September 2005 Archives

I'm playing an old favorite over and over again: New Order's "Blue Monday," a pulsing, propulsive slice of Eurodisco that sent me and thousands of Brits charging onto the dance floors of Manchester on a regular basis back in the fall of '83. On one level it's a simplistic exercise in synthobeats, but the development from section to section is masterful--a building, swirling, mass suddenly becomes a stripped-down series of hi-hat strikes, and then we slowly layer on instruments and voice once more before stripping it all down to a sludgy snare drum. It's not so much a song as a miniseries. (It also comes from an album with a wonderful cover: Power, Corruption and Lies, seen here. The excessive, organic formality of the flowers is set off so beautifully by the tiny strip of digitized color in the corner--contrast!)



Some songs work not so much because of the individual moments, but because of the transitions from moment to moment. I have long maintained, for example, that "Layla" would be a nice enough wailin' blues tune if it were only four minutes long. It's obvious from his tone of voice, let alone his lyrics, that Eric Clapton felt it bad, but that alone wouldn't make the song a rock anthem--it's Jim Gordon's contribution that does that. Granted, it's not much on its own, but the wistful piano-and-dueling-guitars meditation, coming on the heels of the wailing angst beforehand, transforms the song into something far bigger than its seven minutes.

It's true of other songs as well. I'm not the world's biggest Guns 'n' Roses fan, but "Paradise City" is a masterpiece of transition. Jangly guitar opening, add booming arena drums, add chorus, add thunderous power chords, add stinging lead guitar--then yank the whole shmear into a hard new riff. Then we're off into the verse and the thing's hung on you as though somebody'd dumped a tackle box on your head.

And of course there's "Stairway to Heaven," which layers on the Tolkienesque imagery like airbrushed paint on a Chevy van, granted, but which is musically adding new colors and tones everywhere it goes: the simple acoustic opening, (banned by law in music stores throughout the nation), joined by a pair of recorders... the first lines of Robert Plant's peculiar description of a drug deal... a pretty little variation by Jimmy Page... then suddenly a warm, full twelve-string strums and a Fender Rhodes rings, and Rob's seeing rings of smoke through the trees... "Does anybody remember laughter?" ...snare tom TOM TOM, and Bonzo's thumping along to the bustle in the hedgerow, and we're propelled onward... John Paul Jones's bass pushes us a little harder... your head is humming... it's a nice jazzy groove... and suddenly Page is playing about fifteen chiming guitars, flourishing a D major sus4 chord... then dropping, swooping down into A minor, and the entrance every lead guitarist tries to duplicate at least once... off to the races with Jimmy... we wind on down the road... Bonzo splinters the beat... "to be a rock and not to roll" ... and the a capella finale. It's kind of goofy if you look at any one section, but together... well, it's overplayed and overrated to boot, but there are good reasons why it's the most famous rock song in history.

But songs don't have to be over eight minutes long to make use of transitions. The brilliance of Kurt Cobain was his recognition that dynamics make a difference even in a punk-pop mode. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" benefits from a killer riff and a great chorus, sure, but it's Nirvana's loud-quiet-loud approach that makes the tune stick in the head--it establishes a pattern, yes, but it's a pattern of contrasts, and contrasts keep the audience interested. System of a Down uses similar ideas, with much more complicated arrangements, in their even shorter songs on Toxicity. What amazes me is that so many bands don't use such ideas.

There are bands I like--the Ramones and the Lemonheads come to mind--whose albums tend to fade out from under me when I play them. It's not that they're quiet and contemplative (a description that has never been applied to "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue"), but that very little changes, either within the songs or between songs. But when there is a change--the key shifts in "I Wanna Be Sedated" or "Alison's Starting to Happen," say--it recasts everything that's gone before.

So here I sit, marveling anew at something every composition class teaches. But the more I hear that freakin' drum machine, and smell in my memory the fumes of stale McEwan's Lager, and recall the lights flashing and the room spinning... well, it's a lesson worth the learning.

3:11 AM

To blog or not to blog.

