“A widespread urban legend states that one out of every five miles of the Interstate Highway System must be built straight and flat so as to be usable by aircraft during times of war. Contrary to popular lore, Interstate Highways are not designed to serve as airstrips.” »

That’s too bad. Someday I’d like to see a Boeing 747 land on I-10 just for the hell of it.

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
Bohren & Der Club of Gore – Sabbat Schwarzer Highway
from Gore Motel. Epistrophy, 1994 | buy mp3s
Glacial jazz for moody road-tripping and late night window-gazing — or as Bohren & Der Club of Gore likes to say, “An unholy ambient mixture of slow jazz ballads, Black Sabbath doom, and down-tuned autopsy sounds”

Back on the road, back in that comfortable fugue state-of-mind, like I’m settling in to watch a favorite movie at 2am. The windshield frames the shot, saturating the tape loop of gas stations, diners, and dead flat oil fields with the drama of cinema. And the plot? It’s Friday night and spontaneous cities of recreational vehicles cluster along the water’s edge, where bonfires burn and beer cans spill into the road and families wave at the traffic. In the distance, sinister oil refineries smolder and shoot flames, glittering like something peeled off a Fritz Lang backdrop. Jimi Hendrix does ‘Voodoo Child’ on the radio and the wet heat of the Louisiana bayou bleeds into the Texas coast where wrecked houses stand on stilts, stubbornly challenging the next storm. There’s controlled burning along the state line, acres of flames throwing black smoke and orange light across the night sky. A hand-painted sign says Ted’s Drive-Thru Tobacco: When You Gotta Habit.

I take a midnight ferry ride to Galveston Island, choking on exhaust and staring at a bunch of bored kids in the back of a pick-up. Crashing in a scary motel on the north end. Moths bomb sodium lights. A pay phone rings in the parking lot. Tinted Pathfinders and Escalades rumble through the night, bass shuddering the windows. Somebody smashes a bottle and yelps. Maybe they’re pissed. Maybe they’re celebrating. In the morning I see the sun on the water and everything looks serene.

I live in a beautiful nation of car dealerships and panic attacks.

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
Doris Day – Sentimental Journey
Columbia, 1945
Doris Day’s first #1 hit in 1945. “The song’s release coincided with the end of WWII in Europe and became the unofficial homecoming theme for many veterans.” More »

Melancholy gas station outside of Port Bolivar

Good news, music lovers! Stephen Baker returns to the audio scene with a brand new transmission called Isometric. During his days in the halcyon Tomorrowland outfit, Baker delivered soft-focus music for the Kranky and Darla imprints with Nick Brackney (go buy Stereoscopic Soundwaves right now). Nowadays he’s taking solo excursions under the Addisko moniker and the latest result is a six-track collection that pulses and flickers like a beloved snippet of Super 8. (It’s difficult to stay away from visual metaphors when discussing Baker’s work.)

Imagine placing the Chain Reaction catalogue under a heatlamp, thawing it out, and shellacking the results with a fizzy Spiritualized sheen. Processed guitars. Dignified percussion. This is big-hearted electric music designed for laying back in the sun. Remember the better parts of Burger & Ink’s Las Vegas? Or those Kreisel 7″s from ’99? These are rare moments when the endless loops of electronic music burn a little brighter and get a bit overheated, revealing the analogue grit and heart of a rock song. It’s a collision that makes a wonderful noise, and this is the moment that Baker continues to explore throughout his work — and Isometric zooms deep into the techno film, revealing warm weather and reassuring atmospheres.

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
Addisko – Chloroform
Download the whole album here for free.

Let’s say you tap me on the head. Perhaps you’re trying to get my attention. Or maybe it’s your way of being playful or flirty. But you didn’t realize my skull was thin, like eggshell thin, and now I’m permanently brain damaged or dead. Are you responsible for killing me? You just wanted to get my attention and now you’ve got a corpse and possibly a murder rap.

According to the Eggshell Skull Rule, you are responsible for all damages resulting directly from your actions. It’s a question of intent and unforseeable damages. This was tested in Vosburg v. Putney, a Wisconsin case from 1891 in which a 14-year-boy lightly kicked the shin of an 11-year-boy. Turns out the younger boy had some crazy injury from a sledding accident and the gentle tap ultimately resulted in the loss of his leg. The Vosburgs and Putneys sued each other several times and, although each jury agreed that Vosburg didn’t intend to harm Putney, the rule that one must “take his victim as he finds him” was established.

