Tram 28 Traffic Jam

I stumbled back last night from another trip overseas with students, this time the spin through Spain and Portugal that was part of my Aesthetic Expression course.  It was an extraordinary adventure, and I'll have much more to say about it in the following weeks.  However, I'm both dramatically behind in grading and also insanely tired.  After stumbling off the bus last night I walked to my friend Craig's house for a Grey Cup party.  After a couple hours, two plates of poutine, and exactly one beer, I was having trouble forming logical sentences.  At one point I said something and realized that everyone was staring at me; at that point I just said, "look, I have no idea what I'm saying," and I tried to focus on the game (which, by the way, was really exciting, and no one but Andy Burkhardt could have predicted that the REDBLACKS were going to win).  Anyway, so I'm way too tired to do much serious blogging, so I'll just post a few pictures.  On the last day in Lisbon I bought Mike and Kelly and the students 24 hour Metro cards and set them loose on the famous Tram 28.  Everyone managed to maneuver around successfully; well, almost everyone.  At the far end of the line I hopped off to visit my favorite cemetery (more on that later), which left me, a couple hours later, the last one of the group out and about on the Metro.  I was having a great trip until I hit a big traffic jam.  A little mini-Cooper, which I think I could have put in my pocket and carried home, broke down, which threw everything into chaos.  Trams are great, but if something breaks down then it's not as if they can pull around the accident.  Eventually I just hopped out and walked down the hill, which was easy and a lovely adventure in its own right.

I volunteered to help push the car up on the sidewalk, but the driver was having none of it.  Not sure why.

And here's my 28 Tram car, with another tram slowly sliding past.  You can't see the other trams queued up in the back.

However, all things considered, there are a hell of a lot worse places to be stuck in a traffic jam.  

My Year With Proust - Day 303

   "Why do you have your chin shaved like that," he inquired of the Baron in a winsome tone.  "it's so becoming, a nice beard."  "Ugh!  It's disgusting," the Baron replied.

   Meanwhile he still lingered on the threshold and plied Jupien with questions about the neighbourhood.  "You don't know anything about the man who sells chestnuts round the corner, not the one on the left, he's a horror, but on the other side, a big dark fellow?  And the chemist opposite, he has a charming cyclist who delivers his parcels."  There questions must have ruffled Jupien, for, drawing himself up with the indignation of a courtesan who has been betrayed, he replied: "I can see you are thoroughly fickle."  Uttered in a pained, frigid, affected tone, this reproach must have had an effect on M. de Charlus, who, to counteract the bad impression his curiosity had produced, addressed to Jupien, in too low a tone for me to be able to make out his words,a request the granting of which would doubtless necessitate their prolonging their sojourn in the shop, and which moved the tailor sufficiently to ake him forget his annoyance, for he studied the Baron's face, plump and flushed neath his grey hair, with the supremely blissful air of a person whose self-esteem has just been profoundly flattered, and, deciding to grant M. de Charlus the favour that he had just asked of him, afte various remarks lacking in refinement such as "What a big bum you have!" said to the Baron with an air at once smiling, impassioned, superior and grateful: "All right, you big baby, come along!"

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 631-632

M. de Charlus and Jupien have finished their tryst, and the Baron remains on the "threshold," both of the shop and of a life that he is hiding from plain sight.  I included this scene because, beyond the obvious physical, and hidden, nature of this relationship, there was obviously some affection, best shown by the little cutting remarks that lovers use to tweak and rein in their beloveds.

My Year With Proust - Day 302

   I did not dare move.  The Guermantes groom, taking advantage no doubt of his master's absence, had, as it happened, transferred to the shop in which I now stood a ladder which hitherto had been kept in the coach-house, and if I had climbed this I could have opened the fanlight above and heard as well as if I been in Jupien's shop itself.  But I was afraid of making a noise.  Besides, it was unnecessary.  I had not even cause to regret my not having arrived in the shop until several minutes had elapsed.  For from what I heard at first in Jupien's quarters, which was only a series of inarticulate sounds, I image that few words had been exchanged.  It is true that these sounds were so violent that, if they had not always been taken up an octave higher by a parallel plaint, I might have thought that one person was slitting another's threat within a few feet of me, and that subsequently the murderer and his resuscitated victim were taking a bath to wash away the traces of the crime.  I concluded from this later on that there is another thing as vociferous as pain, namely pleasure, especially when there is added to it - in the absence of the fear of an eventual parturition, which could not be the case here, despite the hardly convincing examples in the Golden Legend - an immediate concern about cleanliness.  Finally, after about half an hour (during which time I had stealthily hoisted myself up my ladder so as to peep through the fanlight which I did not open), the Baron emerged and a conversation began.  Jupien refused with insistence the money that M. de Charlus was trying to press upon him.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 631

I remember making the point years ago in class that there were three times when the dividing line between human and animal almost vanished: birth, death and sex.  Proust reports, "It is true that these sounds were so violent that, if they had not always been taken up an octave higher by a parallel plaint, I might have thought that one person was slitting another's threat within a few feet of me, and that subsequently the murderer and his resuscitated victim were taking a bath to wash away the traces of the crime."  This would seem to bolster, at least partially, my theory.  He then adds, "I concluded from this later on that there is another thing as vociferous as pain, namely pleasure . . .", and references the Golden Legend, which was a popular Medieval story recounting, in part, the lives of the saints.  He's touching upon, I think, and no pun intended, the bliss of pain, which sounds like something Pinhead would have said in Hellraiser.

I also find myself coming back to the question of Proust's own sexuality.  This entire story just reads like a metaphor for Proust's fascination with and exploration of homosexuality.

Discography - Week 32

And by the time this post is published by the blogspot nano-overlords Mike Kelly, Kelly Thomas and I will be running around in Lisbon on our last day of the student trip.  Unless the students drive me insane, a very real possibility, I'm sure I'll be having a great time.  If you ever get the chance to visit Portugal definitely do so because (as Dave Kelley will happily agree) it's an amazing place.

