December Songs 13 is a band that I saw for the first time this past year at Festy, Elephant Revival, and their song Petals. It's a great song and magnificent video!
I've been a Kurt Vile fan for a while now, but am pretty stoked about his collaboration with Courtney Barnett. I really like this cozy little tune called Continental Breakfast. I could watch the video over and over again what with all the smiles and kids and pretty spaces and images of friendship & domestic bliss.
This is also a great little concert in which they perform songs from their album Lotta Sea Lice.
Make sure that you listen to the end so that you can catch their incredibly sweet cover of the song Untogether by Belly. Here is the original version. Followed by another version by Kurt and Courtney.
Last night I was lucky enough to see David Rawlings and Gillian Welch and band at the Jefferson Theater with a dear friend. It was yet another profound musical moment in a year of many. It afforded me time to stomp off some sadness about my stepmother's passing, and also think about my daughter, so far away in Kathmandu, and tomorrow, boarding a flight to India. Life Cycles. Passages. Poetry.
Seeing Gillian Welch was a major check off the bucket list, of course. She has been a long time favorite and this was my first time seeing her live. So joyful! "I Hear Them All" really spoke to me, though I would say each song did! But something about this felt more personal after the events of our Charlottesville summer. The version below is a bit different, as last night they had a violinist, another guitarist, and a stand up bass player. But this too is a truly beautiful version. It's a cover of an Old Crow Medicine Show song, and of course, Woody Guthrie.
I hear the crying
of the hungry in the deserts where they're wandering.
Hear them crying
out for heaven's own benevolence upon them.
Hear destructive
power prevailing, I hear fools falsely hailing.
To the crooked
wits of tyrants when they call.
I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear the sounds
of tearing pages and the roar of burning paper.
All the crimes in
acquisitions turn to air and ash and vapor.
And the rattle of
the shackle far beyond emancipators.
And the loneliest
who gather in their stalls.
I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all
So while you sit
and whistle Dixie with your money and your power.
I can hear the
flowers a-growin' in the rubble of the towers.
I hear leaders
quit their lying
I hear babies quit
their crying.
I hear soldiers
quit their dying, one and all.
I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear the tender
words from Zion, I hear Noah's waterfall.
Hear the gentle
lamb of Judah sleeping at the feet of Buddha.
And the prophets
from Elijah to the old Paiute Wovoka.
Take their places
at the table when they're called.
My stepmother Shirley Littman passed away on Thursday evening after a long battle with MDS and Leukemia. She was a strong, positive, hard working woman with a commitment to social justice. Her infectious laughter and easy smile will shine on in my heart. I wanted to dedicate December Songs 9 to her, as she was a member of the Raging Grannies of Metro NYC. I found this pretty great video of them performing in the Hudson Guild, a community center in the Chelsea Co-op residences, where she lived. Shirley is the one in the yellow and gray striped shirt and the orange scarf. And she's fabulous!
December Songs 8 goes to Valerie June. Not a lot of narrative here, she pretty much speaks for herself! She's truly unique, beautiful, hypnotic, and jamming! Here's Shakedown
and Working Woman Blues
And a pretty cool collaboration with John Forte, formerly of the Fugees.
My introduction to her was via this NPR Tiny Desk Concert.
Sometimes my favorite December songs are ones that are brand new to me. This morning while I was perusing Facebook I came upon a post from a childhood friend. Olga lived next door to my papou in Nicosia, Cyprus. I left Cyprus when I was four, but visited throughout my childhood, and Olga's would be the first door I'd knock on after arriving at my grandfather's. We would play into dusk, and I have so many fond memories with my dear friend, into adulthood. This morning Olga posted an article about her son, Silvio Rusmigo, who is a remarkable photographer. I was perusing his website and came across a music video he made. It's a great song, and cool video. And it's the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the arts in Cyprus. It's a small island that churns out some amazing visual and performing artists. Not surprising for a country that is so ancient and rich in culture. For those of you who don't know, Cyprus is a divided island, the north side occupied by Turkey since 1974. We were visiting and left just days before the coup that kicked off a brutal war that lead to thousands of displaced people and decades of occupation. You can see some documentaries, The Cyprus Problem, Still Divided (my uncle, Alex Efthyvoulous, a correspondent, appears around 22:31) and Attila 74, Rape of Cyprus, made by Michael Cacoyannis, my mother's second cousin. But back to the topic at hand. Here is Black Anis from Cyprus, filmed by the talented son of a dear friend!
