Laughing Evergreens

Waiting, Adjusting, Dreaming

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sat, 26 Jul 2014 17:37:00 +0000

So, let's see. Where have I been? In the last two months I've been to Taiwan, moved to a new place and got embroiled in a war (still going on). I've also been doing some writing, though not enough in both quantity and quality. Let's take it one item at a time.

Longshan Temple, Taipei

The trip to Taipei was a business trip as well as a colossal culture shock for me. Everything was so different and yet so similar. On the connecting flight over there I saw the movie "Her" for the first time. Eerily, I had a feeling I actually landed into it, this vast city of the future. Though, admittedly, I had some issues with the local cuisine, I adjusted. The 2 weeks I spent there will not be forgotten anytime soon and I still miss the place and its people.

A week after I've returned, I moved to a new flat, a change long overdue. While some things in the new place can be better, even more can be worse. I do not quite feel at home here, but I've adjusted. More or less.

About three weeks ago the latest round in the seemingly endless regional conflict here has erupted again and we have been at war ever since. I write 'we' because although I'm just a regular civilian, this war seems to be focused on us, the regular civilians from both sides. It is us who are running for shelter when the missiles and rockets come, it is us who find ourselves homeless, it is us who suffer needlessly. And yet, we adjust. Some laugh about it, others grieve; the weak succumb to hate and despair (the net is full of vile and baseless hate; that and cats) and the dreamers... Sometimes I think it is only the dreamers who are truly awake and see reality; not this dismal reality, but reality as it can and should be. These dreamers are mocked, called traitors or cowards, a few are silenced forever.

We need more dreamers and men and women who can translate the dream into reality. On both sides. We need to understand each other and ourselves. We need to adjust to the present and build for the future, not the past.

I don't know how all of this will end. I used to think that the future was going to be better than this. This, this endless cycle we know already. It's time for something new.

It's a hell of a segue, but this blog is supposed to be focused (at least loosely) on music, so this post is dedicated to Henry Pope, among many things of Lemonwilde renown (covered here and here).

Pope has released a new EP last month ("Waiting") that has so far resisted being labeled as any particular genre or style, and yet it manages to weave together electronica, funk and hip hop and something else that perhaps can be termed "L.A.". The EP was created with Keaton Simons (Gnarls Barkley, Snoop Dog, Josh Kelley), Fernanda Karolys (Kinky, Nortec Collective), Sophie Holt (Govinda, Kraddy) and Parker Ainsworth.

Henry Pope is on Facebook and the EP can be downloaded here (Recommended).

For Maya, The Woman Who Lived

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Wed, 28 May 2014 15:51:00 +0000

I don't know why I cry for Maya, but I do. She has had a long and difficult life, its beginning fraught with prejudice, it middle years of struggle; its end of peace. When I think of her, she is like a mixture of the three, and yet somehow towering above it, strong and wise, enduring.

I don't know why I cry for Maya, the woman who lived. Perhaps there are some tears of joy for knowing her. Perhaps those are tears of sorrow for not knowing.

Perhaps I cry thanks to Maya, the woman who lived.

Love Liberates

We die,

Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,

Stranglers to our outstretched necks,

Stranglers, who neither care nor

care to know that

DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray,

Savoring sweet the teethed lies,

Bellying the grounds before alien gods,

Gods, who neither know nor

wish to know that

HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love,

Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,

Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,

Kisses that neither touch nor

care to touch if

LOVE IS INTERNAL.

Avoiding the Red Wedding

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Fri, 23 May 2014 18:34:00 +0000

Apologies in advance for any potential ear-worms generated by this post.

Over the past few days I've been plagued by a particularly nasty ear-worm: the Game of Thrones opening theme. This might be a bit surprising considering I don't actually watch the show.

I know it's a high quality production and the original author, George R. R. Martin, is involved in its making. I read the books long ago so I should be really excited about watching it. Part of me is excited and longs to see Westeros and its people, not just in the way I imagined it to be.

But the greater part of me remembers the pain, anguish and cruelty associated with reading the books and their various intricate plots. I remember the deaths, disappointments, lack of vision and the overall sense of mindless futility of it all. And I don't want to experience the Red Wedding ever again.

Am I a milksop pacifist* who only accepts "happy endings" to be consumed? No. I know there are no "happy endings" in real life, particularly where I happen to live. Books and TV shows allow us to imagine outside of our immediate reality (under some built in constraints). But, sometimes, it just seems a little too extreme; a little too far.