The preceding line has 169,000 hits on Google.com, so it’s an awfully clichéd way to begin an entry. Moreover, the MSWord dictionary does not recognize the word blog, and instead recommends that I substitute bog, bloc, blot, blob or blow. It also notes, helpfully, that the line is a fragment.

In short, I’m one line into this entry and the whole thing is both a) stunningly trite and b) utterly unfamiliar.

This is unsurprising, as I’ve been spending more and more time wandering through the blogosphere, which is itself simutaneously trite and unfamiliar. I've taken to visiting sites both well-known (Andrew Sullivan’s andrewsullivan.com) and less so (Jenny Slash’s So Anyway…). Sometimes I find myself intrigued by the subject matter, be it evolutionary biology (at The Panda’s Thumb) or Major League Baseball (at Greg Jacobs’ Nachoman’s Baseball, which is, alas, on temporary hiatus.) Sometimes it’s the style that attracts me, as with the inimitable and indescribable Fafblog, and sometimes it’s the substance, as with Tony Plutonium’s Half-life and Times, which digs wittily into a lot of issues I personally find riveting—the North Carolina scene, pop music, UNC sports, comics, etc.), and sometimes it’s a combination (Kevin Drum’s Political Animal, which has become my favorite political blog.) I’m learning more and more about the blogosphere every day, and every day it’s growing.

What I still don’t know, though, is whether I’m a blogger. I started this thing three and a half years ago. At the time, I considered it an “online journal,” and the only evidence I had of the word blog’s existence was the fact that I was using Blogger.com to post entries. I settled into a once-or-twice-a-week pattern of writing in it, and that was pretty much it. I didn’t think much about the particulars of my participation in an activity which, by all accounts, is becoming more and more widespread.

It’s spreading in my house, anway; the lovely and talented Ms. Dalton has dipped her toe into the blogosphere, though I’m not sure she’s planning to share her work with the general public. I’ve enjoyed reading the entries she’s put together, and I’ll certainly enjoy reading anything else she puts onto the web, but I’m not sure she’s blogging any more than I am. We both seem to write at some length, then pause for a good long while, then write at length again; our online metabolisms seem somewhat similar to that of the anaconda, or some other large semi-aquatic constrictor that only comes out of the water to suffocate a wild pig every so often. The majority of bloggers, by contrast, seem like piranhas. They go at their targets almost instantly, at the slightest provocation; they take it in their jaws, often in great numbers, worry it down to the bone, and retire to the shadowy depths until the next time the surface of their home is disturbed.

(I’m going to be enjoying that pair of images for a while, so bear with me.)

In short, I don’t know if we’re of the same species as the typical blogger, but we seem to live in the same ecosystem, and we’re all basically cold-blooded carnivores. And if I can end with a cliché as worn as my opener, let me just say this: Come on in, the water’s fine!

1:37 AM

Michael Brown is out and Mr. Duct Tape is in, New Orleans is still uninhabitable, and Bush's poll numbers continue to slide downward, but what I found fascinating on this particular morning was a very simple graph about a recent Pew poll. Take a look:



See that? It indicates a frightening (but unsurprising) fact about the news. Those who get their news from CNN, network news, newspapers, or the internet seem to have pretty similar views of how Katrina was handled. That covers a pretty variable set of sources, too, especially since "newspapers" means papers on the left and on the right. (And whatever righties say about the "liberal media," papers like the Wall Street Journal, Richmond-Times Dispatch, and Washington Times are anything but liberal.) The internet is probably an even more varied source of news, since people of every political persuasion have equal access to the web. In short, even if you believe that Ted Turner is a crazed Fonda-loving pinko, those who watch his CNN station seem to be getting the same picture of Katrina as the folks reading red-state newspapers, visiting BBC.com, or logging on to Political Animal (where I first learned about this Pew poll.)

Does this mean all these sources are unbiased? Not at all. But because the sources are numerous and varied in their political biases, it's likely that those biases cancel each other out. Does it mean these sources provide the truth? Again, no. But because there are a number of sources reporting, many of them highly respected, and because in combination they have an enormous number of resources for gathering information, it's hard to dismiss the information being distributed without extraordinary evidence that it's incorrect.

