The Other Dylan

Tags

Music, Rodriguez

I mean dang. I never knew.

Did you?

Were you watching 60 Minutes last night? If you were, you know what I’m talking about. If not, well, you are in for a sweet surprise.

A man called Sixto Diaz Rodriguez was born in 1942 to parents who had emigrated from Mexico in the 20’s.  Some people thought he wrote some great music about life on the streets of Detroit. He was recorded.

His albums met critical acclaim, but few bought his music. He faded into the proverbial oblivion, taking on construction jobs to keep body and soul together while he wrote, played here and there, and basically lived near the poverty level.

Somehow his music found its way to South Africa where it met a crowd of young people who were sick to death in their hearts of apartheid. His raw lyrics about real life struck a chord and seemed to speak to them. He became their hero and his music sold by the tens of thousands.

They thought he was dead. An urban legend arose that he had committed suicide on stage by self-immolation. But people wondered, and based on a lyric in one of his songs that mentioned Dearborn, somebody did some looking, and they found him. Ultimately they brought him to South Africa, these thirty years later, and he sang before thousands who knew every word of his songs.

And now, he’s making another tour. And his music is amazing.

Most of his songs reflect his political beliefs that the poor have a lousy hand to play. And he managed while working the construction thing, to enroll in Wayne State University and secure a degree in philosophy. And that’s pretty darn lucky for him, since he’s a philosopher after all.

Much of all this is detailed in a documentary entitled “Searching for Sugar Man” written and directed by Malik Bendjelloul.  He barely was able to finish it, running out of money himself. But he did. And it as the premiere hit at Sundance and it’s been included in film festivals everywhere, and it may end up garnering an Academy Award nomination.

And well, I just thought you might like to hear what this man has to say.

You can see and listen to a longer play list (9) from the documentary at HuffPo and a piece of the documentary itself.

His name is Rodriguez. And you will never forget his music.

Related articles

• Sixto Rodriguez: the Sugar Man returns (guardian.co.uk)
• Resurrecting Rodriguez (dailymaverick.co.za)
• Sixto Rodriguez, Secret Rock Star Behind Searching for Sugar Man (entertainment.time.com)
• Singer-Songwriter Rodriguez’s Career Sees Resurgence After Documentary (VIDEO) (hispanicallyspeakingnews.com)
• Searching For Sugarman is more than a sweet surprise (elizamoritz.wordpress.com)
• Rodriguez: Searching for Sugar Man OST (Review) (popmatters.com)
• 1970s Musician Rodriguez’s Story Told on ’60 Minutes’ (tvbythenumbers.zap2it.com)

You Can’t Make It Up!

Tags

crazy media, Election 2012, Geraldo, GOP, Hank Williams, Jr., Mitt Romney, Music, Paul Ryan, teabaggers, Todd Akin

 

 

See that guy to the right? The one paying attention to Paulie? That’s an idiot.

Yep. If he pulls down his pants, you will see it tattooed on his butt: “I am STUPID.”  I swear. It’s there.

I’m sure you already heard. Toddikins fashions himself something of a gynecologist you see. It  seems to him, based on his vast experience, that no woman who is LEGITIMATELY raped, need fear pregnancy, since  her HORMONES create some kind of super killer fluid that kills the sperm of a rapist. Only ILLEGITIMATE rape victims get pregnant, which is how you tell the difference between a real victim and one of them sly girls who is just angling for an abortion.

You see, Redisgusticans think of women as sneaky sly creatures who are always trying to put something over on men. After all, it was a woman who ate from the apple and then with seductive wiles talked poor old Adam into taking a bite too.

That’s why their bills (Ryan agrees) use the term “forcible” rape–to catch the bad girls and make them be mothers against their will. Oh, I forgot, it’s for the baby. Except that they don’t like food stamps, day care, or aid to single mothers. The “care” stops at the delivery room.

∏

Speaking of Paulie boy, who is, as  I said, opposed to abortion in all cases except when three doctors, a priest, and a Republican have certified that the mother’s life is forfeit without it, (okay I stretch the truth a tiny bit), likes to rock and pump iron to the tunes of Rage Against the  Machine.

As happens all too often when it comes to GOOD music, the authors of same are none to pleased to be associated with the likes of Paulie and his ilk. This has led to innumerable numbers of cease and desist orders being filed against various GOP contenders over the ages.

