Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Thoughts About Ken Burns's Jazz
Over the last month, I've been remedying a longstanding error by finally taking in the Ken Burns documentary, Jazz. I had wanted to see this film for years, but for various reasons have never had the opportunity to watch it from start to finish.
I sat down to watch the film with a Jazz education that largely revolved around "mid-later" legends such as Miles Davis and his profound Kind of Blue contributors, John Coltrane and Bill Evans--as well as select standouts like Dave Brubeck. I was not well versed in the catalogues of giants such as Armstrong, Ellington, Basie, Parker, Holiday, Fitzgerald, etc, and I was very much looking forward to Jazz to filling in some of the blanks. Burns's The Civil War and Baseball had already made me a fan of his filmmaking style and I was fairly confident that Jazz would be as comprehensive and entertaining as his previous work.
Briefly, the film was fantastic. It did a superb job of tracing the origins of Jazz back to the classically trained Creole musicians of 19th century New Orleans, southern black church spirituals, and the blues, and how the three were amalgamated as the hideous Jim Crow laws eventually made their way to New Orleans; through the art form's various permutations over the years, from the Dixieland mastery of Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, and Syndey Bechet; through the swing era of Benny Goodman; into the bop of Gilespie and Charlie Parker; how that gave rise to Davis, Coltrane, the avante garde and other movements that followed; ending with modern masters such as Winton and Branford Marsalis. It has greatly expanded my Jazz vocabulary, and in particular has given me a new obsession: the music of Louis Armstrong (that alone was more than worth the price of my Netflix subscription). I'm slightly less obsessed with Duke Ellington. Slightly.
Speaking of Louie and the Duke, they are in this film a lot. A lot lot. If you love their music as I do, this will thrill you. If you don't, then you probably don't want to watch this documentary--because you probably don't like Jazz, period.
The picture is not perfect. It gives extreme short shrift to Jazz guitar, which is disappointing. Jazz the film makes mention of a mere two Jazz guitarists, the very two whom, had they been omitted, would have constituted an unpardonable sin: Charlie Christian and Django Reinhardt. I realize that Jazz for much of its history has been a brass and woodwind (and piano) dominated art form, but really: they couldn't devote five seconds to George Benson? Joe Pass? Pat Metheny? Wes Montgomery? The dearth of attention to the guitar was a glaring error in this critic's humble opinion. Related, but arguably less glaring, was the all-but-omitted Jazz sub genre of Fusion. This was covered ever so briefly in reference to Miles's re-invention of himself for his Bitches Brew album, but: John McLaughlin and the Mahavishnu Orchestra, Allan Holdsworth, Al Di Meola--all absent.
Perhaps this is because of a problem that seems recurrent in Burns's films: the ending. As was the case with Baseball, Jazz proceeds at a delightful pace through the first nine episodes and then rushes to cram several decades of material into the final minutes of the final episode. Burns does okay with a finite topic, such as the Civil War, but when the subject in question is open ended, the final episode becomes a train wreck. It's as if he's gets to the finale having edited the previous episodes sparingly, suddenly realizes "gee, we've got to finish this thing!" and proceeds to cram the proverbial 10 lbs of you-know-what into a 5 lb bag. Whereas two entire episodes were devoted to the swing era alone, the finale rushes through about 40 years, from the latter days of Coltrane to Winton Marsalis and the generation beyond (the film was made in 2000).
Of course, these are my subjective gripes. Someone else might complain that, despite the 2 part swing episode, Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey and Frank Sinatra combined got about 5 minutes of screen time in the entire 20+ hour documentary; or that Harry Connick Jr. didn't at least get some sort of honorable mention for re-igniting the country's passion for swing in the 80's and 90's.; or that Cole Porter was completely ignored. None of these really bothered me, but they didn't escape my notice either.
Quibbles aside, this documentary was a glorious education about the golden years of one what is possibly America's most brilliant contribution to the arts (I'm torn as to whether Jazz or the Blues is greater), and should be de rigueur for any student of 20th century humanities.