You are therefore responsible for all damages resulting directly from your actions. But the word directly is tricky. Where do you draw the line? As my torts professor said, the law needs to recognize that a butterfly flapping its wings doesn’t necessarily lead to World War III. This has something to do with proximate cause, but I’m only on page 28 of my casebook. However, I wanted to let you know that if you tap fragile people on the head or kick them in the shins, you might get into big trouble.

(For bonus points, there’s the Crumbling Skull Rule, in which the victim’s skull is already falling apart before you tap him and make it worse — in which case you’re not responsible for all of the damages and skull fragments.)

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
Miss Toni Fisher – The Big Hurt
Signet, 1959
Here’s an unsettling bit of outer space cabaret, the sort of thing that might be blaring from the deck of your Oldsmobile as you hit the Vegas Strip back in 1959. “The Big Hurt” was the first hit recording to feature electronic phasing —  there’s a good write-up here at Electrogarden.

“You’ve got a bunch of young men bumping chests in a convenience store and the altercation spilled into the streets and led to a gun battle.” This is Ronal Serpas talking about the latest murder in the city. He’s the newly installed chief of the New Orleans Police Department. “Somebody got killed over a petty incivility because somebody didn’t respect somebody else when he opened the door.”

We’re at the Howlin’ Wolf, an old black-painted club with a bar and a massive stage. It’s early on a Saturday morning and heavy tropical rain sizzles on the roof. We slouch in folding chairs beneath exposed rafters, Japanese lanterns, and gigantic speaker boxes. Fans blow overhead, ruffling napkins and notebooks while dozens of bloggers type on creaky wooden tables, washed in the glow of their portable devices. This is Rising Tide 5, an annual conference about recovery after Katrina:

We come together to dispel myths, promote facts, highlight progress and regress, discuss recovery ideas, and promote sound policies at all levels. We aim to be a “real life” demonstration of internet activism as we continue to recover from a massive failure of government on all levels.

I’m about to celebrate two months of New Orleans citizenship, and I figured this would be a good way to get a better sense of the place. Here are some very rough notes:

Why is there so much violence in New Orleans? There is talk about lack of education, prevention, and economic opportunity — but Allen James of Safe Streets points out something we tend to overlook: “We have a lot of guns, and we still have this 1700s and 1800s mentality of using guns to preserve honor.”

Should we throw everybody in jail? The Juvenile Justice Project of Louisiana sums up the current scene:

There are currently 3,500 inmates in the Orleans Parish Prison (OPP), 2,700 of whom are “city prisoners.” This represents the highest rate of detention of any urban jail in the country, and three times the national average. A jail in New Orleans that was aligned with the national detention rate would have approximately 850 beds.

The Sheriff’s plans to rebuild OPP call for a 5,800-bed parish prison, despite the fact that the overwhelming majority of people at OPP are in for non-violent, municipal, or traffic offenses that could be diverted, for a major cost-savings to the taxpayer and city government.

Or as Jon Wool from the Vera Institute of Justice says, “Incarceration is society’s most expensive resource with the least benefit to public safety.” And Allen James reminds us of a fact many would like to ignore: “We’re sending people to jail who all look alike, who come from the same economic strata, who come from the same neighborhoods.”

Why is that? Do we lock people up in correctional facilities to deter crime? Are we serious about rehabilitating (or ‘correcting’) them? Or do we simply want to remove and isolate the bad apples? (E.g. ‘three strikes and you’re out’).

Do the actions of the police department reflect the wishes of the public? Do the values of the community align with the crimes that the state chooses to prosecute? “Is it really the public’s desire to have thousands of citizens arrested for possessing marijuana?” asks Wool. “Is this what the taxpayers want?”

Taxpayers want different things. Look at those flashing blue lights. Chief Serpas claims that some citizens appreciate it when patrol cars drift along the neighborhood streets, flashing their lights. “It makes people feels safe,” says Serpas. “It’s a visible signal that we’re doing our job.” Allen James, however, compares it to an occupation. Those lights frighten many residents; they make them feel like suspects in their homes. (And how are blinding blue lights anything but scary and disorienting?)

The rate of cleared murders has decreased every year since 1960. Police aren’t solving cases like they used to. Many people attribute the lack of cooperating witnesses to an ingrained distrust of the police. Chief Serpas is attempting to mend these fences with a new package of policies within the NOPD. ”If you lie, you die” He repeats this several times for effect. “If you lie, you die. If you’re a police officer and you’re caught lying to the department, you will be deposed and I will call my friends at CNN, MSNBC, CBS…” (As I’m quickly discovering in law school, public shame works wonders.) Another policy: if an officer doesn’t cite a fellow officer’s misconduct, he will be disciplined for the same offense. These are encouraging steps to fix a systemic failure, as exposed by the horrifying murders at Danziger Bridge.