What, then, can we say about Fox News viewers?

Fox viewers, alone in this poll, see the federal response in a largely favorable light. They are nearly twice as likely as any other gruop to believe President Bush did "all he could" to handle Katrina's devastation, and much less likely to believe he "could have done more."

Is it possible that they're right? That Fox is a shining beacon of truth in the fog of librul media bias? You can believe that, sure. But given the breadth, the variety, and the consistency of the other groups' coverage, the odds are suuuuuuure against it.

"We report. You decide." If so, why are Fox viewers all deciding the same thing? And deciding what no one else decides?

I wonder if Fox will report on this poll? That might lead to some interesting decisions.

2:15 PM

Sometimes integrity is a lot like medicine. It has to be swallowed, whether you've got anything tasty to wash it down or not.

I struggled with my own gorge yesterday during a trip to a beautiful place on an absolutely gorgeous early fall day. Along with my next-door neighbor Shari, I was exploring the Canaan Valley National Wildlife Refuge in northeast West Virginia. The Canaan Valley (pronounced "ka NAYN") is a peculiar thing--sort of a shallow bowl of wet ground in the middle of a circle of mountains. Though it lies about 3000 feet above sea level, the valley floor is almost flat, which isn't common in West-by-God. Fields of golden grass, peppered with boggy stands of cedar, stretch toward the surrounding ring of green peaks, where ski slopes can be seen carved into the forest. And because of this odd geography, the bird life is odd as well. The grasslands and swamps attract birds that wouldn't ordinarily think much of a mountain habitat, while the elevation draws birds that prefer a northerly clime. I knew when I arrived that I might see about a dozen warbler species that don't linger in the Virginia area, but do so a mere 150 miles from my house.

Of course, had I checked Mapquest.com, I'd have learned that "150 miles" means something rather different in West-by-Godese. It translates to "2.5 hours" down here in the flatlands, but WV driving involves driving in three dimensions, not just two. As a result of those extra vertical miles, Shari and I arrived at the NWR headquarters a bit late for top-quality birding--just after 8:15. Still, Stan and Ken at HQ set us on the road to the refuge's southern end, where a boardwalk extends across a grassy field into a series of ponds around a stand of cedars. There we spotted dozens of cedar waxwings hawking for insects, as well as a few actual hawks (a sharp-shinned and several soaring red-tails) and a couple of unidentifiable rails. I was most excited, however, to see the brilliant yellow breast on a small grey bird in an apple tree on the far side of the pond--I was hoping, with good reason, that it was my first-ever Canada warbler.



Canadas (seen here) live in the Canaan, so I'd been on the lookout, but I couldn't get confirmation on this one. The yellow breast and throat were obvious, and the head was grey, and I thought I saw the white eye-ring, but I didn't see any sign of the black "necklace" across the breast. It's not as dark in the female Canada, but I didn't see any sign of it. I thought perhaps it might be the similar Connecticut warbler, but its pale yellowy chest wasn't nearly as bright as this bird's, and the throat is grey besides. No, it wasn't a Connecticut, but I certainly didn't know yet what it was.

By the time we left the swamp, I was still without confirmation, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that a) we might see a Canada elsewhere, b) we could always come back to the swamp later, and c) the refuge had been playing host to a group of Henslow's sparrows for weeks. The uncommon Henslow is a weird little sparrow native to wet grasslands--very shy, very hard to spot, and not a frequent visitor to WV. It has a peculiar two-syllable call that distinguishes it from other sparrows of the same habitat, but the call is usually all you have to go by--you probably won't ever lay eyes on its flattened olive-green head or rufous back. Ken had told me flat-out, "You won't see these birds." Instead, he pointed me toward the field where they'd been living and imitated the call so I'd know what to listen for.

