Old poop listens to new bottles

I often go to David Byrne's web page and marvel at all the things Mr. Byrne seems to be capable of. For example, while the rest of us were busy decking the halls, down to the wire shopping for vaguely remembered relatives and whupping up clam dip, on Christmas Eve he took the red eye to Manila to do research for an operetta about Imelda Marcos. I mean he seems to have time to produce a series of albums featuring Inuit throat singers and Welsh mining choirs, building a sound instalation in Berlin that takes up a whole building, taking his kids to school, giving interviews, mantaining a complex website, doining a daily blog that is more than six lines and picking and tossing up a months worth of amazing music for his internet radio program.

Well no matter how he does it this month's radio offering is really special. He's focusing on "Avant Pop." What is "Avant Pop"? It's hard to describe; a little casio peeping, loops of hub caps being rubbed with a spatula, breathy, emotion drenched, whispered vocals and lyrics that could break the heart of Dick Chaney if he'd only tune in.

A big find for me is "Antony and the Johnsons." "For Today I am a Buoy," just kills me. At first listen I thought it was sung from the position of a strong but very gender confused 12 year old but considering that Antony is singing "Buoy" rather than "Boy" I can only guess that the message is something else entirely.

Man are we living great times or what. "poetic craftsman" are really whacking together some great stuff.

Artists

I have a problem with the word artist. I have a problem with the word art. They both have such weight, such baggage. Most "Art" I see, read, taste, feel I don't like. But some moves me to change. Some re-appears in my dreams or when I close my eyes.

I think we need a better phrase to describe intended creative work. How about "poetic craft" to describe art and "poetic craftsman" to describe those that make "poetic craft." Let's keep it lower case for awhile.

"Catalunya is a Nation" and four words a problem make.

This Sunday the region of Spain where I live will vote on a new constitution. As far as I can tell the changes are not really that substantial regarding this regions relationship with Spain. Economically the regions of Navarra and Pais Vasco already have a similar level of autonomy and big cultural changes like Catala being the language taught in public schools have already transpired.

The big issue really is four words that are in the new constitution, "Catalunya is a Nation." Words can be so powerful. What will be the effect of those four words on the future of this region and of Spain?

Time will tell.

Stranger in a Strange Movie

Benedicte and Zoe are in France this weekend for an 18th communion. I'm happily playing Senior Rodriguez which is Spanish shorthand for when the cat's away the mouse will drink directly out of milk cartons and leave the seat up.

So after putting my shod feet up on the couch I, in anticipation of making the years first batch of "Cheery Cherry Jam" (scroll down to the bottom of the page) , combined a kilo and a half of cherries with a kilo and a half of suger and left them to become one overnight. I then took myself to see Pedro Almodovar's new movie "Volver", which in Spanish means return .

I hoofed it down to the metro, made a connection and popped up a block away from one of this fair cities finer movie houses. I waited on line, got a ticket, bought a medium coke and an ice cream bar, found the right sala and settled in next to two slightly overwieght older women.

OK a confession, my spanish is only so-so so the complex and lengthy dialogue that Almodovar is fond of would be challenging. But I like his work and for some reason still can't get enough of Penelope Cruz. Let's analyze this Penelope Cruz thing a little bit. I don't really know what is about her but she is just so... Spanish. She walks funny, has a strange nose and odd lips and seems like she would be really a lot of trouble to live with but still she's irresistable in a wierd earthy way. Kind of like Spain.

So the film is this lovely combination of pathos and goofy comedy. Almodovar seems to own this style, nobody else even tries. It's the contridictions; real and fantastical and hopeful and almost happily fatalistic. There are parts of the story that would come off being tragic with anybody but Pedro. People die in Almodovar films. People are crippled in Almodavar films. They get cancer. They get beat up. They get gored by bulls. But it's moving and not sad. It's life; it's funny, magical and transcendant.

Every once in a rare while ans only when I see a film alone, I come out of theater somehow changed. It's like being in a lovely fog where the movie has continued and you're in it. Call it being movie drunk.

I could tell as the lights went up that Señor Almodovar had made me a little more than tipsy. I acknowledged the 2 ladies next to me got up and made my way down the aisle. Depositing my ice cream stick and my empty medium sized paper cup I exited the theater into a very long corridor. Futher along I noticed a sign indicating a bathroom and decided to take the offensive and use it before being trapped in the metro. I entered and was surprised to see that the room was full of loud chattering older Spanish ladies. One of them noticed my confusion. She smiled and pointed out that I was indeed in the right place as the bathroom had a common sink area. I entered the next room, did what I needed to do and rentered the rooms where the sinks were. All the women had left but the electric hand dryer was still going. Back in the long corridor I eventually came to a door that lead to the street which has oddly quiet for a Saturday night in Barcelona. I walked back to metro, passed through the turnstills and took the elevator down to the platform. The train came in a few minutes.

I got off at my station and walked back to my apartment reveling in my last few moments of being altered by a lovely film.