I sat down to watch the film with a Jazz education that largely revolved around "mid-later" legends such as Miles Davis and his profound Kind of Blue contributors, John Coltrane and Bill Evans--as well as select standouts like Dave Brubeck. I was not well versed in the catalogues of giants such as Armstrong, Ellington, Basie, Parker, Holiday, Fitzgerald, etc, and I was very much looking forward to Jazz to filling in some of the blanks. Burns's The Civil War and Baseball had already made me a fan of his filmmaking style and I was fairly confident that Jazz would be as comprehensive and entertaining as his previous work.
Briefly, the film was fantastic. It did a superb job of tracing the origins of Jazz back to the classically trained Creole musicians of 19th century New Orleans, southern black church spirituals, and the blues, and how the three were amalgamated as the hideous Jim Crow laws eventually made their way to New Orleans; through the art form's various permutations over the years, from the Dixieland mastery of Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, and Syndey Bechet; through the swing era of Benny Goodman; into the bop of Gilespie and Charlie Parker; how that gave rise to Davis, Coltrane, the avante garde and other movements that followed; ending with modern masters such as Winton and Branford Marsalis. It has greatly expanded my Jazz vocabulary, and in particular has given me a new obsession: the music of Louis Armstrong (that alone was more than worth the price of my Netflix subscription). I'm slightly less obsessed with Duke Ellington. Slightly.
Speaking of Louie and the Duke, they are in this film a lot. A lot lot. If you love their music as I do, this will thrill you. If you don't, then you probably don't want to watch this documentary--because you probably don't like Jazz, period.
The picture is not perfect. It gives extreme short shrift to Jazz guitar, which is disappointing. Jazz the film makes mention of a mere two Jazz guitarists, the very two whom, had they been omitted, would have constituted an unpardonable sin: Charlie Christian and Django Reinhardt. I realize that Jazz for much of its history has been a brass and woodwind (and piano) dominated art form, but really: they couldn't devote five seconds to George Benson? Joe Pass? Pat Metheny? Wes Montgomery? The dearth of attention to the guitar was a glaring error in this critic's humble opinion. Related, but arguably less glaring, was the all-but-omitted Jazz sub genre of Fusion. This was covered ever so briefly in reference to Miles's re-invention of himself for his Bitches Brew album, but: John McLaughlin and the Mahavishnu Orchestra, Allan Holdsworth, Al Di Meola--all absent.
Perhaps this is because of a problem that seems recurrent in Burns's films: the ending. As was the case with Baseball, Jazz proceeds at a delightful pace through the first nine episodes and then rushes to cram several decades of material into the final minutes of the final episode. Burns does okay with a finite topic, such as the Civil War, but when the subject in question is open ended, the final episode becomes a train wreck. It's as if he's gets to the finale having edited the previous episodes sparingly, suddenly realizes "gee, we've got to finish this thing!" and proceeds to cram the proverbial 10 lbs of you-know-what into a 5 lb bag. Whereas two entire episodes were devoted to the swing era alone, the finale rushes through about 40 years, from the latter days of Coltrane to Winton Marsalis and the generation beyond (the film was made in 2000).
Of course, these are my subjective gripes. Someone else might complain that, despite the 2 part swing episode, Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey and Frank Sinatra combined got about 5 minutes of screen time in the entire 20+ hour documentary; or that Harry Connick Jr. didn't at least get some sort of honorable mention for re-igniting the country's passion for swing in the 80's and 90's.; or that Cole Porter was completely ignored. None of these really bothered me, but they didn't escape my notice either.
Quibbles aside, this documentary was a glorious education about the golden years of one what is possibly America's most brilliant contribution to the arts (I'm torn as to whether Jazz or the Blues is greater), and should be de rigueur for any student of 20th century humanities.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Pigford
Breitbart.com journalist Lee Stranahan has declared May 1 "Everybody Blog about #Pigford Day." So here is my pathetic contribution to the scrum.
The significance of May 1 is that today is the final day that women and Hispanic "attempted farmers" can cash in on what is possibly the greatest scam funded by any government since Food For Oil.
Sadly, the "government" in question is our own, and if you've never heard of the Pigford scandal before now, this paper should bring you up to speed. The Newspaper of (setting a world) Record (in foot dragging before finally covering this story) also had a quality piece on Pigford last week.
The short, short version:
400 black farmers who actually were discriminated against by the USDA when applying for loans filed a lawsuit against said entity, which agreed to settle. Originally farmers had to have "attempted to farm" between the years of 1981-1996, applied for and been denied funding by USDA, and have filed their claim under the settlement by July 1, 1997. If their claim was recognized by court appointed administrators, they got a tax free check for $50,000. In certain cases, larger damages could be pursued.