Onwards to the environment, where things are getting strange. In addition to remembering Katrina, the impact of the oil spill continues to reverberate throughout the city despite the media’s oddly synchronized decision to switch the storyline from “The worst disaster of all-time!” to “Where’s the oil?” Meanwhile, Mac McClelland of Mother Jones continues to show everybody the oil while tangling with BP’s security blockades. “I didn’t realize that Louisiana was going to shut down into a weird corporate police state,” she said, waving a Bloody Mary onstage.

Steve Picou, Robert Verchick, and Len Bahr gave us the news: we’re facing haywire precipitation, stronger storms, more heat, and rising sea levels. These are the American cities with the most to lose if our sea levels increase by five feet:

1. New York
2. Miami
3. Louisiana

New York and Florida are putting together contingency plans because they believe in climate change. Governor Bobby Jindal, however, approved legislation that encourages science teachers to question evolution and climate change. For some reason, there are lots of votes to be gained in America by denying science. As Verchick reminded us, “While we’re here at this conference talking about climate change, Glenn Beck is currently holding his insane rally in DC.” And there’s talk about how Jindal is already angling for a bigger stage, possibly a run at the presidency or perhaps a VP appointment.

Every thirty minutes, Louisiana loses a football field of land. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this fact since moving down here.  Maybe you’ve heard it, too. We’re awfully calm about it. The risk is exponential and the impact is mind-boggling; maybe that’s why nobody’s talking about it. Beyond denial, the bureaucratic dysfunction borders on the sociopathic. Example? Many of the funds for protecting the Gulf Coast are inextricably (and inexplicably) tied to the profits from deepwater drilling, which is currently on pause.

After listening to a panel discussion on Louisiana’s calcified partisanship and negligent politics, I began spiraling into existential depression. Because it’s not just Louisiana. Somewhere out there in Washington DC and at rallies across the country, people are gathering together on a platform of mysticism and fear. The only reassuring thing I can tell you is that being in a room of such incredibly smart and determined people on a rainy Saturday felt damned good.

Here’s a New Orleans classic from eighty years back:

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
King Oliver’s Creole Jazz Band – New Orleans Shout
Bluebird, 1929 | buy mp3s
One of the most influential figures in jazz, King Oliver was Louis Armstrong’s teacher. And yet: “The Great Depression was harsh to Oliver. He lost his life savings when a Chicago bank collapsed, as he struggled to keep his band together on a series of hand-to-mouth gigs until the band broke up and Oliver was stranded in Savannah, Georgia, where he worked as a janitor at Wimberly’s Recreation Hall…” more »

Further reading: Appointment of Serpa; Mac McClelland doing the twitters; LA Coast Post; Million Dollar Blocks; Tim Ruppert

I was always in a heavy state when I flew over Greenland. Something was starting. Or ending. A landmass associated with transitions and emergencies. Whenever I saw Greenland float underneath my window, I was red-eyed and emotionally shredded. Semi-catatonic and out-of-body, held together by a detached and slightly slapstick sense of calm.

When I’m rattled these days, I’ll shut my eyes. I’ll focus on my breathing and tell myself that I’m going to Greenland. Sort of like the mantra to “Close your eyes and think of England,” except this one’s for the sleepless and panicky among us.

Here’s a good stern song for going to Greenland:
[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
Sylvain Chauveau – Radiophonie N°1
from Nocturne Impalpable. Les Disques Du Soleil Et De L’Acier, 2001 | buy mp3s
Beautiful elegiac chamber music from France. Buy everything you can from Chauveau, esp. Le Livre Noir Du Capitalisme and Nocturne Impalpable.

My mom died one year ago on August 23. It was early on a Sunday evening and her death was unexpected. She was a lapsed Catholic and sometimes she cursed in Polish. She called the crusts of bread ‘bones’ and when she was seventeen, my mom studied in France to be a translator for the United Nations. I want you to know a little bit about who she was.

After one year without my mom, I can tell you that the pain doesn’t get any softer. Every night as I sink into sleep, I’m back in the hospital with her, reliving those final days, wishing I did everything differently. That I held her hand the entire time. That I didn’t get so upset when she refused to eat. And every morning I wake up and, for a wonderful moment, I’m convinced that it was all a terrible dream and I should probably give her a call.