Why, then, am I plagued with this incessant ear-worm, calling me to join Daenerys in her rightful quest to take back her throne? Or see how Jon Snow is doing beyond the wall? Is it a sign of anxiety? Just a matter of catchy, inspiring music? Or am I trying to tell myself something else?

Game of Thrones Main Theme by Ramin Djawadi {iTunes}

*I'm not implying pacifist are milksops. To be a pacifist, on many cases, requires more courage, principles and determination than to be a non-pacifist.

Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sun, 11 May 2014 16:27:00 +0000

My feelings towards cats are ambivalent, at best. Sure, you have the unavoidable internet cat, lurking behind every other web page or occasional tweet, being cute and irresistible, the unique predatory cat way. But then you have the real life cats, the ones who fight at 4 AM outside your window or return the favor of your kind pet and piece of cheese with a nasty scratch (that may or may not scar you in more ways then one).

And then there are those cats that stare at you seemingly blankly, smiling inwardly, as you wake up frantically from a nightmare that you could not quite recall, though you swear it was so vivid in your mind it could have left a mark on your skin. Or a scar.

So, cats. Evidently they can also make some pretty good music, a disturbing dark blend of electronics, rock and funk, with uniquely energetic and physically suffused elements. Almost predatory. Almost... like a cat.

Live (photo from the Facebook page)

These particular cats are a group of four good friends from Tel Aviv, working in the best of indie traditions of hard labor, the joy of creation and keeping to their own truth. They dedicate their new single "Disconnect" to their attempt to remove their own misconceptions and prejudices. 'Cause sometimes "the only thing to do is disconnect".

A Cat - Disconnect {iTunes}
They're also on Facebook and Soundcloud.

Cosmic Exhilaration and Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Mon, 10 Mar 2014 06:38:00 +0000

I don't remember a lot from my childhood. Perhaps not a lot has happened then or maybe I choose not to remember. Many of us don't have full recollections, only memories of memories; it is how the mind forms and matures. One of the few memories in sight and sound I do retain is of Carl Sagan on his "Ship of the Imagination" exploring a starry space to the sounds of the opening theme of Cosmos. I did not understand much, perhaps nothing at all, but I do remember a sense of wonder, sincerity and a subtle urgent importance.

Years later, I have re-watched, or perhaps watched for the first time, the entire series, this time as an adult. Watching it has touched me deeply, perhaps especially with the half buried memories of it and with understanding and a framing of many contexts I could not do earlier (it is, after all, dubbed "A Personal Voyage"). Each time I play the opening theme in my mind I can still sense that feeling of wonder that was there, a special kind of innocence I strove to preserve, not always successfully.

I have been in the US these past few weeks as part of an assignment from work and so was fortunate enough to watch live the newly made Cosmos, hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson. It will take decades to see how the present series affects the children and teenagers growing with it today. The times and the generations have changed, and I cannot say if the medium and the way the message was chosen to be delivered are the best for the current audience (I'll need to ask my nephews). But as part of the 'older' generation, who can't really avoid the comparison (the first episode in particular, it seemed, carries with in it more than a subtle homage for Sagan and the original series) I think it was very well done and look forward for the next episodes. Tyson is perfect for the job and I think Sagan would have been proud.

Funny enough though, as eagerly as I was waiting for Cosmos to air throughout the trip, my day started in church. I am not a christian or any sort of theist for that matter, though, again, my childhood had some affect on me in this matter. Still, I have a strange fascination with churches. Whenever I'm abroad I dedicate a few minutes to sit quietly in a church or a cathedral (New York's St. Patrick's is a favorite of mine), watch the people around and try to absorb the atmosphere. Today (Sunday) I decided to attend an actual service so I put on my least travel weary clothes (one dresses up for Sunday, or so I heard) and went to a church in Brooklyn. I wanted a taste of an actual gospel immersed service, passionate choir, heated sermon and a devout congregation as I imagined it.

And this is also what I had received: friendly, open and welcoming people, thundering music (yes, a joyous noise), a not too long a sermon that was not illogical (for the most part) and a unique experience to take with me and reflect upon. Oh, and also a two hour long panic attack; being in a large hall surrounded by hundreds of people is not easy for an agoraphobic. Yes, I have anxiety (and related depression) issues.

What brought that up, though, is the Scott Stossel article from The Atlantic, that I only fully read today. It is indeed long, but it is also something I could have almost as easily have written myself, with the exception of a few points:
1. I have not been formally diagnosed or treated.
2. I have not taken any medications to deal with it.
3. I don't drink, so that can't numb me.
4. I never met the Kennedys.