Parameters of the criteria were altered, such that the settlement was not restricted to the farmers in the original case and the deadlines for filing were ignored by the court. Close to 100,000 black "attempted farmers" ultimately ended up filing a claim (according to the US Census Bureau, there were only 33,000 African American farmers during the period in which the original Pigford farmers were treated with prejudice). The criteria used by the government for verifying claims was so pathetically lax as to be practically non-existent. If you were black, and said you "attempted" to farm, you were eligible.
Of the 22,000 of the initial claims filed by the deadline, at least 14,000 of them were paid. That's at least $700,000,000 out of the gate. In all, $4.4 Billion could be paid out.
Barack Obama has been an enthusiastic supporter of Pigford and pushed legislation as a Senator to allow for a second generation of claims. Pigford II, as it has come to be known, allowed a new group of "attempted farmers" with claims of discrimination to file for payment. The new deadline for filing was June 19, 2008, which opened the floodgates for another 60,000 applicants (the deadline has since been extended again). After he was elected, President Obama pushed hard to have these claims settled quickly.
Pigford II is also open to non-African Americans who were allegedly "victims of discrimination" at the hands of federal lenders: Women, Native American and Hispanic "attempted farmers" have also filed claims. Women and Hispanic "farmers" may continue to file through today.
To date there has been no Congressional investigation of this scam, nor has the FBI devoted much attention to it.
The significance of May 1 is that today is the final day that women and Hispanic "attempted farmers" can cash in on what is possibly the greatest scam funded by any government since Food For Oil.
Sadly, the "government" in question is our own, and if you've never heard of the Pigford scandal before now, this paper should bring you up to speed. The Newspaper of (setting a world) Record (in foot dragging before finally covering this story) also had a quality piece on Pigford last week.
The short, short version:
400 black farmers who actually were discriminated against by the USDA when applying for loans filed a lawsuit against said entity, which agreed to settle. Originally farmers had to have "attempted to farm" between the years of 1981-1996, applied for and been denied funding by USDA, and have filed their claim under the settlement by July 1, 1997. If their claim was recognized by court appointed administrators, they got a tax free check for $50,000. In certain cases, larger damages could be pursued.
Parameters of the criteria were altered, such that the settlement was not restricted to the farmers in the original case and the deadlines for filing were ignored by the court. Close to 100,000 black "attempted farmers" ultimately ended up filing a claim (according to the US Census Bureau, there were only 33,000 African American farmers during the period in which the original Pigford farmers were treated with prejudice). The criteria used by the government for verifying claims was so pathetically lax as to be practically non-existent. If you were black, and said you "attempted" to farm, you were eligible.
Of the 22,000 of the initial claims filed by the deadline, at least 14,000 of them were paid. That's at least $700,000,000 out of the gate. In all, $4.4 Billion could be paid out.
Barack Obama has been an enthusiastic supporter of Pigford and pushed legislation as a Senator to allow for a second generation of claims. Pigford II, as it has come to be known, allowed a new group of "attempted farmers" with claims of discrimination to file for payment. The new deadline for filing was June 19, 2008, which opened the floodgates for another 60,000 applicants (the deadline has since been extended again). After he was elected, President Obama pushed hard to have these claims settled quickly.
Pigford II is also open to non-African Americans who were allegedly "victims of discrimination" at the hands of federal lenders: Women, Native American and Hispanic "attempted farmers" have also filed claims. Women and Hispanic "farmers" may continue to file through today.
To date there has been no Congressional investigation of this scam, nor has the FBI devoted much attention to it.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Tolerate this.
Oh. My. Stars.
I'm a fan of the Manic Street Preachers and I was familiar with this song, but I had never seen the video before.
Mother of pearl. This a triple serving of sanctimony with a side of narcissism that borders on the pornographic (euphemistically; video is SFW).
It also borders on self parody. Were it not for the subject matter, one could be forgiven for wondering if the video was a joke: now a close up shot of James Dean Bradfield practically licking his reflection; cut to the other prettyboys staring intently into the camera, running fingers through hair or generally pouting; cut to scene of drummer slowly, slowly strapping on oxygen mask... Yes, this is meant to be taken seriously. It's too pretentious not to be.