I also want to point out that Kathy Seiler went completely rogue this week, and provided a foreshadowing of on upcoming theme week, but she has received a papal dispensation for her crimes. That said, this actually works as the per introduction to our next Theme Week, which will be next time up in Week 33: Favorite Holiday Songs.  This was a decision reached as part of high level meetings with the excellent Dave Wallace.

Gary Beatrice

Graham Parker, Don’t Get Excited

I've mentioned this before but I love songs that sound like they are about to spin out of control. This guitar driven song goes beyond that. "Don't Get Excited" sounds like a train whose breaks gave out and which is about to go careening off the tracks.  But it's not just the Rumour who barely seems able to control themselves. Graham Parker, while ordering us not to get excited, loses all self control with the "Don't get excited!" he screams right before the instrumental break.    This is a brilliant finale to their fantastic album Squeezing Out Sparks.

Dave Wallace

Willie Nile, Give Me Tomorrow

Willie Nile has had one of the greats second acts in the history of rock music.  He put out a few very good albums in the '80s and 90s, but label and legal difficulties kept him from making more.  As he neared 60 in the mid-2000s, Nile began releasing a series of terrific albums, starting with Streets of New York, that contain a slew of fantastic songs. This is one of my favorites of Nile's, and another song that's helping me process the aftermath of our recent election.  (Gary -Unfortunately, I couldn't find the original studio version online, so I've linked to a live version, which is OK.  I've also attached the audio file for the track, if there's a way to use that instead.)

I've seen poison in the waters, 

Heard the crying of the sea, 

I have heard your sons and daughters 

Say, "What's to become of me,"

I've seen hunger in the garden, 

I've seen empty eyes full of pain, 

Oh, but I have seen things change.

Give me tomorrow, now now now

Right now, right now

I've seen solid walls of fire,

I've seen smiles as cold as stone,

I've seen hatred and desire,

I've seen lonely hearts, all alone

I have heard the threat of thunder

I have felt the cold, cold rain

Oh, but I have seen things change.

Kathy Seiler

So now that Thanksgiving is officially done, I can comment on Christmas songs, some of my favorite music. This is ironic since I don't consider myself Christian anymore. I love the music anyway. 

John Gorka's version of the Christmas carol "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" is one of my absolute favorite renditions of this song. The version you hear is a shortening of a Longfellow poem, which Longfellow apparently wrote on a Christmas Day at a particularly dark time in his life.I forgive Longfellow his mentioning only of men in the poem, as I choose to believe he uses "men" to refer to all of humankind.

It's Gorka's deep and plaintive voice, with only the acoustic guitar for accompaniment, that really captures the essence of the song for me. 

The words of the song echo much of what I think many Americans are still feeling after this recent election:

"And in despair I bowed my head;
'There is no peace on earth,' I said;

For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

But then we are offered hope in the next verse, which ends the poem:

"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men."

The bells pealing "more loud and deep" brings to mind the image of protests, commentaries and impassioned speeches of the past, present, and most assuredly, the future. I hope we all continue to raise our voices, in whatever way we can. 

Phillip Seiler

I have nothing to say about the next few songs. (Dessau, Public Enemy, Clipping) I will let the music and lyrics speak for themselves. Protest is good.

Dessau, Beijing 

Public Enemy, Make Love Fuck War, 

Clipping, Knees on the Ground 

Dave Kelley

"Tower of Song" Written by Leonard Cohen.  Performed by Rhett Miller

I am a fool to do a song written by Leonard Cohen for several reasons.  First of all, how in the fuck do you try to follow Dave Mills brilliant post from several weeks ago?  It's sort of like trying to outdo Lebron James at basketball or Rudy Giuliani at being a shameless prick.  To steal a line from Woody Allen, I would call Rudy a sadistic, bestial necrophile, but that would be beating a dead horse.  Secondly, although I am picking a Cohen tune I am going with a cover version instead of the original.

Rhett Miller is the lead singer and primary songwriter for the great band out of Texas The Old 97's.  The band has made a ton of fantastic music  for a couple of decades now and are one of the most reliably awesome live bands going.  This live acoustic version is from a few years ago, and Miller posted it to Youtube the day that Cohen died.  I find the performance to be outstanding, and for me, an improvement on the original.

"The Tower of Song" strikes me as thematically similar to what we non-musicians are trying to do with this blog.

Dave Mills

Father John Misty, Bored in the USA

I've been planning to share this one at some point during this project, and this week's as good as any, I suppose, as we're all collectively wondering about the prospects for this fragile experiment in democracy we call the USA. The 2015 album "I Love You, Honeybear," by Father John Misty (real name Josh Tillman) is "an album by turns passionate and disillusioned, tender and angry, so cynical it's repulsive and so openhearted it hurts" (from Pitchfork's review). The whole album is definitely worth a listen, if you're up for repulsive, hurtful cynicism and openheartedness, that is. The title of the track I've chosen very obviously refers to Springsteen's classic, but whereas The Boss belted out a working class anthem of anger in response to Vietnam, etc., Father John wallows in a middle class haze of passive ennui. Outrage is impossible here. There's a recognition of all that is wrong with "the American dream," but little active effort to do something about it. There's only the plaintive cry to be saved by "white Jesus" or "president Jesus." The section in which a canned sitcom laughtrack fires up in response to his list of middle class woes is particularly cutting. Is this the new "anthem" of the American electorate? It's certainly less arena-friendly than Bruce's track. But of course, a lot of people who heard "Born in the USA" back in 1984 completely missed the message, so much so that Reagan actually referenced the song and tried to use it in his reelection campaign. So perhaps the movement from "born" to "bored" in the USA has been a long time coming. So where can we go from here? (Programming note: I will eventually stop referencing the election in my contributions, I hope. But since we submitted these last two weeks of songs early, I'm writing this only about a week out from the election, so the wounds are still fresh.)