Well, RAM can’t prevent Paulie from listening to their music of course, but they sure can tell him what they think of him and his policies. Paulie is apparently too obtuse to realize this on his own, so Tom Morello from the band took a moment to ‘splain to Paulie that they would just as soon he keep his 1% lips closed as it referred to them.

Read his remarks in Rolling Stone. Just a snippet to whet your whistle:

Don’t mistake me, I clearly see that Ryan has a whole lotta “rage” in him: A rage against women, a rage against immigrants, a rage against workers, a rage against gays, a rage against the poor, a rage against the environment. Basically the only thing he’s notraging against is the privileged elite he’s groveling in front of for campaign contributions.

∏

So I was thinkin’. I do that regularly in case you were wondering. It how I come by my sparkly personality and amazing wit. I am humble beyond belief too. Trust me on that.

Well, anyway, the GOP does have their go-to bands. There is always has-been Ted Nugent. He’s always ready to whip up some dirty cat-scratchin’ if called upon. And then there is good old space cadet, Hank Williams, Jr., whose Sr. is rolling in his grave in embarrassment no doubt.

Anyway, as I was sayin’, you remember Hank was taken off Monday Night Football for his nasty remarks about the President, which he said were “wildly taken out of context.” I’m not sure what his excuse is now.

At the Iowa State Fair, he said this:

“We’ve got a Muslim president who hates farming, hates the military, hates the U.S. and we hate him!”

According to the newspaper, this was met with applause. I don’t doubt it was, given that only toothless Muckersville rejects walkin’ barefoot with moonshine jugs in hand, were likely to be at the “concert.”

Just last month Hankie Donkey, told Rolling Stone that:

“We’ve got a President that does a call to the Koran or Mecca or whatever,. . . .”

indicating he cannot tell the difference between a book and a place. When Hank sleeps, the IQ of the planet goes up ten points.

∏

Some people ought to wear a sign that says: train wreck occurs when I open my mouth! One of those person’s is Geraldo Rivera, washed up has-been and never very good journalist who comes on Foxy now and then and says really stupid things.

So, GR was visiting Fox and Friends (who would want to be one of them?), and they were discussing a top person in Homeland Security who was on leave for sexual harassment charges and discrimination against men.

Following the completion of the “discussion” about this “scandal” (which nobody else heard about), GR interjects an entirely new subject which is really what he wanted to talk about.

“I have a question, is this subtext of the Department of Homeland Security scandal — that there is some kind of lesbian cabal, that it’s a same-sex takeover of the big agencies?”

“I don’t know, it seems like everyone is talking around it,” Geraldo said, as he picked up steam. “Is that really what people are saying? That men are disadvantaged because women and specifically lesbians are ruling the roost there?

You remember GR right? The guy who basically said that the Trayvon Martin was killed by George Montgomery because he wore a hoodie, which as everyone knows, makes everyone think you are a gangsta.

∏

And that is purely enough crazy for one day. You have now established that you are sane. Go about your day.

What’s on the Stove? sweet chile cilantro bbq chicken, corn salsa, and steamed broccoli.

Related articles

• Hank Williams Jr. at Iowa State Fair: We’ve Got a Muslim President Who Hates Farming, Hates the Military, Hates the U.S. and We Hate Him! (blacklistednews.com)
• ‘Rage’ guitarist rages against Paul Ryan’s love of ‘Rage’ (politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com)
• Paul Ryan blasted by Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello (ctvnews.ca)
• Furor over Republican’s ‘legitimate rape’ comment (english.ruvr.ru)
• Missouri GOP senate candidate: “legitimate rape” victims rarely get pregnant (newblackwoman.com)
• Dumb ass of the week, vol. 1 (gnosticbent.wordpress.com)

 

Tripping the Light Fantastic

Tags

Art, emotions, life, Music, painting, Poetry, psychology

I’ve been thinking about poetry. In the end that got me to thinking about music and art in general. I’m sure you have found yourself thinking about them too. In case you haven’t, I’ll share.

I have always had a arm’s length kinda thing in regards poetry. I liked some (that which I could easily understand) and didn’t like some (that which I could not understand).  Pretty basic analysis.

I have no idea what poem the phrase “tripping the light fantastic” comes from, but I remember a high school teacher frustrated as all heck because we were bemused by her attempts to get us to “respect” poetry. We thought it all silly, and memorizing any portion of it, a sheer waste of time.