Well, we got to the proper field, where grass and wildflowers stood nearly waist-high, but all I could hear was crickets. Dozens. Hundreds. And a few crows. A jay's jeering now and again. And every once in a while, at the very edge of hearing, something that might--might--have been a two-syllable hiccup like the Henslow's. But we couldn't locate it. The only birds we saw were turkey vultures high over the valley. We stood in the breeze, watching monarch and spicebush butterflies sail about, waiting for something to offer us some evidence of Henslows. Finally, after about twenty minutes, we saw a small rufous bird whip out of the tall grass, fly a few dozen yards, and drop back into the cover of the stalks. It made no calls. It showed no field marks. A few minutes later another did the same thing. The crickets chirped on. The breeze still blew. And we had nothing, nothing at all, on which to pin an identification. Nothing we'd observed proved those birds were not Henslows, but I require a bit more than that to put a new species on my life list, thanks.

Frustrated, we moved north to a series of paths that the map indicated would lead us along the Blackwater River. In fact, they led us through the woods near a small valley in which a bog that might someday flow into the river sat inert. Birds were hard to spot, but while we stood on a small wooden platform at the edge of a bog, I heard a chip--a call note that I thought for a moment might be a cardinal. But then it flew out of the brush and into a tree--a warbler! I trained my binoculars on it, though it hopped about the branches frantically. Grey-backed, with a white eye-ring... a pale breast, with traces of yellow... and yes, streaks of black near the neck! A Canada! My patience had been rewarded! I followed the bird, noting the paleness of the breast--not entirely surprising, as the summer was coming to an end, and most birds were showing worn breeding plumage by now. But then suddenly, the warbler turned its back on me, revealing a bright yellow spot above its tail. I blinked, looked again, and swore. It wasn't a Canada. It was a bird I'd already seen, and seen frequently; I'd even chased one out of my house once. A yellow-rumped warbler, its plumage already dimming toward the autumnal.

We didn't get anything new on the river walk, so after a short stop for ice cream, Shari agreeably let me take her back to the cedar swamp and its boardwalk. The waxwings continued their hawking, and a few swallows darted overhead, but I saw no signs of a Canada. But then I heard a strange call, almost like the "chimp" of a song sparrow, but coming from a small unstreaked bird in a nearby bush. I peered closer and saw a yellow chest--my heart thumped. There were actually two birds in the bush, but it took me a long time to notice the second because I was so fixated on the first. In the shadows the head was hard to see, but I thought I saw an eye-ring, and the yellow chest and throat were clearly visible. Yes, it could definitely be a Canada... if only it would come out so I could be sure... but it hopped into the deepest recesses of the bush. The "chimp" continued, so I tried my own call--the "pish" that draws chickadees instantly, drives sparrows away, and summons curious warblers often enough to make it useful. In this case, the pishing worked--the second bird appeared in the shadows and made its way toward me. Closer... closer... I could see the yellow throat now, but the head looked all dark... no necklace visible... no eye-ring... what the hell?

It was a common yellowthroat. A male. The female, which had ducked away, is a drab grey-olive bird with a bright yellow throat and, at least in some cases, a white eye-ring.

So that was it. I'd spent the day looking feverishly for birds that weren't actually there, or at least couldn't be confirmed. My day's score on new life birds read like the box score of a team that had left the bases loaded in four separate innings: No Canada. No Henslow. No Canada. And no Canada again.

What did I have left? Well, a pretty decent ice cream cone. A beautiful day hiking in the sun and the wind of a gorgeous piece of the world. A good look at over two dozen wonderful, if familiar, birds. And my integrity. As medicines go, it wasn't necessarily the sweetest, but boy, I feel healthy today.

2:02 PM

Cursing the darkness has become exhausting over the course of August. Continuing bloodshed in Iraq, with no end in sight... the spectacle of our nation's leader hiding from a gold-star mom... gas prices skyrocketing... the horror of Katrina's fury... and now the gathering waters in New Orleans, which somehow no one could have predicted. No one in the White House, anyway.

But I'm too tired to curse right now. Instead, I'll try lighting a candle: here's a link to Liberal Blogs for Hurricane Relief, where you can not only contribute to the American Red Cross, but show that helping your fellow Americans is a liberal ideal. We've already pitched in some cash on my mother's behalf (Happy birthday, Mom) and the kids chipped in a few bucks as well. Here's hoping it provides some help where it's needed.

2:44 PM