It's a Joanna Newsom kind of day. Not a big introduction here. She is a gorgeous, magical, brilliant goddess. This is a fun description by David Holmes in Stereogum, followed by ten songs he favors: ". . . the
object of their dainty diction is a woman who plays brain-melting solos with
only one hand on a million-stringed contraption the size of a small dinosaur
while the other hand plucks out shapeshifting polyrhythms in time signatures so
tangled they demand three or more semesters of calculus to comprehend, as
poetry worthy of T.S. Eliot is propelled into the stratosphere by
Beyonce-caliber vocal runs delivered with the splendor and swagger of Kate Bush
then tethered back to Earth with pedal footwork so intricate it would trip up
Michael Jackson — or, at the very least, Justin Timberlake."
In sticking with great bands I've seen in 2017, I'd like to give a shout out to a local outfit, New Boss, featuring the very lovely, Devon Sproule. I have seen them each individually, but was really impressed when I saw them join forces at the Forward recovery show at the Bridge. What a good night that was! New Boss is an uplifting, dance-able, mesmerizing concoction of echo and wisp and shred. What I've heard of their music delivers me to some of the better corners of 70's and 80's nostalgia, without the big hair and gaudy shirt. I drift through memories of frugging in a Buffalo club in my vintage dress, or lolling about in sunbeams, big teenage dreams in a small Pennsylvania town. But New Boss is here now in the Charlottesville of today (actually, they have been for a while; I'm a little slow on the uptake). I am grateful to them for lightening the load, for bringing some sweet sonics and necessary noise to the unwanted reverberations of Trump's summer (though it's strange that when I search New Boss Charlottesville on YouTube I get a page full of A12 videos). New Boss is all the good aspects of summer––the warmth, the cerulean sky, the beautiful things that fly. And Devon Sproule. . . She will get her very own December Songs page. . . but I am grateful for her and her collaboration with New Boss. I am particularly wooed by the song, Wildlife. It is beautiful, and haunting, and her description of where she was personally when she wrote it speaks to me on many levels. I will not dive into those levels, except to mention some minor trivia––that I read Mists of Avalon while nursing my newborn daughter. Here is New Boss on a WTJU radio feature
P.S. I'd like to add that Thomas Dean, guitarist in New Boss, is a great visual artist. I know that because I purchased one of his prints at a Bridge Gift Forest a couple of years ago. And keyboard player, Nick Rubin, is a DJ on one of my favorite WTJU
shows, Radio Freedonia. I know that because I used to listen to it
joyfully on my way to pick up my daughter from school (when it aired on a
week day). The show took a break for some time, but I'm so glad it's
back! Listen from 2-4 on Saturdays.
December Songs 4 brings you Lee Bangah, a local Charlottesville rap artist I saw for the first time at the Nine Pillars Hip Hop Festival last April.
He has an important new video about the Vinegar Hill neighborhood, a once thriving African American neighborhood in Charlottesville that was razed and replaced with strip malls and parking lots.
You can learn more about Vinegar Hill history through this excellent short film, The World is Gone.
Also see footage of the klan rally that took place in
Charlottesville on July 8, interspersed with Lee Bangah's music.
I have a few shots from the hip hop festival here.
So much
talent was showcased during this festival, talent that many locals like
myself are not exposed to because this town doesn’t feature its
local black artists nearly enough at local venues and festivals.
When black lives are
under attack, what do we do? Stand up, fight back!
December Songs 3 is devoted to Meg Baird who I saw at the Broadberry in Richmond in mid June along with Steve Gunn and Lee Ranaldo. I had never heard of Meg Baird prior to this show. She was another performer this year, like Jon Collin, who riveted me. Long ago I fell in love with Joni Mitchell, Sandy Denny, Jaqui McShee––Meg Baird scrawled a fresh layer on the sacred palimpsest of graceful, powerful, magical female folk singers.