The song's inspiration comes from the Spanish Civil War (background here), but the video (I presume) is an admonitory of nuclear war. Between shots of the band in a sterile, quarantine-like environment (all is white and electric blue, a sensor device (Geiger counter?) runs along the neck of a guitar, the drums are wrapped in plastic, the walls are mirrored--suggesting two way glass, and (umbilical?) cables, attached to each musician, extend down from somewhere out of sight), the camera returns to a "nuclear" family in their bathing suits. While vaguely Asian in appearance, it is impossible to discern this as their faces have all been melted off. The Manics seem to be calling to mind the atomic bombs dropped on Japan (a-la their earlier song Enola/Alone).
No one who is not evil hopes to see another bomb or warhead detonated ever again. To create art that reminds us of the horror that nuclear weapons can unleash can be laudable, provided it doesn't morally equivocate or sympathize with the wrong camp. I'm not sure the Preachers are equivocating. If they are, it's modest enough that it doesn't bother me too much.
But I think they could have gotten the "message" such as it is across better if there had been less pretty posturing. Yes, I realize it's the pout shots that make their fans, particularly the females, watch.
I'm a fan of the Manic Street Preachers and I was familiar with this song, but I had never seen the video before.
Mother of pearl. This a triple serving of sanctimony with a side of narcissism that borders on the pornographic (euphemistically; video is SFW).
It also borders on self parody. Were it not for the subject matter, one could be forgiven for wondering if the video was a joke: now a close up shot of James Dean Bradfield practically licking his reflection; cut to the other prettyboys staring intently into the camera, running fingers through hair or generally pouting; cut to scene of drummer slowly, slowly strapping on oxygen mask... Yes, this is meant to be taken seriously. It's too pretentious not to be.
The song's inspiration comes from the Spanish Civil War (background here), but the video (I presume) is an admonitory of nuclear war. Between shots of the band in a sterile, quarantine-like environment (all is white and electric blue, a sensor device (Geiger counter?) runs along the neck of a guitar, the drums are wrapped in plastic, the walls are mirrored--suggesting two way glass, and (umbilical?) cables, attached to each musician, extend down from somewhere out of sight), the camera returns to a "nuclear" family in their bathing suits. While vaguely Asian in appearance, it is impossible to discern this as their faces have all been melted off. The Manics seem to be calling to mind the atomic bombs dropped on Japan (a-la their earlier song Enola/Alone).
No one who is not evil hopes to see another bomb or warhead detonated ever again. To create art that reminds us of the horror that nuclear weapons can unleash can be laudable, provided it doesn't morally equivocate or sympathize with the wrong camp. I'm not sure the Preachers are equivocating. If they are, it's modest enough that it doesn't bother me too much.
But I think they could have gotten the "message" such as it is across better if there had been less pretty posturing. Yes, I realize it's the pout shots that make their fans, particularly the females, watch.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Shameless
Words can't express how angry and sorrowful this makes me.
You selfish, infantile, stupid pigs. And no, the irony that you probably consider the comparison to a pig to be a complement is not lost on me.
You have no idea what you've done. You think you have an idea, but you don't. You're far too stupid to appreciate the awful magnitude of what you've done.
I don't know who it is that you think you've harmed. It isn't The Architects of the Bunny Holocaust, the "Biped Sadists" or whatever sort of bogeyman personas you devise for people doing groundbreaking research of the sort that has made your pathetically confused lives longer and healthier than those of your imbecile forebears.
No, you didn't hurt the scientists, not ultimately. They can, and will buy more mice and better security systems to keep pathetic know-nothing vermin like you from getting in again. You set them back, you wasted some of their research dollars. But you won't stop them. Just delayed them.
And therein--the delay--is revealed whom you've really harmed through this pathetic tantrum: my son. My autistic twelve year old son, who might one day have benefited from some discovery or breakthrough, be it ever so small, that those scientists were on the road to uncovering. Take a victory lap, heroes.
Those scientists will still make discoveries, and my son might still benefit from them, but you've put years of daylight between my son and potential quality of life improvements.