How does it all come together? Stossel concludes his story and say that maybe anxiety also has its positive sides, that without it he would have been a different person with a different life. Personally, I think the 'tortured artist' image is far more romanticized than it ought to be, and that there are moments I would do quite a lot to be just a normal, anxiety free (or reduced) kind of a guy. Would I be different? Yes, but isn't that also kind of the point? To try to make yourself better? More free?

As I'm writing this I can still hear the echoes of that opening theme of the original Cosmos. I am tired, tomorrow is my last day in New York, and I already feel the sleep deprivation caused headache. But I am also reassured that I am still on that personal voyage, that I know what I am not (a theist, among other things) though I can appreciate what comes with it and its costs; and that I am still anxious for the road ahead.

I highly recommend the original Cosmos (available on DVDs and probably unofficialy on YouTube)

And the new series (It is Past time to get going again)

And some good old gospel/soul music: Mahalia Jackson - Trouble of the World

A Boltzmann Brain walks into a bar

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Fri, 10 Jan 2014 19:40:00 +0000

Have you ever pondered what it would feel like to fall into a black hole? Or wondered, as you observe a black cat turn the same corner twice, whether reality is really all it's cracked up to be? If consciousness involves such high innate latency (around 100ms), how do musicians play so perfectly, without a seeming conscious effort? How much can we really know about the world and ourselves and how much do we have to assume in order to begin to contemplate answering these questions?

An observable Cat {Wikipedia}

These and other questions were discussed at this year's FQXi (The Foundational Questions Institute) conference on the physic of information, held at the impossibly distracting Vieques Island (Puerto Rico). As a layman who's been exposed to a few snippets of it, I can regrettably say I understand very little of what was discussed. Quantum Physics, a known buzzword, now commonly weaved into the vocabulary of charlatans and quacks, is a mystery. As the great Richard Feynman put it, "If you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don't". And yet, it seems to be governing our existence in scales and ways we can barely imagine and produce ridiculously accurate test results.

The title of this post references an issue within physics about the possible emergence, through quantum fluctuations (in which particles seemingly spontaneously come in and out of existence), of something so complex as a brain, with its own unique thought patterns (see Wikipedia here and more advanced stuff here). This is similar, to some extant, to the idea of a room full of monkeys that randomly type the entirety of Hamlet. While extremely unlikely, it's not impossible that over a great length of time (longer than the average queue at the local post office, some say), such an endeavor can be completed. In this year's conference, however, it's been suggested that the underlying physics may not be so supportive of the emanation of floating disembodied brains in the vastness of space after all.

Whether we are brains-in-a-vat, souls trapped inside a frail body, a part of the greater consciousness of the universe or simply our bodies, we need to make sure to include in our basic assumptions, other than that that we can make sense of the world, that we want to. As we live and die we affect one another in more than the observable way. But sometimes, it seems, it would be easier to understand quantum physics than to understand your next door neighbor.

On the music front, and not completely unrelated, I've been listening to quite a bit of Johnny Flynn, whom I mentioned before. Flynn is about to start a big tour encompassing the US, Canada and Europe in support of his latest album, Country Mile (recommended).

Johnny Flynn - Einstein's Idea {from Country Mile}

Johnny Flynn - The Ghost of O'Donahue (Live)

Find Your Spot

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 31 Dec 2013 18:40:00 +0000

This was a hell of a year for me. As in hellish, really bad. As the years progress you are expected to be wiser and more experienced. What is the nature of this mystic wisdom that is supposed to accumulate as time passes you by? I'm not sure.

They say that the basis of wisdom is "I do not know" or at least the recognition of that fact. If that is true, then I am wise indeed. I have re-learnt several important lessons this year (that I will probably revisit next year as well thanks to my amazing memory). One of them is the importance of context, how lack of information or the reliance on false and misleading presumptions can lead to cognitive and emotional errors and mishaps. The view of the world and its people is always partial and to judge according to this partial knowledge is to inevitably err. And yet, additional data will never be quite enough for a full and comprehensive picture. It is always limited to and based on your own flawed perspective.

What do I do then? If gathering additional data alone can't help, what will?
Patience. Empathy. Imagination. Compassion. Constant learning and developing. Interaction. Challenge. Being aware of the tendency to judge and jump into conclusions and instead trying to be open minded and perceptive.

The coming year will bring many changes and challenges: a new flat, possibly a new job, a possible trip abroad with its own opportunities, maybe even a new iOS (yeah, haven't upgraded yet). Looking back, I think I've acquired some important tools of thinking and skepticism this year, and I hope to put them to good use.