There are many lovely songs and performances by Meg Baird captured on video, but this one really takes me to a place of comfort and quiet I long for. I love the aesthetic of the video narrated by her haunting vocals.
You can see photos from the Broadberry show in my Flickr album.
Here is an interview with Meg Baird that was posted just before I saw her live
And here is a groovy video she made with her former band, Espers.
This year in particular, live music has been deep solace.
In a year of crying––a lot of it internal––music has brought tears to the surface, into the healing light.
Dancing releases the toxins of doom and anxiety. But so too does music that rivets you into a place of stillness, where your heart blooms into a great big om.
Seeing Jon Collin in an underground (literally) vintage clothing shop was a hermetic experience.
I had listened to a few of his tracks for the first time the day of. But really, I had no idea.
The scene of the concert was akin to sitting in a living
room with friends, the musician a hearth. There were racks of textiles
from many eras, fancy hats of old aunts, and mod lamps forming pools of
soft light. I walked in the snow. Ran from Nazis. Felt a frenetic panic that dissipated into a menthol steam. Flew like a great
moth in a beautiful orbit. The whole thing was unprecedented.
These December songs posts should be brief and possible. But I have already troubled for a good hour on how to describe what the experience of listening to Jon Collin was for me. Let's begin with––I can't seem to find the language to capture it.
His was a transcendent meditation through unexpected turns of sound. I strolled from one structure to another, welcome hallways, starlit spheres, expanses of homeland, and found myself huddled in a kitchen from my past, gazing out a long window at winter moors and tall summer grasses.
The video below was filmed almost five years ago, an entirely different scene, and likely a different composition (I don't think I would really know). But it captures the beauty and the mystery and the flight. A parallel universe to the pedestrian.
I wrote this in the notes app of my phone while sitting in the glow of Jon Collin live in that groovy shop. I stumbled upon it recently, and it took me a while to remember whence it came, even though the event was only two weeks ago.
Fog on glass pane The snow stippled trees The chamber alike Light in the mind where shadows threat plays against stucco Hallows of the hallways Between a child's bed and the lovers futon Sheets swiveled into rain The downward downward
Listen to recent releases of Jon Collin here and here, and more of his tracks here and here.
Last year I posted a song a day in December, something that had impacted me in 2016, or something that has held special through the years, something to lift up or narrate as we were launched into a new era of heightened tension, unrest, and activism with the Trump election. And so as we step into the first day of December, I'd like to embark on December Songs, 2017. While I'll try to find compelling videos to go with the songs, it's not always possible. It's really about the song itself or the artist behind it. I'd like to start with A.D. Carson, a rap artist I learned about after the events of A12 when I saw him perform at a recovery event at The Bridge PAI. A.D. is a professor of hip hop at UVA. This song is the first on his album, Sleepwalking Volume 1. It incorporates a poem he read at McGuffey Park on the morning of August 12 and it seems just the right piece to begin my month of musical posts. I missed A.D.'s performance at McGuffey, I was already in Justice Park I believe. But this day has defined so much for so many of us, as we continue to struggle with its impact, its continued threat, and the wake up call to fight for social justice.
Here is Charlottesville Summer 17
And here is A.D. at McGuffey Park reading Good Morning America
And an interview with him reflecting on the event and the times and Charlottesville.
I wrote this little poem the night I saw A.D. and some other excellent musicians and poets perform at The Bridge.
Cello fills the bowl of Belmont Across the bridge a siren rises Cigarettes and jazz are back The slam, the troubadours Smooth smooth rap
speaking truth
Gather together to meet eyes
The love is thicker
There is more soul in the jam
The poem is now It was an
inspiring night. Thanks A.D. for your great work. Welcome to Charlottesville.
