot savant–an intellectually disabled person who exhibits extraordinary ability in a highly specialized area, like mathematics or music. Gotta be a stretch to call Dylan intellectually disabled.

Rawrah: Why? Some say most people have “savant” potential but few have the series of experiences to trigger it.

ME: You know, we’re writing my Monday post. You mind?

Rawrah: Feel free.

ME: Thanks. See, what I think when you talk about Ochs’ needing to struggle to write and Dylan “pulling it out of his ass,” is their difference in ability to access the subconscious. Take Robin Williams…

Rawrah: Uh oh.

ME: When he’s on a talk show and somebody says something that clicks you can almost see the door to his subconscious open and out comes a riot. But a crafted riot. So I’m saying that Dylan’s door was more open than Ochs but that Ochs got there anyway and both used craft to hone their message into art.

Rawrah: And isn’t that the real difference between Ochs and Dylan. Ochs had to work to create—to say nothing about living his ideals—and Dylan didn’t.

ME: I probably call that the difference between genius and not. As for living ideals, don’t forget Dylan helped ignite a movement and Ochs ending up killing himself

Rawrah: Now who’s the asshole? I’d say there are truly gifted people and when their particular gift intersects at precisely the right circumstance, what emerges is magic.

“Please… could somebody just go ahead and WikiLeak whatever it is Bob Dylan has been singing for 50 years?” Bauart