I can't say I'm optimistic. I know where I live and what some of my limitations are. But in the end, my life is my own (another important lesson I've failed to internalize). It is for me to choose how to use it.

It is past time I do.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was going to write something a little different about music in this post, before I got carried away with the pseudo resolutions. I was listening to a recording of a concert by Nils Frahm on Youtube the other day. I got to it by the seeming randomness of life - one of Youtube's suggestions based on my previous listens.

The concert is made of several pieces and it was only in the second or so pieces that I got hooked or turned on. Frahm, it seemed to me, plays the piano with a sort of a strike, almost a hammering (though it's quite possibly the poor audio I had). It was an interesting technique, but somehow by that particular piece it had changed. I felt oddly connected, like I knew what he was trying to say and how. The technique seemed to flow and it wasn't hammering at all; it was a mode of music and feeling.

Today I listened to the same concert again and I wasn't able to pinpoint exactly where and when I got hooked. I still felt the music and enjoyed it, but the experience was different.

So what is it that gets us hooked on some of the times and not the others? The way we listen, open ourselves to it? The environment and technical parameters? Our state of mind? Is this the upside of jumping to conclusions that might have ended quite differently had I gave my first listen today instead of that other day? Will I now on future listens always look for that point in the track when I thought and felt "yes, this is it" (and thus ignore, to some degree, the present)?

What are we shutting our eyes to when we're looking for that one thing?

Take a listen. See if you can find that spot that works for you.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Nils Frahm - Live @La Route du Rock 2011

Nils Frahm's web page and twitter.

Also, there were aliens.

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sat, 16 Nov 2013 20:22:00 +0000

Do you know how it's like when it's 02:30 am, you're waking up from another dream where you were going to die horribly and the house is almost too quiet for comfort? And then, just as you think it's safe to go back and fight your way back into sleep, there's that creaking on the roof that kinda sounds like human steps except the weight distribution is a little off? Or the feeling you get when you close the window that maybe there's someone on the outside looking in?

Oh, it's just me then.

The universe is stranger than we give it credit though. Even the slim parts we can explain with science (some would say especially those parts). The trick may be to keep calm and nod at the nice monster under the bed. Maybe it was you who have disturbed her dreams?

You can also use a soundtrack that is written with these unmentionable occurrences in mind. Take a listen to Blitz//Berlin (formerly Theset), a Canadian quartet of supposed human beings, making soundtracks, for movies and those deeply disturbing moments at night, inspired and laced with punk and hip-hop.

Pleasant dreams.

Blitz//Berlin - Drink {MP3}
Blitz//Berlin - Outside {MP3}

Blitz//Berlin is on Facebook & Twitter.

And It's Alright

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sat, 09 Nov 2013 21:04:00 +0000

My chest hurts. It's probably nothing. Stress. Anxiety. There is much to be anxious about these days.
I try my usual tricks to help me relax, to calm down just a little.

I venture into the imaginary world that I pay a monthly upkeep to access, but I can't find myself there anymore. There are echoes, traces of who I once was, but I'm not there anymore.

I try to write, to create a world of my own. There is so much to tell and paint, so few words. I write a paragraph, then stop. Try another, then pause and stare at the waiting cursor. I know the story but I don't know how to reach it. I am lost to it. Without me it cannot be told, and I am silent.

I turn to look for friends, companions, acquaintances, but I cannot reach them. I am lost.

I try to look inside myself, but there is nothing. Only emptiness, a riddled past, an ever stretching present and a cloudy future. I try to break away from the selfish pain and the gnawing anxiety but it's as though I am trying to leave this body behind. They are too much a part of me by now.

Finally, I turn to music. It has always been there for me. I can still hear it, still listen, though my attention span is declining in favor of the pain and dread in my rib cage. And I am so tired.

But it still works, it's still a lifeline out of this place and, for a short time, out of this existence.

I listen and remember I am still alive, I still hunger, I still dream.

I know it's not going to be alright, but for a few minutes I can believe.

"And It's Alright" by Peter Broderick (from Home)

How I came to love Amanda Palmer

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sat, 16 Feb 2013 16:57:00 +0000

I admit, I still don't know her well. I'm familiar with some of her Dresden Dolls material and some of her more recent work. I was deterred by her looks and her voice, the musical style didn't speak to me; I didn't connect. In a way, I didn't believe, I thought it was all show.
When I heard she was dating and later married Neil Gaiman, I thought she was the lucky one, that he was Her catch.