MIranda Tavares

Man, I'm tapped. Not much left to say at this point. But this one jumps out...

Geto Boys, Damn it feels good to be a gangsta

So, Nate and I included this on our masturbatorily ginormous songs-in-a-movie post. But I'm including it again...

Because it got unnecessarily lost in a post of 40 songs;

Because the meaning is so much more than beating up that motherfucking, cocksucking printer;

Because it has a good beat and you can dance to it;

Because it's nice to feel in control;

Because some of these lyrics are, or should be, gospel ("A real gangsta-ass nigga never runs his fucking mouth/Cause real gangsta-ass niggas don't start fights");

Because some of these lyrics are true, but shouldn't be("Real gangsta-ass niggas don't talk much/All ya hear is the black from the gun blast")

Because that last verse, holy shit, it's either prophetic or we've made no progress ("Other leaders better not upset me/Or I'll send a million troops to die at war")

Because...when the shit jumps off what the fuck you gonna do. 

Nate Bell

After so much darkness from my bitter little corner,  I decided this week to go with one of the most rocking songs of all times.  It's a Stevie Wonder cover.  About Reincarnation.  And God.  What could possibly be better?

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Higher ground w/lyrics on description

Higher Ground is, in my opinion, the Chili Peppers at the height of their mastery, with a perfectly balanced blend of funk, techno, and soul.  And even if you don't like them, one has to agree, Flea has very nearly the Best Bass in the Business.  (apologies to Les Claypool of Primus).

This is a song I remember fondly thrashing myself silly to in the 90s, at crowded hot room parties, with a plethora of hot (and uninterested) females.

But for today, beyond the incredibly groovy music, the lyrics are actually pretty inspiring:

I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground.

Teachers,
Keep on teachin'
Preachers,
Keep on preachin',
World, keep on turnin',
'Cause it won't be too long.
Oh, no
Lovers,
Keep on lovin'
While believers
Keep on believin'.
Sleepers,
Just stop sleepin'
'Cause it won't be too long.
Oh, no!

It acknowledges that we all fuck up, we're all flawed, but maybe, just maybe, we can keep trying to be better people, with a little more insight and knowledge.  Perhaps in the next life.  But the path, and the striving to become better is the point, the willingness and desire to do better, to be better. 

Noted musicologists and plenipotentiaries, keep on tryin' till you reach your own higher ground.

Gary Scudder

Charlie Parker, I Can't Get Started

I guess I could relate this to the general doldrums that I've been feeling lately - and how they're keeping me from getting started (much as Nate opined, much more eloquently, a couple weeks ago).  However, truthfully, this song just makes me happy, and that's definitely been in short supply lately, so I'll take my victories where I can find them.  Charlie Parker was amazing.

My Year With Proust - Day 301

   All that I have just said, however, I was not to understand until several minutes had elapsed, to such an extent is reality encumbered by those those properties of invisibility until a chance occurrence has divested it of them.  At all events, for the moment I was great annoyed at not being able to hear any more of the conversation between the ex-tailor and the Baron.  I then bethought myself of the vacant shop, separated from Jupien's only by an extremely thin partition.  In order to get to it, I had merely to go up to our flat, pass through the kitchen, go down by the service stairs to the cellars, make my way through them across the breadth of the courtyard above, and on arriving at the place in the basement where a few months ago the joiner had still been storing his timber and where Jupien intended to keep his coal, climb the flight of steps which led to the interior of the shop.  Thus the whole of my journey would be made under cover, and I should not be seen by anyone.  this was the most prudent method.  It was not the one that I adopted; instead, keeping close to the walls, I edged my way round the courtyard in the open, trying not to let myself be seen.  If I was not, I owe it more, I am sure, to chance than to my own sagacity.  And for the fact that I took so imprudent a course, when the way through the cellar was so safe, I see three possible reasons, assuming that I had any reason at all.  First of all, my impatience.  Secondly, perhaps, a dim memory of the scene at Monejouvain, when I crouched concealed outside Mlle Vinteuil's window. Certainly the affairs of this sort of which Ihave been a spectator have always been, as far as their setting is concerned, of the most imprudent and less probable character, as if such revelations were to be the reward of an action full of risk, though in part clandestine.  I hardly dare confess to the third and final reason, so childish does it seem, in order to follow - and see controverted - the military principles enunciated by Saint-Loup, I had been following in close detail the course of the Boer War, I had been led from that to re-read old accounts of travel and exploration.  These narratives had thrilled me, and I applied them to the events of my daily life to give myself courage.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 629-630

I'm including this section for a couple reasons.  First off, the sexual imagery made me laugh out loud, and considering what a great writer Proust was I can't believe it was an accident.  Seriously, the joiner storing his timber where Jupien kept his coal?  Although, as Freud reminded us, sometimes a cigar was just a cigar.  Secondly, I love Proust's explanation for his actions, although of them terribly human: 1) impatience, 2) a fairly perverse desire to spy on others, and 3) a pretty childish sense of adventure, using military techniques culled from the Boer War to bolster your courage.  Proust often leaves you intellectually breathless due to the intricate nature of his observation and the depth of his analysis, but he is also at times wonderfully human.