You probably don't care. I don't think you operate on an emotional level at which empathy exists. I don't think you even care about the animals, ultimately. I think your actions were committed out of pure narcissism. YOU vandalized a research facility because YOUR sensibilities were offended, and YOU decided that YOUR feelings trump all else and so YOU decided to impose YOUR will over society and its laws. Sure, YOU like animals, because they haven't disappointed YOU the way people have. Also YOU are too developmentally stunted to recognize that people are of more inherent value than animals. But rest assured: if it wasn't the plight of animals, YOU would be doing something else to draw attention to YOU and to make YOURSELF feel important. Ultimately, there is only YOU.
And so, feel high minded if it helps YOU sleep at night. But at the end of the day, YOU are a selfish, petulant child, who decided that if YOU couldn't be happy, no one could. Not even kids with autism.
You'll excuse us if we don't erect a statue in your honor. I'm sure any monument that man could build would pale in comparison your opinion of yourself.
You selfish, infantile, stupid pigs. And no, the irony that you probably consider the comparison to a pig to be a complement is not lost on me.
You have no idea what you've done. You think you have an idea, but you don't. You're far too stupid to appreciate the awful magnitude of what you've done.
I don't know who it is that you think you've harmed. It isn't The Architects of the Bunny Holocaust, the "Biped Sadists" or whatever sort of bogeyman personas you devise for people doing groundbreaking research of the sort that has made your pathetically confused lives longer and healthier than those of your imbecile forebears.
No, you didn't hurt the scientists, not ultimately. They can, and will buy more mice and better security systems to keep pathetic know-nothing vermin like you from getting in again. You set them back, you wasted some of their research dollars. But you won't stop them. Just delayed them.
And therein--the delay--is revealed whom you've really harmed through this pathetic tantrum: my son. My autistic twelve year old son, who might one day have benefited from some discovery or breakthrough, be it ever so small, that those scientists were on the road to uncovering. Take a victory lap, heroes.
Those scientists will still make discoveries, and my son might still benefit from them, but you've put years of daylight between my son and potential quality of life improvements.
You probably don't care. I don't think you operate on an emotional level at which empathy exists. I don't think you even care about the animals, ultimately. I think your actions were committed out of pure narcissism. YOU vandalized a research facility because YOUR sensibilities were offended, and YOU decided that YOUR feelings trump all else and so YOU decided to impose YOUR will over society and its laws. Sure, YOU like animals, because they haven't disappointed YOU the way people have. Also YOU are too developmentally stunted to recognize that people are of more inherent value than animals. But rest assured: if it wasn't the plight of animals, YOU would be doing something else to draw attention to YOU and to make YOURSELF feel important. Ultimately, there is only YOU.
And so, feel high minded if it helps YOU sleep at night. But at the end of the day, YOU are a selfish, petulant child, who decided that if YOU couldn't be happy, no one could. Not even kids with autism.
You'll excuse us if we don't erect a statue in your honor. I'm sure any monument that man could build would pale in comparison your opinion of yourself.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
So Nyah Nyah Nyah, America
Carney on furloughs and flight delays: Hey, don't say we didn't warn you
The link is the exact title of the piece at Hot Air, which I have left unchanged because it makes me laugh.
Yeah, you warned us about a lot of stuff, Jay. Fewer cops, defense cuts, less for "the children," dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria, etc.
In the meantime, we've seen no abatement in the first family's vacation schedule, no paring back on gala balls at the White House, and, perhaps most amusingly no cuts whatsoever in the Department of Homeland Security Bagpipe Corps (Now that one I don't mind so much, because Lord knows how I like to hear a piper play Amazing Grace when I'm getting fondled by the TSA). Sure the White House tours were cancelled, but hey. Obama took a 5% pay cut. So, even Steven, I guess.
Seriously. Anyone with half a clue would have given up by now on these feeble attempts to make the public "feel the pain" of sequestration. The White House should have learned its lesson after the tour cancellation fiasco. The FAA furloughs are going to play much worse. Contrary to the President's assumption, people are not going to blame Congress for delayed flights; voters are going to blame the guy who could pick up the phone and tell Ray LaHood to get the air traffic controllers back on the job. Obama doesn't have to stand for re-election, but a lot of vulnerable democrats do--next year. There is speculation that the Senate may flip. I suspect that very soon, Harry Reid will be begging the President to put an end to this latest petty pageantry and get things back to normal, stat.
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