But I was so wrong. All I had to do was listen, read her words and look into her eyes and heart. She's been working tirelessly for her music, her art, her fans and her loved ones. She is fighting, in ever original and inspiring ways, against bullying and for a greater understanding and harmony between people. And when you feel her passion you know she'll get there, she'll reach every lonely despondent youth, every couple who's forgotten their initial spark.

She once met a random teenager and encouraged him to write beautiful music. She cancelled a tour to be with an ailing friend. She is revolutionizing crowd funding and contact with fans as any indie - true indie - artist can, promoting the slogan 'We are the media'.

And she means it.

She is not perfect. I don't like all her songs. There is something about her that is disquieting. But I cannot help but love her. She's not perfect- she's human and true and I can feel her message and know that I'm not alone in my pain, that there is a kinship shared by everyone. That, perhaps, there is still hope.

P.S. - Neil is the lucky one.

Amanda Palmer & The Grand Theft Orchestra - The Bed Song
Amanda Palmer's website and twitter.

"... But one day I'll be free"

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 13:01:00 +0000

It's true I am out of touch. In part, I wish to escape the dreary reality I was born into and be elsewhere, anywhere, but in the here and now. Music used to allow me such a method of traveling without moving (too much - even this poor body can attempt his own version of a dance on occasion). But I seemed to have hardened my skin in the past few years, raising new barriers to keep the world out and looking deeper within. So it now takes a more conscious effort to open up and listen, and consequently, to feel. But I can't hide anymore. And though the pain is ever present, it may have some positive uses to it yet.

But I will take things in measure. Life, and the people we meet, need to be appreciated. Every person has a story to tell, a unique voice, a point of view. The world is full of wonder and terror and we know nothing except this very moment. We may be wrong, we may be right, but that in itself doesn't matter as much as the respect and love we give our fellow travelers. And if that sounds like a load of new age BS, well, maybe it is. Meaning, as pretty much everything, is in the eye of the beholder.

Marika Hackman (taken from a Bristol Couch session)

Marika Hackman is a beautiful British artist I was fortunate enough to be introduced to a few days ago. As always, the music speaks for itself, and it carries that slightly haunting-mysterious air about it that I find so intriguing and appealing. It evokes that feeling of distant memories and dreams long gone, of scenes and experiences you're not sure were ever real, but are true just the same. Recording these clips in a dark tunnel adds its share as well.

Marika Hackman - Bath is Black {from the upcoming That Iron Taste mini album}

Marika Hackman - Mountain Spines {from the upcoming That Iron Taste mini album}

Check Marika Hackman on tour and on her website:

Marika Hackman w/ Ethan Johns UK Dates

1st Feb – Brighton – Unitarian Church

2nd Feb – Brighton – South Street Theatre

4th Feb – Bristol – Colston Hall

2 5th Feb – Cardiff – The Gate Arts Centre

6th Feb – Exeter – Phoenix

7th Feb – Nottingham – Glee Club Studio

9th Feb – Sheffield – The Lantern Theatre

10th Feb – Birmingham – Glee Club

11th Feb – Norwich – Arts Centre

13th Feb – Liverpool – The Capstone Theatre

14th Feb – Stockton – The Georgian Theatre

15th Feb – Kendal – Brewery Arts Centre

16th Feb – Edinburgh – The Pleasance Theatre

18th Feb – Manchester – Sacred Trinity

19th Feb – Leeds – Brudenell

25th Feb – London – Purcell Rooms

Marika Hackman Headline UK Tour

28th Feb – Brighton – Komedia

1st March – Bristol – Louisiana

2nd march – Manchester – The Castle

3rd March – Edinburgh – Electric Circus

4th March – Newcastle – Think Tank

6th March – London – Sebright Arms

Be sure to also check out Bristol Couch on Youtube for some lovely outdoorsy folk clips, including one featuring Marika Hackman.

Shower Time

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 07:56:00 +0000

I tried to die,
I told my heart to stop,
Today, as the water washed over flesh,
Seemingly warm, sensually cold.
But my valve wouldn't stop
(though it did deign to slow)
As I cried and I begged it for boon.
"Let it go", I pleaded,
"get some rest", I did try.
For a minute or two,
I thought there was hope,
For the dimness was suddenly fresh;
And I thought that I saw,
Though it shimmered and sparkled,
A silence profound in my head.
And there were no voices,
Only water keeps running,
Keeps running all over my head.
And for one single instant
(it may have been two)
There was peace and serenity too.
But the voices returned,
The breath, it resumed,
And so did I, gasping for air.
And the moment, it passed,
And I still remain,
And all for a valve and a voice in my head,
And a memory that never was there.