My Year With Proust - Day 300

The door of the shop closed behind them and I could hear no more.  I had lost sight of the bumble-bee.  I did not know whether he was the insect that the orchid required, but I had no longer any doubt, in the case of a very rare insect and a captive flower, of the miraculous possibility of their conjunction when I considered that M. de Charlus (this is simply a comparison of providential chances, whatever they may be, without the slightest scientific claim to establish a relation between certain botanical laws and what is sometimes, most ineptly, termed homosexuality), who for years past had never come to the house except at hours when Jupien was not there, had, by the mere accident of Mme de Villeparisis's indisposition, encountered the tailor and with him the good fortune reserved for men of the Baron's kind by one of those fellow-creatures who may even be, as we shall see, infinitely younger than Jupien and better-looking, the man pre-destined to exist in order that they may have their share of sensual pleasure on this earth: the man who cares only for elderly gentlemen.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 629

Both bees disappear at the same time, and the metaphor is complete.  Still, Marcel was not certain whether "he was the insect that the orchid required."  Sadly, apparently it will not be the case, because, as he forewarns us, of the later appearance of "one of those fellow-creatures who may even be, as we shall see, infinitely younger than Jupien and better-looking."  And this is a man "pre-destined to exist in order that they may have their share of sensual pleasure on this earth: the man who cares only for elderly gentlemen."  Elderly gentlemen seems like an odd sub-category of desire, but, if internet porn has taught us anything, it is that no matter how bizarre the sub-category it has its devotees.

My Year With Proust - Day 299

At the same instant as M. de Charlus disappeared through the gate humming like a great bumble-bee, another, a real one this time, flew into the courtyard.  For all I knew this might be the one so long awaited by the orchid, coming to bring it that rare pollen without which it must die a virgin.  But I was distracted from following the gyrations of the insect, for, a few minutes later, engaging my attention afresh, Jupien (perhaps to pick up a parcel which he did not take away with him ultimately and which, in the emotion aroused in him by the appearance of M. de Charlus, he had forgotten, perhaps simply for a more natural reason) returned, followed by the Baron.  The latter, deciding to precipitate mattes, asked the tailor for a light, but at once observed: "I ask you for a light, but I see I've left my cigars at home." "Come inside, you shall have everything you wish," said the tailor, on whose features disdain now gave place to joy.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 628-629

And speaking of nature as a metaphor, we have the appearance of a real bee, as compared to the metaphoric "great bumble-bee," M. de Charlus.  Either way, the bee, both real and fake, is bringing something with it: :For all I knew this might be the one so long awaited by the orchid, coming to bring it that rare pollen without which it must die a virgin."  Even the Baron is bringing life, emotional pollination, and Jupien welcomes him, telling him, "Come inside, you shall have everything you wish."

My Year With Proust - Day 298

Nearer still to nature - and the multiplicity of these analogies is itself all the more natural in that the same man, if we examine him for a few minutes, appears in turn a man, a man-bird, a man-fish, a man-insect - one might have thought of them as a pair of birds, the male and the female, the male seeking to make advances, the female - Jupien - no longer giving any sign of response to these overtures, but regarding her new friend without surprise, with an inattentive fixity of gaze, doubtless considered more disturbing and all that was called for now that the male had taken the first steps, and contenting herself with preening her feathers.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 628

It is interesting to me how many times Proust analyzes love and sex through the lens of nature, and it especially true as he dissects this homosexual relationship between Jupien and M. de Charlus.  I wonder if it is because it allows him to retreat into the world of the coldly scientific in his analysis, also shielded him from criticism.  It is also interesting to consider the simple duality expressed in this section, whereas today we tend to view sexuality and especially gender as a much more fluid construct.

My Year With Proust - Day 297

Thus, every other minute, the same question seemed to be put to Jupien intently in M. de Charlus's ogling, like those questioning phrases of Beethoven's, indefinitely repeated at regular intervals and intended - with an exaggerated lavishness of preparation - to introduce a new theme, a change of key, a "re-entry." On the other hand, the beauty of the reciprocal glances of M. de Charlus and Jupien arose precisely from the fact that they did not, for the moment at least, seem to be intended to lead to anything further.  It was the first time I had seen the manifestation of this beauty in the Baron and Jupien.  In the eyes of both of them, it was the sky not of Zurich but of some Oriental city, the name of which I had not yet divined.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 627-628

One of the topics that pops up in several class we teach in the Core is the exoticification of "the other" and also the construct of the "exotic" east, which were so much a part of western mind, especially during the time period when Proust was writing, a time when the Europeans controlled most of the world during the high point of colonialism.  And so, appropriately, when describing the relationship between Jupien and M. de Charlus, Proust suggests, "In the eyes of both of them, it was the sky not of Zurich but of some Oriental city, the name of which I had not yet divined."  I'm thinking of that scene in The English Patient when the European man flips the truck over while putting dates into the mouth of the Arabic boy, and how he says something about the area itself was making him do things he normally wouldn't do.  Of course, it could easily be identified as a classic Freudian defense mechanism.

My Year With Proust - Day 296

   This scene was not, however, positively comic; it was stamped with a strangeness, or if you like a naturalness, the beauty of which was steadily increased.  Try as M. de Charlus might to assume a detached air, to let his eyelids nonchalantly droop, every now and then he raised them, and at such moments turned on Jupien an attentive gaze.  But (doubtless because he felt that such a scene could not be prolonged indefinitely in this place, whether for reasons which we shall understand later on, or possibly from that feeling of the brevity of all things which makes us determine that every blow must strike home, and renders so moving the spectacle of every kind of love), each time that M. de Charlus looked at Jupien, he took care that his glance should be accompanied by a word, which made it infinitely unlike the glances we usually direct at a person whom we scarcely know or do not know at all; he stared at Jupien with the peculiar fixity of the person who is about to say to you: "Excuse my taking the liberty, but you have a long white thread hanging down your back," or else: "Surely I can't be mistaken, you come from Zurich too; I'm certain I must have seen yo there often at the antique dealer's."

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 627

When reading Remembrance of Things Past it is sometimes difficult to remember that it was written a century ago.  Sometimes his views of certain human acts seem a tad old-fashioned, but beneath it is always a very modern understanding of the beauty of human nature.  When discussing the scene between Jupian and M. de Charlus, Proust on the one hand proposes that it was "not, however, positively comic," but then a few sentences reflects that the Baron "felt that such a scene could not be prolonged indefinitely in this place, whether for reasons which we shall understand later on, or possibly from that feeling of the brevity of all things which makes us determine that every blow must strike home, and renders so moving the spectacle of every kind of love."  Proust understand the complexity and pain and transience of love, and definitely includes the relationship between M. de Charlus and Jupien as love.