I was troubled by the poetry I didn’t understand, often written by supposed giants of literary ability. Well, no supposed about it, they were such giants, and I was terribly worried at times what I was missing and why. I thought to read it line by line and for all my efforts I still had no idea what was being said half the time.

As I said, some I did get. “By the shores of gitchee gumee, by the shining deep sea waters. . . .” That I get.

I learned that poetry was meant to evoke emotions, yet I still felt there must be actual meaning in the words themselves? Some code I was unable to penetrate. And so mostly I left it alone.

I’m thick headed about some things. Poetry must be one. I mentioned a few days ago, that a poem I read on a site which I linked to had spoken to me powerfully. It felt like someone had dug into my skull and spoke my deepest agonies, fears, sorrows, melancholia. I’m not sure what the poem was meaning, but I finally got it, I think.

It meant what it meant to me. It evoked feelings about my state in the this world. And to him/her it might have evoked feelings about something entirely different. It might have related to an event, a time, an experience quite different from mine, but the emotions were the same.

I’m not sure I’m making much sense, but I hope you are seeing what I mean in some way.

Music is the same. Musical compositions often have names, they define the subject matter of the composer, “The Messiah,” or the “Rodeo.” Now, common sense tells you that if you were unaware of the name and you were hearing it for the first time, you wouldn’t say, oh my he’s composing a piece about Jesus Christ. Yet, we are carried by the sounds with the title, and we reflect on Jesus, knowing that it is about Him, and we FEEL a kinship to the scriptures that talk of him.

Painting and sculpture are no different. Especially the more abstract kinds, but even those dubbed Romanticism and Expressionism also do this. They may depict more identifiable objects, yet they are distorted in some way that allows us to dig deeper, feel deeper, and connect with our spirit-soul.

At least that is what I think. That is why the arts are essential to our humanity. That is why we started to represent things in our own imaginings almost from the start. From the fertility goddesses we fashioned in the stone age to the cave paintings in Lascaux, France, to Monet and Picasso. We seek to speak the unspeakable and we seek to ask the world to understand what we cannot say.

Poetry is that. It speaks of what is not speakable.

And yet, I would not negate the poetry that tells the story. For it has it’s place. It is the journeyman’s way. It is what I write, and so many of us write, some better, some not so. But it is our ungifted attempt to speak of more than what we can utter in declarative sentence.

It is what caused Dorothy Parker to correct anyone who wanted to talk of her “poetry.” “No,” she would say, “not poetry, but my verses. I am no poet.”

Poetry is the Psalmist who cries for Jerusalem, yet, two thousand years later, manages to still speak to our condition as we cry for whatever is holy and seemingly withheld from our hands and hearts.

Camus suggests that true genius is accompanied by a requisite amount of banality. I have said more than once that every decent thought has been thought, we merely come up with them again and again, until such time as the other pieces are available and we can make something of them.

So poetry reminds us, in the end, of that timelessness. That the same hopes, dreams, fears, jealousies, hatreds are ever with us, no matter whether we awaken upon a mammoth robe or on 1200-thread count linen sheets.  It is all the same.

Nothing new here folks. Just an aging woman finally getting something through a puzzling mind. And I have yet to speak of war and scripture and things more marvelous still. But tomorrow is another day, God willing.

It’s the Caffeination, Stupid!

Tags

60's, cabbage, caffeine, Casseroles, divorce, Entertainment, gay marriage, incest, Mackenzie Phillips, Mamas and Papas, Music, Recipes, sausage, slow cooker, Steven King

“Boy, you sure made the coffee strong this morning, dear.” This as I yawn and peer through lidded eyes at GMA. “I don’t know that it’s any different that usual,” the great one replies.

“Well it was falling out of the grinder when I lifted off the top, so I knew it was gonna be strong,” smiling weakly. I saw a look of “oops” fall across his face. “Ummm, perhaps that was mine.” Mine being the caffeinated stuff, which I have long since abandoned as making me too wired, and upsetting my delicate digestive mechanism.

An hour later, I have completed my walk in record time, and am deeply ensconced in Genesis, trying to see the myriad differences between creation story one and creation story two. My mind is flying, reeling really among the possibilities, and now, I’m really not sure at all what “made in the image of” means.