The Rest

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Fri, 04 May 2012 14:32:00 +0000

The last time I wrote about The Rest I got fired. Of course, I wasn't fired Because I wrote about them and I was re-hired just 2 days later, but still... it's a correlation to give anyone a reason to pause and consider. And I don't mean is it worth the risk of getting fired again. No, once you get into the music there's hardly going back. A part of me, perhaps a growing part, would not mind getting fired if it's to the sounds of good music.


The Rest

And it is. If you listen carefully to their new album, SEESAW, you may notice some other worldly innuendos, familiar and original waves, coursing towards some unknown destination, thrilled to be free. Part of it is the music celebrating itself, after being nearly destroyed in a hard-drive incident. The other part? Well, that's you, enjoying yourself along.

The Rest are on Bandcamp, last.fm and tumblr.
The Rest - Hey! For Horses {MP3}

<a href="http://therest.bandcamp.com/album/seesaw">SEESAW by The Rest</a>

Nothing to do, of course, with the current situation*

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 08:31:00 +0000

The bells were ringing again today. Sometimes distant, sometimes close enough to shatter my windows, they ring now more frequently than in the past. More urgently at times too. Crying wolf or just plain crying.

And me? I deftly avoid the airwaves that follow, hollow and loud. Despair? Apathy? The naive belief that everything will be alright? I do it all. Is there nothing left but to wait for the other shoe to drop, at long last, and let it be over?

Sure, there were times the bells tolled a story so contrived that it couldn't be true - it couldn't, could it? - that reached beneath the surface, briefly. But all things pass, do they not? Look at the greater picture, they say; it matters little.

The bells are ringing again today, recalling echoes of distant beacons that shone with promise and hope, and now crumble greyly, choked by vines and grime. Mocking, the sounds drift away, becoming blessedly muffled as I take another dose.

* This, for example.

A beginning - IV

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 14:51:00 +0000

After diligently having taken care of several cracked doors and windows in the spacious but aging lobby, our tenacious Mistress tackled the issue of pets and other animals around the properties. Though cats, both stray and resident, showed an unusual attraction to LDB, dogs had, for the most part, quite a different response. The day time doorman's dog, a large old Lab that seemed to have spent most of her time lying on a mat next to her master's feet, used to begin a snarl cut abruptly by a retreat into a corner when the old woman was rarely passing by. The night time doorman, with whom I was a little more acquainted, told me that on occasions, when the shifts change, LDB would pause and stare briefly at the dog, a fleeting sense of amusement in her eyes. Other dogs, large and small, mostly avoided her all together; that is, except for Old Watson's little mutt.

A Beginning - III

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 14:04:00 +0000

III

Shrouded in mystery as she was, LDB was forthcoming enough to slowly take the reins of the building's managing board. A compromise candidate at first, she defied her frail appearance to appear and resolutely drive the board relentlessly over its meetings. No one was quite sure how or why, but she was elected into a second term in office, and then a third and a fourth. And as some tenants came and went, the only fixture, apart from the Darken Maiden statue on the roof that gave it its name, LDB ruled supreme.

A Beginning - II

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 13:27:00 +0000

An ancient, partly emaciated creature, the LDB, as Jacob Nichols, who lived in the apartment above her, tagged, has lived in the building for what seemed to be centuries. No one remembered a time without her small wrinkly presence and no one, not even the rare postman, knew her name. Her mail box displayed a worn yet elaborate silvery name tag that may have borne its owner's identity with pride once, but now was illegible to all who took interest. Mrs. Craig claimed she could decipher a few letters, including a reference to some old world nobility title, but the overly thick lenses of her glasses inspired little confidence there. She did show LDB some respect though, going even as far as a clumsy attempt to curtsy one Christmas eve. Mrs. Craig refused to go into great detail over LDB's reaction, though she took great measures to refer to her as 'Mistress G' (as 'G', she claimed, was the first letter of her name) afterwards.

A beginning - I

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 12:47:00 +0000

As part of my ongoing and futile battle against entropy in pretty much all forms, I've decided to write and publish a paragraph a day. Of what? I don't know yet. This is a beginning.

P.S: to those who write me, I am trying to work on it; promise.

It thus became apparent to me, and indeed to all involved, that something had to be done about Watson's dog. It's not that the small half-breed terrier was noisier than the other dogs in the neighborhood - well, not by much, anyway. Its irksome barks and howls did bother Mrs. Craig, especially in the evenings, when the elderly lady was trying to unwind with her favorite soap opera. To be fair, the show's opening and closing titles - and some of the content as well - did encourage all manner of howling from those unfortunate enough to be exposed to the loud TV set. But it wasn't Mrs. Craig who led our tight little group; it was the Lady Down Below.