Discography - Week 31

By the time this pops up the excellent Mike Kelly, Kelly Thomas (who has been criminally quiet on the Discography) and I, inshallah, will have landed in Madrid as part of our mad scheme to lead twenty students around Spain and Portugal.  Thanks to the tiny robot overlords who run this blog and who graciously agreed to publish posts even when I'm not around (which I've now conscripted into my never to be published, or probably written, Proust-themed novel). I'd also like to introduce Kathy Seiler, Phil's decidedly better half, and my colleague here at Champlain, into the Discography discussion.

Gary Beatrice

Staple Singers, I’ll TakeYou There

If his girls didn't know it, Pops Staples had to realize that "I'll Take You There" could and would be interpreted romantically and sexually. I don't think it was more than fifteen or twenty years ago that I realized the Staple Singers were gospel singers and this song was religious. That just gave me another reason to love it. Between the great bass line, Mavis' singing and the sisters' harmonies, "I'll Take You There" can't help but raise my spirits.

Kathy Seiler

Thanks for the invitation to participate in this group, Gary. I feel woefully unqualified to comment on music with anything resembling intelligence, but have a deep love of all things musical and have "soundtracks" for different parts of my life. So I hereby jump in with both feet.

My first selection is:

Jill Scott, Golden

This is one of the most positive songs I've ever heard.  Events of the past year, personally, professionally and politically have left me feeling battered and bruised. Hell, the last week is getting on my last nerve. I think we all feel, on a somewhat regular basis, that our lives are not our own and things happento us. That we are on the receiving end of whatever the universe decides to throw our way. This song reminds me that I can choose to feel like an unwitting recipient of life or I can kick the universe in the shins, smile and keep on walking forward.

Phillip Seiler

Scruffy the Cat, Bucknaked

I have found it exceedingly difficult this week to absorb and reflect on music, even while I have sought its solace from an admitted addiction to news mostly via Twitter. So I have turned away from the profound to pure escapism for this entry. I give you, the perfect rock song:

Is it a dance? Yes, it is a dance (albeit with fewer described moves than say, the Locomotion.)

Is it goofy? Yep.

Is it under 2 minutes? Happily.

Is there steel guitar? Duh.

Is it about sex? Of course it is about sex.

Boston's Scruffy the Cat was that archetypal band that almost made it big. And this is not their best song, but it is a perfect song. So enjoy and escape for a bit.

Dave Wallace

Aimee Mann, It's Not Safe

As I attempt to come to grips with recent events in our country, the great Aimee Mann captures my feelings of nihilism and despair.  It would be hopelessly morose if the damn thing wasn't so catchy.

All you want to do is something good

So get ready to be ridiculed and misunderstood

'Cause don't you know that you're a fucking freak in this world

In which everybody's willing to choose swine over pearls

And maybe everything is all for nothing

Still you'd better keep it to yourself

'Cause God knows it's not safe with anybody else

Dave Kelley

A demagogue vulgarian elected to The White House, an anti-Semitic white nationalist made a chief advisor, a Cabinet filled with retreads from the basket of deplorables, a stripper's pole and a pentagram as part of the new Oval Office redesign, the Statue of Liberty now extending a middle finger toward all of those seeking to come to our shores, Larry the Cable guy the new poet laureate, and Ted Nugent waiting in line to receive the Medal of Freedom.  What is a left leaning white middle aged straight guy to do?  Well at least after wallowing in depression for a week.

I would like to go to Memphis in the meantime and get myself a decent meal down at the Rendezvous.

John Hiatt, Memphis in the Meantime

This is off of the classic record "Bring The Family" that Hiatt recorded with an all star band of session musicians after getting clean and sober.  Ry Cooder, the great slide guitarist, is the standout on this song and the entire record.  In this tune, Hiatt is encouraging his wife to leave Nashville for a while and head to Memphis.  He wants to "trade in these old cowboy boots for some fine Italian shoes." 

"Sure I like country music

I like mandolins

But right now I need a telecaster

Through a vibro-lux turned up to ten"

"Cause one more heart felt steel guitar chord

Girl, it's gonna do me in

I need to hear some trumpet and saxophone

You know sound as sweet as sin" 

And, if John and his wife were going to head to Memphis at the time the song was written, they would have been remiss not to check out..........

Wilson Pickett, In the Midnight Hour

Like any right thinking person, I love, love, love Motown.  But if I were forced to choose between the two, Give me Stax every time.  Otis Redding, Booker T. & and the M.G.'s, Isaac Hayes, Eddie Floyd, Sam and Dave, and countless others.  I find Stax to be grittier and sweatier than Motown and oh those mother fucking horns.  Sounds as sweet as sin indeed.  I could have picked so many songs from so many artists on my Memphis themed pick this week.  "In the Midnight Hour" just oozes sexuality.  I think of it as the Stax version of Let's Get it On."  

Dave Mills

The Avett Brothers, The Ballad of Love and Hate

These days, I've been ruminating on the real-world implications of the slogan "Love Trumps Hate" that has featured prominently in many anti-Trump rallies, both before and after the election. It's a clever slogan, to be sure. But as a philosopher, I find myself wondering what we mean by those words. And as a philosopher within the tradition of American Pragmatism, I find myself wanting answer questions about the meaning of words by looking at how we act in the world in concert with those words. So the clues to the meaning of "love" will be found in the various ways in which we seek to act lovingly in the world, not in some abstract theoretical definition. Likewise for "hate." This 2007 song, from the Avett Brothers, provides one possible set of meanings for those words, as they anthropomorphize Love and Hate into persons in a relationship. It's a quiet simple song, quite in contrast to their raucous live shows. (If you haven't ever seen them live, you simply must. So much energy!) To be honest, I'm not sure the Avetts get love and hate entirely right in this song, especially as I think, again, about real-world actions in the Era of Trump. Their portrayal of Hate seems tepid in comparison with what we know from history is possible, and what we now fear could be likely once again. And their portrayal of Love makes me wonder if she's just an enabler. Nonetheless, it's a beautiful, slightly melancholy, and timely cause for reflection on these important words. Is love always patient and kind? Does love always forgive? What do these actions even look like at a large social or political level? What does "tough love" look like at a time like this? Are "love" and "hate" even the right words through which to think and act in our political context? I definitely don't have any answers yet, but perhaps the Avett Brothers will help you ponder along with me.

