Which way the wind blows
I haven’t prepared a midweek post because I’ve been expecting the Flight 93 blogburst which, for me at least, is not simply a matter of uploading. I always prepare a brief but thoughtful introduction, and I thoroughly edit the essay and reformat the photographs, graphics, and animations. Additionally, I code the blogburst with an array of meta data, optimizing the post for Google keyword, image, and blog searches. It’s a dirty job.
Waiting for the missing blogburst to arrive has got me in another pensive mood, musing about what I’d rather be doing—thinking about why I do this at all. And hearing the silly twit in the video express himself in song reminds me of all the incredibly gifted and talented bloggers and artists engaged in the counter-jihad and in defense of western traditions and values. Inspired by the limitless human spirit, they used to spend much of their time in Bohemian pursuits, voraciously consuming great art, music, and literature and tirelessly honing their own aesthetic skills. They had hoped, all of them, to write great books, to compose symphonies, to capture beauty on canvas, and to make powerful and unforgettable films.
Where did they, where did I, go wrong?
Subterranean Homesick Blues - Bob Dylan
Well, you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
The line was plucked from Dylan’s trite, non-melodious shorty to name the Weather Underground of William Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn.
All of us know which way the wind is blowing. It’s a worldwide phenomenon—from Kenya, where they sing about Obama as if he is the promised savior of darkest Africa, to the gigantic German arenas where tens of thousands hail him as the long-awaited guarantor of harmony and understanding.
Now we’re the underground—the subterranean homesick—and we just want our world back. We’re tired and exhausted. We’ve had enough of this cold wind, carrying fascism and Bolshevism and jihadism to the four corners. You don’t need a weatherman to know we’ve entered an ice age.
It is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.
Obama be thy name.
21 comments
My apologies to Darryl and anyone else who can’t access YouTube videos.
You probably don’t want to hear some brain-dead putz singing “Obama be thy name” anyway.
And you definitely don’t want to find yourself in the frame of mind into which this “music” video propelled me.
How I wish that I were doing something other than participating in the counter-jihad!
I used to do a lot of things I loved. I don’t do those things very often now: play the piano, work crosswords, read fiction, etc.
Oh, I’ve tried to stop watching this oncoming trainwreck — the expansion of Islam. I even bought myself a new-to-me piano in the hopes that a better instrument would bring me out of this obsession. I haven’t touched the ivories in months. I can’t keep my mind on the music, much less my performance of it.
I used to sing along with the radio in the car. I lost the joy of singing on 9/11. I never thought I’d give up raising my voice in song. After all, I had a scholarship to Juilliard — for voice.
My health has declined, too, more than is normal for the passage of seven years. I spend too much time in front of my computer.
Well, I’d better get off my butt and get in shape. For what’s to come if Obama wins the White House.
I see you know what I’m talking about, Always. We have a lot in common.
It’s something I’ve been aware of for a long time. I often wonder what many of my favorite bloggers would be doing if not for the gathering storm.
If it makes you feel better, I seldom play anymore myself, and for much of my life I thought I’d never do anything else.
My two great loves, music and literature, are now like children who died a long time ago.
Memories.
Like the corners of my mind.
I’m with you and AOW, Haid. Music and literature are my loves. I’m a drummer and a songwriter, with degrees in English Literature and Philosophy. I love poetry, my favorite poets being Walt Whitman and Wallace Stevens. My favorite writers are Hemingway, Paul Bowles, Henry Miller, and Shakespeare.
Those are the things I used to spend my time on, and like AOW and yourself, I don’t spend much time on them anymore. I haven’t written a song in three or four years. I do still write fiction, but it has NOTHING to do with the Jihad and it is written to sell, so I don’t mix it with this world at all.
I do meet a lot of our types in the blogosphere. There are some artist-types out there who realize what will happen to our pursuits if Islam takes over.
It makes me very angry to think about, but it makes me even angrier that most of my artist friends are so selfish that they don’t realize what’s coming down the pike.
Yo, Jaco. Thanks for stopping by.
Anger–yes, I was feeling a bit of that as I drafted this dreary post. I started down this road and really went off when I stumbled across the video of a bumbling boob not just making bad music, but copping lyrics from The Lord’s Prayer to praise the Obamessiah to boot!
As I say, I’ve marveled at the number of accomplished artists who’ve abandoned their Bohemian quests to join the anti-jihad–like Robin of Locksley and King Richard leaving all behind to embark on the Crusades. I used to put it down to frustrated artist syndrome, but I don’t thinks that’s it at all.
I think the aesthetic impulse at its best–that is, when it isn’t simply vanity–is basically a need to do something important, to create something of lasting value from a trivial and ephemeral existence. We don’t know what important things we have to say, or what hot new lick is waiting to spring from our fingertips, or what the watercolor looks like that is more lovely than anything we’ve ever seen. We just know those things are in us somewhere, and we know we’ll recognize them when we see ‘em.