Unnamed 0

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 15:17:00 +0000

I don't mind that I can't sing,

Can’t carry a tune;

I don't mind that I can't dance,

I don't mind that I don't smile;

The last I laughed was months ago

Though it seems like years.

I don't mind the falling hair,

My hands more bone than flesh;

I don't mind the headaches,

The bitter nausea in my mouth;

I don't mind the blurry vision,

The fact I can't quite hear;

I don't mind that I don't mind

Or can't remember who I am;

I don't mind the pain when I think of you,

Mistakes I've made so gross they trade their place with me;

I don't mind the job,

I don't mind the wage;

I don't mind the small bedroom

Covered in dust and ruins;

I don't mind the politics,

I don't mind the ban;

I don't mind the music,

I don't mind that I don't write anymore,

I don't mind that I'll never know or find out,

I don't mind the fright,

I don't mind the quiet,

I don't mind the noise,

I don't mind the voices in my head

No, I don't mind at all

They say there is a meaning

They say they call it love

But I don't mind believing

That there never was.

Spots of Light

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 12:15:00 +0000

I live in an ever darkening world, where zealots and priests shun the light and leaders act as cowardly bigots, denouncing the "other" and promote fear and hate. And no, for once I'm not talking about WoW. Though seeming less real at times, the physical world, especially the unfortunate region I happen to occupy, has seen better days, better years. Looking at old films, you'd think there was such a thing as "hope" once, before this dream turned into a nightmare.

And maybe you'd be right. I cannot otherwise provide a good explanation to the existence of some of the artists I've been exposed to at late. I know their spirits did not spring out of mere vacuum, because you can feel their pain and joy, memories and yes- hopes, in their voices and lyrics. And I know that they would not have been able to reach out to their listeners if they hadn't had some little sparks of their own. And these sparks are brighter when it's dark.

That spark is shining pretty strong in Carl Hauck, a young singer-songwriter from Illinois. Upon hearing "Windjammer", the title song from his latest LP, I was swept into a summer field of butterflies, bright light and a feeling of freshness I could almost touch. The rest of the record, a deeply personal work born out of coming home and coming to terms, is also written and composed beautifully, like, as the first song suggests, a fine Riesling, bursting with life in all its shades and hues.

It makes one almost dare to hope.

Check out Carl Hauck on his website, MySpace and Facebook. Windjammer will be out on November 9th, 2010, accompanied by special concerts:
11/5 – Champaign, IL – Mike ‘n Molly’s w/ Jesse W. Johnson & The Brothers Burn Mountain
11/10 – Chicago, IL – Martyrs’ w/ Andy Davis

Carl Hauck - Martial Riesling {MP3}
Carl Hauck - Windjammer {MP3}

The Lonely Mariner

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 09:06:00 +0000

Another year, another drink,
A little closer to the brink,
I stumble slowly on this ship,
Hesitant to find a grip
,Flapping wild hands with care
Lest accomplish what I dare,
To forsake this dire crew
And step into the sea, askew.

And there I'll walk or maybe swim,
Dipping fully in the dream;
Crossing paths with stars and clowns,
Rubbing nose with those who drowned,
Free to roam the land below,
Mermen, crabs and ghosts in tow;
O, such a cheery entourage we'll be,
Down there, below the sea.

But the air here, it grows thick,
As I pour myself another drink,
The crew rebels and then lays waste
To whatever left, emblazed;
And I remain, all tattered chains,
Linked to rudder and the reins,
To sail this broken ship once more
And to dream of distant shores.

Bare Essentials

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 16:05:00 +0000

Have you ever experienced the moments where you truly feel the music, when you're truly immersed in the song, seeming to understand not exactly what the authors may intended, but rather a more general context not confined to any particular time, region or notion? A rare occurrence, usually interrupted by a passerby who just can't seem to understand the peace you've suddenly embraced? An incident you can't reproduce nor hope to, merely chance upon? A singular, intolerated piece of serenity? That after it, still struggling in vain to comprehend, you can look into the artist's eyes and say, "yes, I understand you now". And then forget. You always forget.

But sometimes there's a residue, lingering, half made up and part rooted in near sighted myths, that either sits dormant at the back of your mind till the next time or, on occasion, begs to realize itself somehow. But, it seems the realization may be just as tricky as the inevitable failed attempt at reconstruction, and all that comes up are regurgitated words bearing the aftertaste of memory. So, I'll try to keep it simple.
Two songs. Death. Life. Love. One wonders if there really is anything else.