Nate Bell

Tool - Ænema

This is one of my all-time favorite misanthropic songs.  Still in that mode at the moment.  While the song is written as a plea in favor of an apocalypse in reaction to the LA culture, I find it applies as a theme in reaction to all the worst in humanity and a disgust directed at the lowest aspects of humanity.

For those who know me well, when I am completely fed up with the human race, I will post on Facebook the line "Learn to swim", in reference to this song.  A hope that the end of the world (by flood) will soon appear.

"Some say a comet will fall from the sky.
Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves.
Followed by fault lines that cannot sit still.
Followed by millions of dumbfounded dip shits.

Some say the end is near.
Some say we'll see Armageddon soon.
I certainly hope we will 

cause I sure could use a vacation from this

Stupid shit, silly shit, stupid shit...

One great big festering neon distraction,
I've a suggestion to keep you all occupied.

Learn to swim."

Even as I write this post, I ruminate on M's post from last week, and wonder if this is also how the "other side" feels about me and my worldview.  I am sure some do.  My favorite "fuck off" entry in the long list is "Fuck smiley glad-hands
With hidden agendas" which I am aware is equally true for both the Left and the Right.  

Regardless, I wonder if we don't all deserve the Big Swim, based on the way we treat each other, the planet, and culture in general--myself NOT excluded.  

It's a great song for catharsis, and necessary for me at least to re-orient.  I hope it does something for you all, and doesn't bring you down too much.

Miranda Tavares

Bruce Springsteen, Better Days

I had thought, at the inception of this blog, that I would never write about a Springsteen song. I thought (and still do think!) that I could do none of his songs justice, and this feeling was bolstered by DK's fantastic Bruce post a couple months ago. However, things have changed, and this song has been on my mind recently, and, as usual, I feel compelled to share. Thank you all for listening. Or at least pretending to. 

I have always felt this is one of Bruce's most underrated songs. There are plenty better, don't get me wrong, but this one captures the feeling Bruce is always seeking: the average person, trying to make his way, screwing it up and then trying it again. The first verse is amazing:

Well my soul checked out missing as I sat listening
To the hours and minutes tickin' away
Yeah just sittin' around waitin' for my life to begin
While it was all just slippin' away
I'm tired of waitin' for tomorrow to come
Or that train to come roarin' 'round the bend
I got a new suit of clothes a pretty red rose
And a woman I can call my friend

And I hate to be melodramatic, and to beat a dead horse, but let's tie this in to recent events. There is a giant world out there, and no one should ignore it. But no one should ignore the life right in front of her, either. No reason to wait around for tomorrow to come, no reason to sit around waiting for the world to end. Regardless of other events, I have myself, and my home, and a man I can call my friend. There are so, so many who have it far worse. In fact, I was one of those people less than a decade ago. In spite of recent events, compared to points in the past, these are better days. 

And let's not ignore the last verse, either:

Now a life of leisure and a pirate's treasure
Don't make much for tragedy
But it's a sad man my friend who's livin' in his own skin
And can't stand the company
Every fool's got a reason for feelin' sorry for himself
And turning his heart to stone
Tonight this fool's halfway to heaven and just a mile outta hell
And I feel like I'm comin' home

I included the first four lines because, goddamn, those are great lines. Even a rich man gets the blues...perhaps more than some. But let's focus on the end of the verse. I love this. If I could make my own religion, it's entire premise would be in the last two lines of this verse. The distance between heaven and hell is shockingly small. And I don't mean in one's soul, although that's true, too. I mean in one's feeling about life on earth. One day you are on top of the world, the next day you are crying at commercials and eating peanuts off your living room floor...and you haven't even bought peanuts for a year or so. But that means the reverse is true. One day you realize you haven't changed your underwear for a week, the next day you're freshly showered and out engaging in actual socialization. The reality is, most of our time, regardless of amazing or horrifying circumstances, is spent somewhere between heaven and hell. Strive for heaven. Please. Our future as a species depends on it. But don't fear hell, either. It's a part of life. You will head toward it, you will get uncomfortably near it. But have no fear, and have faith that you will reverse your course. Your future as a person depends on it. 

Cyndi Brandenburg

The Lone Bellow, TwoSides of Lonely 

Last week, I said that Ani Difranco was the best performer I have ever
seen live in concert.  I stand by that claim, but this week, I am here
to say that this band--The Lone Bellow--gave her a serious run for her
money.  The passion, the talent, the on-stage tensions, and the
irresistible sounds of this group elevated them surprisingly quickly
to my top favorites list.

Two Sides of Lonely mirrors what it means to be a deeply feeling but
conflicted human being, who knows how to appreciate the wonder of
everything, but simultaneously struggles to hold it all in the same
space.  The many tugs and pulls of life are hard to negotiate, and
whilst they often lead to great joy and wonder, they can sometimes
lead to pain and isolation.  Normal people might find this song
depressing, and that is probably right, but I find it strangely
comforting and confirming.  Why?  I guess because of how they sing it.
Plus, I never read these things literally.  Apparently, I'm just as
confused as that last verse.

By the way, if you need a more gateway drug version of what to listen
to in order to give this band a full chance, let me suggest another
song.