Among several loose folders of my mom's is one titled "Zoe's Poems." There isn't much in there, a manuscript, a few decent poems I shared with her in my mid twenties, my college senior thesis poetry project, and another bundle of poems I must have sent her during my early years in college, a bundle of bad poems, total squirm-worthy dreck. But in that bundle was the poem below, a silly rhyming poem, a poem I probably shouldn't show anyone. A poem that seems to be written by a nine year old, not a nineteen year old. I don't remember writing it, so its existence is a pretty major element of surprise for me. It seems more like something that could be a kids book of some sort, sans cigarette smoke. Since Mother's Day just passed it seems appropriate to share this little light on long ago (and my writing has matured vastly since then, really! I am including an image of another poem that was in the folder that I wrote in my early 20's). "What is that child up to now?" She must wonder As I scamper from room to room As a pout scars my face of gloom As I shut my bedroom door Search through every cabinet and drawer And open all the closet doors As I plop down on the living room chair And my silly smirk paints the air "She's going to harm herself!" She must believe As cigarette smoke dances in front of her nose As I stand upon the kitchen chair One foot balanced on a pile of books and pillows As I try to reach that shelf so high And strain a muscle in my upper thigh As I push my food away Always muttering, "not today." And I do this every day As I speed from one lane to the other "Slow down!" and "Oh mother!" "She doesn't love me. . . " She must think After I slam a door right in her face Or walk in front of her at a faster pace Or I smart talk with a tongue so cruel Always looking for a duel Or I tell her I'm going to college a week too soon "She'll probably kill herself, that crazy goon!" But I do love my mother so With eyes of soft almond glow She's always brave and forever strong In the long run rarely wrong She's beautiful and so very giving She makes my life one worth living I just wish she'd understand I need my independence at hand By not yielding to her warnings, I mean no offense I'm just trying to learn from experience Because sometimes A lesson taught by the experience earned Is really the only lesson learned. . .
among my mother's things are letters i wrote her, cards i sent her, photos i gave her, and drawings i made her. she kept a lot of it.
this charcoal pencil drawing is not dated. but if the drawing of the
girl is a self portrait, i may have made it in 1991, when i lived in seattle, the year i turned 24. i cut off my waste length hair shortly after i moved there, scissors to braids, and sported a shaggy, multi length look. by the time the year was up, my hair was shaven off altogether.
just doodles that i made in communication with my mother. the blob in the middle is cyprus. the mountains and sea and cozy cottage speak of washington state, but clearly my mind was set on a path elsewhere.
she visited me in seattle toward the end of my time there, in early 1992. she stayed in the airy arty apartment i shared with three men. we took a week long trip down the olympic peninsula and into oregon, driving through clear cut land and indian reservations, staying in cold, cheap, coastal motels.it was probably one of our closest times together.
i'd had a confusing year in that magical city. i was sad and ready for a change. she was understanding and supportive at a time when i was most lost.shortly after her visit i traveled to californiaand never returned to the puget sound.
This bible has pages falling out and torn. It's missing its center tile. The spine is disintegrating. It seems that Jerusalem was etched over with blue pen ink.
When I Googled Mother of Pearl Jerusalem bible, I found many just like this, but with the Star of David in the center. Who knows, maybe I'll find that missing tile among my mother's things.
I don't know the story behind this bible, how it came to her. She had
several index cards tucked into it with notes on biblical
characters.
When I look at it closely enough, it almost looks like there is a stick figure drawn in pencil in the center, similar to the stick figures on that mysterious piece of paper.
The curiosity of this piece of paper is what lead me to this exercise. I'm sure it's just a doodle, a passing note. I found it all crinkled up at the bottom of a box of photos. Stick figures, the inked bits, a Himalayan hut. Is it a play on words? Is russing supposed to be rushing?
And then there are the measurements. And the zeros? Surrounded by the names of Shakespeare plays. How old is this? I saw a Midsummer Night's Dream with my mother in Hyde Park in the late 70's. Why did this single piece of paper survive? Is it significant?
p.s. well the google has the answer. amazing how quickly something mysterious can turn into something, well, terribly pedestrian. the joke is below. the next questions is, really? she found this funny enough to write down, with an illustration to boot? and somehow it remains among her things?
There is a whorehouse on a hill. There is one person going to it, one person
leaving from it, and one person inside it. What are there nationalities?