I have the urge to write, yet know, I’m not nearly ready to tackle THAT topic. I start in the Google reader, skimming the stories, vaguely aware that I am looking for a few in particular, stories I want to consider. I make the mistake to visit Randal’s L’ennui melodieux. Not knowing French, I still have no idea what that means, though the word l-ennui is vaguely familiar. In any case, I don’t recommend that site when in a full-blown caffeine mania. I actually understood his post “Naked in front of the Computer.”

You see, I almost never understand Randal’s posts, which takes nothing away from the fact that mostly they are brilliant. He is writing as art personified. Like Justice Black, I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.

With that post, I realized that my mind, going off in several directions at the same time, could not focus on one issue long enough to write a post about. Thus you get the hodgepodge of trivial and snappy snapshots of reality. At least my reality. The human brain is exceptional in it’s ability to hold, simultaneously, several thoughts at once, some of them in direct and obvious logical opposition (witness the fundamentalist mind –if you can call it that–which is required to do that 24/7–but no we are NOT going there again. I’m looking for a treatment for THAT addiction as well.)

Moving right along, switching gears, about facing, and other metaphors that come to mind. I always obsess happily about our utterly infamous and undoubted resident wing nut Stephen King, R-IA, (may God forgive us our sins). He is always good for a profoundly stupid remark. Yesterday he was quoted as saying that the best vote he ever made in the House was his nearly singular opposition to Katrina aid. Imagine that. Today he is quoted as saying that gays marriage is a “purely socialist concept.” No even, I with my high-speed brain cells this morning, don’t care to get into the ugly morass of a mind that could concoct such bull-crap. Be my guest. Read more here.

***

Meanwhile, spinning on a dime, and managing quite well, thank you, not to fall. . . over, I present a recipe. This time of year one’s thoughts turn to slow cookers and comfort food, and this is definitely that.

One can imagine doing all sorts of outdoorsy things, like planting fall mums, raking leaves, (yeah right) and coming inside for cocoa (yeah right) and taking in the wafts of yummy meaty goodness slowly melding together in the crock pot.

If such thoughts are yours too, and no doubt they are, then let your fingers do the walking over to Baking Delights and pick up the recipe for Slow Cooker Red Cabbage and Sausage.

***

With all due and I do mean due, respect to our tinfoily friends on the extreeeemmmme right, one of their oft cited, but never explained objections to gay marriage is that it will “destroy the sanctity of marriage.”

Well, yes, but, exactly what do that mean Mable? Nothing much it seems, but dang it sounds good. Words can, it seems, be put together in nice sounding ways that appear to point to deep thought, when in fact they bespeak no sense at all.

In other words, ya can’t destroy what don’t exist! And according to recent statistics,Die vorce is alive and well and on the climb and not, repeat NOT in the states that allow same sexers to marry.

Of deeper concern, since I live here, is a recent poll, (saw it I swear but have dumped the site already) in Iowa, that showed that something like 92% of Iowans don’t feel,  so far, threatened in their marriage because of Iowa’s new marriage decree that allows same sex wedding bliss. I can testify as well, that so far, I’ve not been hounded by lesbians wanted to “hook up” nor has the Contrarian been solicited by hoards of men wanting to cuddle behind the tractor. Nope, hasn’t happened. Course this will do nothing to stem the gasps and horror among the “bible told me so” folk.

***

And the winner in the category “gag me with a spoon” is. . . . Mackenzie Phillips and her revelations that “Dad and me were lovers!”

Now, it’s hard to know who to blame for all this. I’m inclined to blame the druggin’, which I understand was beyond the pale, over and above, topped out, even the Stones can’t come close to these folks in over indulgence.

The Contrarian recalls reading where Cass showed up in the Caribbean somewhere with a quart jar of acid one vacation time. These are seriously f**ked up people.

One could of course simply blame dad for all this, but really, Mack admits she was nineteen, yes you heard that right, at the time of the first incestuous meeting, and AND it continued for a record ELEVEN years. I’d say she is somewhat complicit? This doesn’t make any of it other than sordid, wrong, abusive, and a host of other things, but lordly, it sure taints any desire to hear “California Dreamin’ ” any time soon don’t it?

***

Yeah, I know, you wish I would go on and never stop, but hey, I can’t feed your addiction all day long ya know. I hear one of the big pharmaceutical companies, Pfizer perhaps is working on a drug to wean ya off me. If I can get a cut of the that action, I’ll gladly add my opposition to the Democratic health care reform movement. Greed does trump the common good. I can be bought! But you knew that already. Blessings, and well, I’m off to rain caffeine craziness upon the rest of my household.