You Never Need Nobody 

It's so great, partly because we all know what it feels like to fall
in love with a spectacle of charisma and suspect that we actually have
some real connection to the authenticity that lies beneath.  This one
cuts across generational lines, as my kids sang it as a harmonizing
trio at their high school Caberet last year, and nearly brought down
the house.  (Okay, that was a total exaggerated lie, but you get the
idea). Either way, listen up and enjoy.

Gary Scudder

Leos Janacek, Sinfonietta

This week gives me yet another opportunity - as if, to quote the excellent Sanford Zale, we needed another example - of how completely out of it I am musically as compared to the rest of the much cooler folks who populate the Discography weekly discussion.  The work was written a century ago by the Czech composer Leos Janacek, and he meant it, in his own words, to express "contemporary free man, his spiritual beauty and joy, his strength, courage and determination to fight for victory." I'm a huge fan of the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami.  When I was freshly separated and generally miserable, I remember taking the little money I had and buying a copy of his brilliant The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and spending all Christmas day reading it in my crappy apartment, ducking the world because I was too miserable and guilty to see anyone, but completely giving myself up to the novel.   Janacek's Sinfonietta plays a key role in Murakami's 1Q84 (also a wonderful novel), and music runs throughout his novels (as well as baseball - he tells the story of watching a baseball game once and deciding on the spot that he could be a novelist, and the rest is history).  I don't know what inspired this (the Sinfonietta wasn't originally the choice for this week) other than the fact that Jen just bought me a copy of Murakami's latest work, Absolutely on Music: Conversations with Seiji Ozawa, which is a series of interviews with the famous conductor Seiji Ozawa.   Actually, it's more than merely happenstance, I guess, because it's a work that I always associate with a refusal to surrender, and whether on the micro level it's the idiocy of the Champlain College administration or on the macro level with the rise of the alt-right, I inevitably fight on - and this is often the soundtrack playing in the background.  If it sounds familiar, Emerson, Lake & Palmer borrowed the beginning for a song back in the early 1970s, although I had completely forgotten about it until I finally put it together.

My Year With Proust - Day 295

The Baron, who now sought to disguise the impression that had been made in him, and yet, in spite of his affectation of indifference, seemed unable to move away without regret, came and went, looked vaguely into the distance in the way which he felt would most enhance the beauty of his eyes, assumed a smug, nonchalant, fatuous air.  Meanwhile Jupien, shedding at once the humble kindly expression which I had always associated with him, had - in perfect symmetry with the Baron - thrown back his head, given a becoming tilt to his body, placed his hand with grotesque effrontery on his hip, stuck out his behind, struck poses with the coquetry that the orchid might have adopted on the providential arrival of the bee.  I had not supposed that he could appear so repellent.  but I was equally unaware that he was capable of improvising his part in this sort of dumb show which (although he found himself for the first time in the presence of M. de Charlus) seemed to have been long and carefully rehearsed; one does not arrive spontaneously at that pitch of perfection except when one meets in a foreign country a compatriot with whom an understand then develops of itself, the means of communication being the same and, even though one has never seen each other before, the scene already set.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 626-627

There is an old saying, that Tim Mackintosh-Smith quotes a couple times in his wonderful travel books, which, of course, I can't remember at the moment; that seems to be the norm lately (stupid old age).  Essentially, the saying proposes, and delivered much more eloquently than I am achieving, that travelers in foreign countries are always brothers.  I'm sure my poorly-delivered rendition reflects the words delivered by Proust: "one does not arrive spontaneously at that pitch of perfection except when one meets in a foreign country a compatriot with whom an understand then develops of itself, the means of communication being the same and, even though one has never seen each other before, the scene already set."  Jupien and M. de Charlus are "compatriots" meeting in a "foreign country," or, as the communists would have proposed, fellow travelers.  This is not meant to imply that the situations are equal, or the countries as foreign, but in the light of this last election I'm feeling more and more like a traveler in my own country.  One leaves beautiful, liberal Vermont and one hopes to meet a fellow liberal along the way, and you're instantly drawn together, if for no other reason than safety.

My Year With Proust - Day 294

   I was about to change my position again, so that he should not catch sight of me; I had neither the time nor the need to do so.  For what did I see!  Face to face, in that courtyard where they had certainly never met before (M. de Charlus coming to the Hotel de Guermantes only in the afternoon, during the time when Jupien was at his office), the Baron, having suddenly opened wide his half-shut eyes, was gazing with extraordinary attentiveness at the ex-tailor poised on the threshold of his shop, while the latter, rooted suddenly to the spot in front of M. de Charlus, implanted there like a tree, contemplated with a look of wonderment the plump form of the ageing Baron.  But, more astounding still, M. de Charlus's post having altered, Jupien's, as though in obedience to the laws of an occult art, at once brought itself into harmony with it.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 616

Marcel is thinking about moving, but is instead drawn to hide so that he can view the unfolding drama in secret.  As you might imagine, Proust devotes an extensive amount of time to what happens next and what he think it means, and thus I think I'm going to be forced to break it up into manageable chunks; which is why getting through Proust has taken a lot longer than I thought, at least in the commentary stage, but it is also a labor of love.  What struck me here, and which we'll follow up on shortly in more detail, is the odd, overpowering and often inexplicable power of human desire.  Proust compares it to "obedience to the laws of an occult art."  I'm paraphrasing, as I often do, but I think I remember Milan Kundera writing that true beauty was based on the derivation from the accepted norm, and I think that this is nowhere more true than in the realm of desire.  The "standard" beauty, at least in my mind, works better as a philosophical construct than an inspiration.