Pause.

It has been a few days since I started writing this. I stopped here for several reasons, a few personal, others prosaic. But I cannot ignore the deep silence that follows these songs, the silence that makes me listen, if only too briefly, once more. It somehow shows me things that truly matters, illuminating my inner dark. For, while consciously I do not want to die, sub-consciously I'm not sure I want to live. These "songs", for lack of a better word, sharpen the dull pain and make me feel again. And though the ache is near physical in magnitude, I'd prefer to feel it than to be walking around dead and unfeeling.

Sometimes things connect in life. Sometimes things have meaning, even if you can't put it into words, or maybe especially when it alludes you. But you know, somehow. At least for a little while.

The Tallest Man on Earth has released, unbeknownst to me (and I have been waiting), a second LP earlier this year titled Wild Hunt. "Like the Wheel", a bonus track on the iTunes version, has touched me the deepest on this excellent record.
Björk's "All Is Full of Love" (found on her Greatest Hits) haunts me on parallel lines, as if the two songs were completing each other (or me) somehow.
I am grateful for them both.

The Tallest Man on Earth - Like a Wheel

Björk - All Is Full of Love

Year One

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 11:59:00 +0000

A year has passed.

A year since I first walked out from under the boughs of Ashenvale, a cybernetic newborn in a strange new world. I've since have gained and lost friends, experienced wonders and horrors, died and lived in countless ways and methods and through it all lost more sleep hours than I'd care to think. I've neglected this blog, my music, my writing, my family and friends. I've traded one world for another, opted for another reality. I've canceled cable TV, gotten even more cranky than ever and had more fun than I ever had late into the night.

I am trapped. Trapped in my day job as much as in my nightly occupations. Held by fear and habit I cannot escape myself. But is escape any longer possible? Into where?

There are those who mark the coming holiday as a celebration of freedom and liberty. I choose to remember the wiser lesson that to be free is to choose that which you serve, that which you are a slave to. There is no escape. There is nothing but escape.

No Shortcuts

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 10:35:00 +0000

To say that Her Name is Calla, a Leeds / Leicester / York group is special is a profound understatement, almost as profound as their music and what may stand behind it. Indeed, every artist is, I'd like to hope, is unique in their own way. I believe that aside from the inescapable outside influence, the artist has to have something original, in content, form, point of view or any other mark of distinction, to contribute.

I find that the best of these contributions defy any categorization, that it is simply to be felt and experienced. Her Name is Calla possesses such an emotional core that would offer glimpses into not only the members' hearts but also the listeners'. It gives the impression of loneliness and isolation, living together but apart, a distant promise of something more, of an endless spacious road going on to the horizon. And the band doesn't take any shortcuts. The road has no end.

Go out to the open, away from buses and cities, and listen. Her Name is Calla latest single, "Long Grass", may sweep you off your feet, and once you're on the road, there's no telling where you may end up. The full length album, "The Quiet Lamb", is expected to be released by spring, followed by a tour for those lucky in Europe.

Check out Her Name is Calla on their website, MySpace and last.fm.

Her Name is Calla - Long Grass {MP3} (hosted for a limited time only)
Her Name is Calla - Long Grass (acoustic) {Video}

A Voice in the Wind: Paul Masson

noreply@blogger.com (Oded) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 14:22:00 +0000

2009 was not a good year for me. Its end in particular more than hints ominously of things to come, foreshadowing grim news and grimmer prospects. I lost several people I love who were my supporting pillars ever since childhood. My current job is in its final days and while the search for a new one continues, nothing tangible has yet been found. Accompanying and clouding all of this is my addiction to my own private world (perhaps in more ways than one), turning whatever reason I have left in my sleepless existence into a murky and blurry mood.

But there is still a little hope left. I may be sitting on a wind beaten precipice overlooking the abyss, but it's also quiet enough here and I can still reflect on the road I've been taking and the people who share it. I can still hear the song in the wind, calling out to me. "Change or Die", it taunts. "Come home", it whispers.

Paul Masson came back home to Baltimore after being away for a few years. Coming back, he crafted a beautiful and honest EP about himself. Reflecting his memories and feelings, doubts and fears, he focused it all into six songs that continue to echo after the music has gone out. Hear his voice carried in the wind.

And as for me? No New Year's resolutions except to keep my ears, eyes and mind open; there are still voices in the wind.

Check Paul Masson on MySpace for more tracks. His EP is available on iTunes.
Paul Masson - My Girl Baltimore {MP3}
Paul Masson - Where Have All the Gentlemen Gone {MP3}