And so we did. We were pruning a beautiful garden, soon to be known as the eighth wonder of the world, and we saw something important, a cause worthy of our best efforts. We saw the frightful black clouds, and we felt the biting chill. You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, and you can’t stay in the garden through a perfect storm.
Besides, it’s better than dying like your namesake. Or (since you spell it differently) are you not referring to Jaco?
You’re a drummer: Do you like Elvin Jones? You mentioned everyone except drummers LOL.
As for literature, I’m rereading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, believe it or not, which I haven’t cracked since I myself was still a “nicens little boy” at university in the seventies. No wonder I’m depressed.
Speaking of which, I wonder where that fearful Jesuit is?
Anyway, thanks for commenting and for the melancholy stroll down Memory Lane.
Best regards,
HAID
you couldnt write yur way out of grade scholl haid
that really hurts coming from a lettered and erudite dude such as yurself joe but u have to remember im writing for a lot of knuckleheads here that arent of yur caliber and i have to write down to their level
Always,
What kind of piano?
I still have the Steinway 1098 I picked out at the New York factory in 1964. It needs some work, but I haven’t played it in years, so it’s not going to get it. When I play at home, it’s on my Yamaha CP80 electric grand. Since it has no soundboard, I just play it “unplugged,” and it doesn’t make enough noise to disturb the convalescent shut-in Mrs. Dasalami, whom I haven’t had quite as long as the Steinway–just since the mid-seventies.
I also have a loaded Kurzweil 2500X and a plethora of vintage eighties synthesizers, including a rare Yamaha DX5 and a few Oberheims, with and without keyboards.
Fortunately, I invested some years ago in dust covers for the whole lot.
u can post that but no pussycat dolls, where is the fairness in that? happy halloween haid and keep up the fight!
Yo, Jack. I thought you’d like the video. Music not awful enough for you?
I just noticed: You write exactly like Joe. LOL.
Haid,
I don’t have the impressive array of instruments you have! I’m jealous!
I have a Yamaha upright (U-2, 1978). Previously to getting the Yamaha, I had a 1968 Huntington spinet, very nice as spinets go and the perfect size for the room I was using as the piano room at the time.
Of course, my dream has always been to have a Steinway grand. Unfortunately, I live in a 1930’s house with small rooms. There is no way to get a grand in here without knocking out the walls! I could barely get the upright in! When I got the Yamaha, I revamped the dining room and turned it into a piano room.
If I ever get to move to a bigger house, I’m getting a Steinway grand!
I have to say that my Yamaha is one of the best instruments I’ve ever played — tone, response, etc. The lady from whom I bought it gave up only because the family had an Yamaha grand and had recently inherited a Steinway grand.
The room in which my Yamaha sits has acoustics you wouldn’t believe. That upright is perfect for the room and for me. Music fills the room and the soul when I play that Yamaha. Our cats and my husband revel in the tones when I play.
I’m going to FORCE myself to start practicing some Christmas music this weekend. If anything will lift my spirits, it’s playing the carol arrangements I have in my music library. Of course, my technique is very rusty, so I’ll have to warm up via some Hanon exercises.
Ah, the Yamaha U series. There’s no reason to envy anyone, then. There isn’t a conservatory in the world that doesn’t have a few U’s in its practice rooms (usually U-5’s) and they’re the only choice for anyone without room for a grand.
BTW, if I had the money to buy any new grand I wanted (I don’t even have enough money for lunch!) I’d buy a new Yamaha. You just can’t beat ‘em.
Now go practice.
So Haid, do you suppose that Jack Bauer is to Joe what I am to Tonya Greipenweiner? Heh. Hang in there, man. You have Jaco on your side. We like Jaco very very much! But like you, why did the drummer take up the bassist’s name? I fear my drummer knowledge is limited to my father’s favorites….Krupa and Buddy Rich, usually.
I am feeling the similar malaise, though. In fact, there’s a radio station in Camden NJ (Family Radio) where the preacher, Harold Camping, is stating emphatically that the Rapture is going to happen on May 21, 2011, and that the end of the world will be on October 21, 2011.
While I don’t know where he gets the math, If Brer Bama wins, it will probably come around home a lot sooner….maybe.
A blog that has both Jaco and Jack Bauer among its readership is special indeed.
As for Jack, I know him and love him like a son (he’s just barely older than my oldest). He’s definitely no Joe, although I may seek Jack’s services next time I want to answer Joe in his own tongue.
I thought I did alright on my own.
I won’t comment on the preacher, because I’ve been getting a lot of this lately and I feel a major post brewing. Ah, if I had but world enough and time.