My Year With Proust - Day 293

. . . This invigoration may, however, prove excesive, and the species develop out of all proportion; then, as an anti-toxin protects us against disease, as the thyroid gland regulates our adiposity, as defeat comes to punish pride, as fatigue follows indulgence, and as sleep in turn brings rest from fatigue, so an exceptional act of self-fertilisation comes at the crucial moment to apply its turn of the screw, its pull on the curb, brings back within the norm the flower that has exaggeratedly overstepped it.  My reflexions had followed a trend which I shall describe in due course, and I had already drawn form the visible stratagems of flowers a conclusion that bore upon a whole unconscious element of literary production, when I saw M. de Charlus coming away from the Marquise's door.  Only a few minutes had passed since his entry.  Perhaps he had learned from his elderly relative herself, or merely from a servant, or a great improvement in her condition, or rather her complete recovery from what had been nothing more than a slight indisposition.  At this moment, when he did not suspect that anyone was watching him, his eyelids lowered as a screen against the sun, M. de Charlus had relaxed that artificial tension, softened that artificial vigour in his face which were ordinarily sustained by the animation of his talk and the force of his will.  Pale as a marble statue, his fine features with the prominent nose no longer received from an expression deliberately assumed a different meaning which altered the beauty of their contours; no more now than a Guermantes, he seemed carved in stone, he, Palamede XV, in the chapel at Combray.  These general features of a whole family took on, however, in the face of M. de Charlus a more spiritualised, above all a softer refinement.  I regretted for his sake that he should habitually adulterate with so many violent outbursts, offensive eccentricities, calumnies, with such harshness, touchiness and arrogance, that he should conceal beneath a spurious brutality the amenity, the kindness which, as he emerged from Mme de Villeparisis's, I saw so innocently displayed upon his face.  Blinking his eyes in the sunlight, he seemed almost to be smiling, and I found in his face seen then in repose and as it were in its natural state something so affectionate, so defenceless, that I could not help thinking how angry M. de Charlus would have been could he have known that he was being watched; for what was suggested to me by the sight of this man who was so enamoured of, who so prided himself upon, his virility, to whom all other men seemed odiously effeminate, what he suddenly suggested to me, to such an extent had he momentarily assumed the features, the expression, the smile thereof, was a woman.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 625-626

Marcel suddenly sees a very different side of M. de Charlus, Instead of the "violent outbursts, offensive eccentricities, calumnies, with such harshness, touchiness and arrogance" we instead see a "kindness."  To Marcel, M. de Charlus had so "prided himself upon, his virility, to whom all other men seemed odiously effeminate," had "momentarily assumed the features, the expression, the smile" of "a woman." As you might guess, this is an essential transitional section to what is to follow - and also as a foundation for some classic Proustian analysis.  However, at this point I guess it's enough to say that this is a wonderful passage describing the masks that we all wear, especially M. de Charlus at this point.  As we've discussed, Remembrance of Things Past was written during the absolutely high point of Freud's influence, and one could certainly see the concepts that formed a classic defense mechanism.
  

My Year With Proust - Day 292

. . . A moment later, I again recoiled, in order not to be seen by Jupien.  It was nearly time for him to set out for the office, from which he would return only for dinner, and not always even then during the last week since his niece and her apprentices had gone to the country to finish a dress for a customer.  Then, realising that no one could see me, I decided not to let myself be disturbed again for fear of missing, should the miracle be fated to occur, the arrival, almost beyond the possibility of hope (across so many obstacles of distance, of adverse risks, of dangers), of the insect sent from so far away as ambassador to the virgin who had been waiting for so long.  I knew that this expectancy was no more passive than in the male flower, whose stamens had spontaneously curved so that the insect might more easily receive their offering; similarly the female flower that stood here would coquettishly arch her "styles" if the insect came, and, to be more effectively penetrated by him, would imperceptibly advance, like a hypocritical but ardent damsel, to meet him half-way.  The laws of the vegetable kingdom are themselves governed by increasingly higher laws.  If the visit of an insect, that is to say the transportation of the seed from another flower, is generally necessary for the fertilisation of a flower, that is because self-fertilisation, the insemination of a flower by itself, would lead, like a succession of intermarriages in the same family. to degeneracy and sterility, whereas the crossing effected by insects gives to the subsequent generation of the same species a vigour unknown to their forebears.

Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 624-625

We're in the middle of a very long, although I guess not by Proustian standards, paragraph setting up the assignation between M. de Charlus and Jupien, and I decided to break it up, although I don't know if I managed to do so thematically.  Mainly I just just thinking of something while I was typing in the text and decided to stop there before the idea disappeared.  Once again Proust is using the nature, and especially the reproduction of flowers, as a metaphor for love and especially sex.  However, I'm come back to this theme next time.  What struck me here is that the scene opens with Marcel somewhere operating as some uncomfortable mixture of observer, stalker, snoop and spy.  It starts off with him not wanting to be seen because he doesn't want to be disturbed, but it is quickly becomes a case of him spying on the two men.  And I began to think: isn't all art the act of spying on others people's personal lives; and in the process, spying upon our own lives?  For some reason I'm reflecting back on the Christopher Nolan film Following, the one before Memento, where the protagonist gets drawn into a dark world of crime.  It's an effective film noir, but also a film, again like Memento, which leaves you thinking about reality and perception and identity.  In Following the lead character, out of boredom mainly, decides to start following a man in a large city, and eventually gets drawn into his life, with dangerous consequences.  Isn't this what all artists do?  The characters are fictional, but are probably based on some real character, or an adaption of some aspect of a real character, that the artist witnessed somewhere along the way as they walked through life.  Unless you're Dickens and can just create hundreds of characters out of whole cloth (if he did - certainly David Copperfield is pretty close to his life; maybe Dickens was just the most observant person of all time) don't artist always fill their art with people they've observed?  Of course, if you've been involved with an artist I guess you can expect to find yourself immortalized in one form or another in their work, which again brings me back to a film, as it always does, this time Woody Allen's response to his ex-wife's book in Manhattan.  Art is an intensely emotional and lonely and self-reflective process, but eventually maybe you learn more about yourself based on your perception of those around you.