I Got the Vapors!

Tags

Arnel Pineda, Journey, Music, Rock bands, Steve Perry, Super bowl

Now that we are down from the hoopla of Super Bowl whatever number it was, I thought I would share a moment in that day that shook me to my undies. As many of you undoubtedly know, the pre-game show starts at some ungodly hour of the day and proceeds onward, filled with an enormous amount of unimportant trivia that clog the brain and contribute to overfilling of said brain box.

To say that I don’t watch it, is to well, understand my animosity toward it. However, if you have ever checked, Sunday morning and afternoon TV sucks pretty much anyway, so as I am wont, I had the appropriate channel on while on the computer.

This is my normal practice, to have the TV on to my right as I hammer away at the keys, sending you all these delightful posts. Mostly I don’t watch, but I pick up a thing here or two. I will even admit that I keep track of the story lines quite successfully for both All My Children and One Life to Live.

None of that is of any importance to my story, but I thought I would throw it in. Anyway, some time about an hour or so before the kick off of the greatest ball game of the year (usually a dud to be sure in reality), I sauntered into the living room to take up my place next the Contrarian who was pretending to “listen” as he sat laid back with eyes closed. (The Contrarian swears he does not sleep on the couch, the snoring sounds are merely a novelty of sound he enjoys fooling me with.)

As I was gazing not too intently at the screen, punctuated with looks at the frenzy at the bird feeder (the cat TV we call it actually), I heard this from a frantic broadcaster: “And now, for your entertainment delight (not really, but I’m trying to be dramatic here), JOURNEY!!!!!

That made me turn my head quick enough to engage whip lash. You see, I am a fan of the band and have been for many a year,  more than I would care to admit actually. As the familiar notes and refrains began to vibrate in my ear anatomy, the camera began to pan to the lead singer, Steve Perry. And OH MY GOD, IT WASN”T STEVE PERRY!!!!

Now some of you may guffaw at this, for I have always thought that Journey might be a second or third rate rock band. Actually, in the minuscule research I did for this piece I discovered that in fact it usually appears on most people’s top ten, and Steve Perry is regarded as one of the better lead singers of a rock band. This is also not necessary to this post, but I thought I would defend myself and them anyway.

So I was yelling, where is STEVE???? The Contrarian piped up, “I think he died.” “What??????? NO, how, where, when, who?” The Contrarian knew no more. Just that ugly bottom line. Now Journey is, well, not worth much without Steve Perry as the photo undoubtedly makes clear:

I mean, heck, I am a warm blooded woman with all my sexual err, ummm stuff  intact. I mean what is the point of being a long distance groupie without the point of the group to salivate over?

I was non-plussed, and if that is not strong enough, and I’m not sure it is, (what is non-plussed anyway), I fairly fainted dead away.

Not actually of course, but in my mind I fainted. That left me only Depp to slobber over.

Said band was now being led by a cute little guy, called Arnel Pineda. Arnel is Philippino it turns out. What is more, he sounds amazingly like Steve Perry. So the music remained the same. But as I said, damn the music, it was the sexy Steve that was missing.

Thank God for computers and the internet is all I can say. When I got around to it, I went off in search of the facts. What had my dear sweet boy died of I wondered.

The answer was quick and simple. He wasn’t dead at all. The Contrarian shrugged, “well, I thought I heard something to that effect, someday, somewhere, sorry.” Yeah, sorry my butt! It seems Mr. Perry had a bad hip, and the band waited some time for his return, but he seemed uninterested so they went elsewhere. Not much of a story.

Mr. Pineda’s story is a bit more interesting. Turns out he is in his 40’s, married, father of a two or so, and had to sing his way into America. The customs official asked why he wanted to enter the US, and Pineda replied he has an audition with Journey. The official was a fan and asked for some singing to prove the claim. Obviously Arnel did well.

Anyway, such is the story. Steve is doing whatever Steve is doing. He has done some solo work, has cut his hair and doesn’t look nearly as cute as the above pic any more. He is either 50 or 60 depending on which fan site you go to. More likely the latter. So, I’d just as soon let him live in my memory as the darling with the long flowing hair anyway.  Age seems to do that to me. I don’t like seeing Paul McCartney much any more either. He looks freakin’ old! Me? I’m still a fresh young thing…….inside!