In a recent interview, Christopher Hitchens said there’s no such thing as “closure”. Closure means you’ve gone numb. It felt so good to hear somebody say that. Because closure is a big lie. So is “coming to terms”. There are no terms because there is no agreement. When you lose somebody, life gets cracked and strange and the only thing keeping me in the game is accepting that I’ll never be able to fix it or feel okay about it. Life will never be as good without her.

My mom never knew about law school or my book deal or the move to New Orleans. She never knew that I finally started waking up at seven in the morning. That would have impressed her the most. When good things happen, my first instinct is to call her. I’ll probably always feel that way. I wallow sometimes, but I know she’d accuse me of throwing a ‘pity party’, so I keep moving: I run. I read. I teach myself to cook. Man, she could cook. Beef stroganoff and linguini with clam sauce were her specialties. And these little cinnamon muffins with jelly inside.

Despite my protests, my mom used to read this site every day and she’d call me every other day: You’re smoking cigarettes again? You’re driving where?! And most humbling of all: why haven’t you been writing lately? Is everything okay?

Maybe one day I’ll find religion. I envy the religious for their faith in their dead, for their dogged belief in an out there or up there or afterwards. I do not know how to mourn. For now, I try hard to remember the days before the hospital. Playing Legos on Saturday morning or the afternoons we’d spend driving around Detroit and how she’d try really hard to like Stereolab. Each day I write a little more about her. It isn’t hard because she taught me a hell of a lot.

When you lose somebody, you learn the hard way that all of the clichés are true. You never know what you’ve got until — so call your parents. Kiss your wife. Be good to each other.

“Haunted by memories of what happened on the dinghy, Stephens lost his mental faculties; Dudley moved to Australia, became an opium addict, and died of the bubonic plague.” So says the footnote to the first case I’m studying in Criminal Law, Regina v. Dudley & Stephens.

A rough synopsis: In 1884, three men and a sick boy were cast out to sea in a dinghy after their yacht sank 1600 miles off the Cape of Good Hope. After twenty horrible days at sea without food or water, the boy was killed and eaten by two of the other men. A few days later, the men in the dinghy were rescued and, upon being accused of murder, they claimed killing the boy was an act of self-defense, for they would have died otherwise — and besides, the boy was already dying.

Q: Is the preservation of one’s life a defense against murder?

The court argued that, in this case, to rationalize murder and cannibalism would require “the absolute divorce of law from morality” and, although the men would surely have died if they did not eat the boy, there are many scenarios in which one is required to sacrifice one’s life so that others may live (a soldier at war, a captain on a sinking ship). Sensing a teachable moment, the court asked, “By what measure is the comparative value of lives to be measured? Is it to be strength, or intellect, or what? In this case the weakest, the youngest, the most unresisting was chosen. Was it more necessary to kill him than one of the older men? The answer must be, No.”

And so the court sentenced the two men to death. However, they only served six months until succumbing to madness, opium, and the plague.

Law school is pretty fun so far.

In 1946, the “Atomic Boogie Hour” debuted on AM 1400, serving the latest jive, jam boogie woogie, and jump blues to residents of Alabama. 1000 watts in the daytime, 250 at night. Gospel, country, and blues merged here. People across the nation gathered by the radio every Saturday night, hoping to catch the news and hear their favorite song. The American Album of Familiar Music. The Ford Sunday Evening Hour. Rotary Golden Hour. King Biscuit Time. An old blues singer once said that the Grand Ole Opry was his church and listening to the radio was communion. Everybody tuned in and you could hear the nation humming to itself.

I’ve got 12,109 mp3s. I can’t think of any national moment on today’s airwaves that doesn’t break along political factions. We’re empowered and networked, but we’re atomized and fractured.

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
John Lee Hooker – Walkin’ the Boogie
from Sugar Mama. Chess, 1952 | buy mp3s
This track stomps and shivers with weird nervous energy. “Throughout the 1930s, Hooker worked in factories in various cities during World War II, drifting until he found himself in Detroit in 1948 working at Ford Motor Company. In a city noted for its pianists, guitar players were scarce. Performing in Detroit clubs, his popularity grew quickly, and seeking a louder instrument than his crude acoustic guitar, he bought his first electric guitar…” more »

Some cars in a junkyard in Grand Gulf, Mississippi. Maybe I’m naive, but how did these cars get flipped over? What strange beast prowls the scrapyards at night, swatting cars through the air?

[ See post to enjoy the audio! ]
The String-a-Longs – Wheels
Warwick, 1961
A two-minute instrumental from Plainview, Texas