Since I’m always telling you about the legends I’ve gigged with, I may as well tell you about the Big Noise from Winnetka. No, not Obama. I mean Gene Krupa.
No, I never played a gig with him, but I played an outdoor concert at which he was the headliner when I was in high school. I wasn’t driving yet, meaning I probably wasn’t yet sixteen, and afterwards I was waiting for the bus to go home when Big Noise pulled out of the park in his Hertz rental. Recognizing me as one of the guys on stage, he stopped and rolled down the window.
“Jump in. Someday you’ll be one of the all-time greats and I can tell everyone I drove you home when you were just starting out.”
(I guess I did become the great Haid Dasalami, after all).
His huge black bass player hopped out of the front seat and jumped in the back. Gene called him “Slam,” and I later learned Slam Stewart was as famous as Krupa.
Having seen the movie of Krupa’s life, which rivaled Reefer Madness in its exaggerated portrayal of the evils of pot smoking, I just had to ask him about his drug addiction.
Gene told me not to believe the movies–that it was all fabricated to sensationalize the film–but that he had seen a lot of musicians on drugs and I’d better stay away from them.
Slam was laughing in the back seat, and he finally spoke up:
“Quit lying to the nice white boy. You know you be blowin’ that shit.”
LOL.
The story gets even better. Pasta, sausage, and meatballs with mom. Your kind of story. But then I DID get a chance to play with Krupa! He was telling mom his favorite song was “Body and Soul” and she of course was trying to get me to the piano, telling Gene he HAD to hear me play it.
Gene said we should play it together, as a trio. When I mumbled that he didn’t have his drums, nor Slam his bass, he noted that he and Slam used to practice on the bus, and he told me something I’ve quoted a million times:
“Musicians don’t need instruments. They make music all the time.”
So we played, the Big Noise stroking the newspaper on the table with a couple wooden spoons from mom’s kitchen, and Slam singing the bass parts with perfect intonation.
We swung. And ever since, I’ve made music all the time.
True story.
Memories.
Like the corners of my mind.
And you know, Haid, I forgot to mention my brother in law, Greg Richter…all-around studio man, transcriber, vibes man, percussionist, pianist, arranger, and producer. Sorry, Greg. I like hanging out with the band…so long as you keep your clothes on.
Heh!
Does he read my blog? Because you seem to be leaving him a message here. That would be really cool. Two drummers LOL.
He plays with his clothes off?
No…it’s an inside joke. My teen years with hanging around old coots in smallish bands is that they were all dirty old men
Damn, Haid! That was a genuinely great story. And it deserves another from me: So here it is:
October 30 was my big brother’s birthday. My dad sent him the following email describing the night he was born in 1960. I think you’ll enjoy it:
Happy birthday, Don’t get too pumped up because it’s your birthday,
after all, you had very little to do with it. I remember it well.
That would make a good song title. A waltz perhaps. Anyway, that’s
when I was working at the Jungle Club, a local mafia owned strip
joint. You were born late on a Monday, so I raced home to clean up
and change clothes. When I got there a home made eviction notice was
on the front door and the door was padlocked. So I went on to work
looking pretty bad. Corkey Cevilla, the local Don made some
unpleasant remarks about how I looked. I told him why and he had me
look up the landlords phone number and dial it. He said, I’m Corkey
Cevilla, do you recognize my name? Well, you’re messing around with
one of my people and I don’t like it. When he gets home tonight that
sign and lock will be gone, never to return, won’t it? He used to run
a pretty nice town.
Well, happy birthday.
Love ya, Dad.
Heh. When I was a kid in school in Kansas City, all the little first graders had to get up and tell about the work their daddies did. After I told about how my daddy worked at the Playboy Club, they may have had to discontinue the practice of letting first graders spill the beans on daddy.
Haid,
I lucked out with the Yamaha I bought. I got it well below market value because I bought it from someone who wanted to give me — her children’s teacher — a break.
And, yes, I’ll put it up against any other kind of upright I’ve ever played.
Effendi,
Fearsome Jesuit? I don’t know any. But I vividly remember you telling me the Krupa story years ago. Thanks for refreshing the memory.
I was thinking of you the other day, watching WSoP with friends fond of the game (I do not play, as you recall). Has the virtual green felt been graced with your presence, lately?
BTW: did you ever record yourself, and if so, could you post it?
Darryl,
“Fearsome” Jesuit. That’s what I meant. The ol’ memory isn’t what it used to be.
You can understand: After all, I’m rereading Portrait, not Ulysses.
As for the green felt and recording, no, neither–but next year, I promise.
Right now I’m too poor to invest in either, but soon Obama will be turning things around and we’ll all be swimming in the sawbucks.