Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Closed for reinvention. Back soon.

update III:
"You come home, you order out food...and then you play those stupid Tito Puente albums until 2 in the morning!"
"Tito Puente is gonna be dead, and you'll say: 'Oh, I've been listening to him for years. He's fabulous.' "

update II: be sure to check out the beehive to the right of the screen at 0:08. Like a Nascar Nefertiti!

udpate I:
Did somebody say "twang"?

The Osborne Brothers, Ruby, Are You Mad?

I can only think of two forms of original American folk music, the blues and bluegrass. The blues are subterranean rhythms that strip away all pretense and adornment to allow the unimpeded expression of desire and sorrow. Bluegrass is similarly engaged, yet impelled in the other direction, toward the sky. Where the blues and funk envelop you in the soil of earthen, down-tempo bass chords, bluegrass carries you into the heavens on manic high notes. Blues is earth; bluegrass is sky.
The nearness of nature and its inexorable pull are the common feature. Both evoke the primary and unequivocal realities of desire, family, toil and loss. The unavoidable immediacy of these things in the hungry and desperate experience of the rural poor of the early twentieth century is what gives these forms their inimitable beauty. We are drawn to these as authentic expressions of joy and sorrow no longer possible. The American pastoral.
I was trapped in traffic with nothing but an AM radio to distract me, in LA, when I abandoned the droning obscenity of the OJ trial to land on a non-profit station's bluegrass hour. What the hell. Random finds are the best finds. That's when I first heard this song. This piercing, high lonesome lament was like the lunatic ravings of a mental patient. I had "discovered" something that had been there the whole time. Who knew?

Now; leave me alone, I have work to do.


Slampo said...

Reinvent, if you must, then return.

Anonymous said...

A little bit tired of this, sir. Your last comment on the media was pure genius. You seem often to hit home runs and grand slams. Then, you grab the bat and ball and go home. One senses a depression? a weakness? a what? A stupid comment seems to be able to knock you off your game, so I hope my comment can knock you back on your game.
I'm not talking to you as a life coach, but as a guy who is pinned uner his own wreckage on the side of the road, to have someone of your talent as company is just too damn depressing. Oh, and before ya leave me to bleed out, could ya post a good song. Ya know maybe something dark with a bit of a twang.

Anonymous said...

No, we're not leaving just like that.

You have a gift man,
keep sharing...
when you can.


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