Valentines Day, full moon, Dweezil Zappa in his tight 6-piece band performing his father's 40-year-old Roxy and Elsewhere compilation - the Future has arrived, and I think we're finally ready. Vocalist Ben Thomas not only sounded like Frank Zappa, he exuded the energy of Neal Cassady as he sang, recited, and played trumpet, trombone, and miscellaneous percussion instruments. Scheila Gonzalez played sax, flute and keys, wailing and crushing out tunes in her stiletto boots, Chris Norton noodled on his rack of keyboards, Ryan Brown drummed up a storm, and a bassist I'm going to apologize to for not catching his name kept things rocking.
Zappa Sr's tongue-in-cheek style and unexpected melodies irritated more people than they convinced, back in the day (which is not to say the man lacked his fans) - but perhaps the world has caught up and we're finally ready to hear jarring juxtapositions, shifting rhythms, and sardonic songs. That's what the crowd got Friday night, and judging from the screams and roars, a new Zappa has launched his father's music for a new generation. Frank was a composer, and Dweezil carries on: at one point he invited members of the audience on stage to dance to "Bebop Tango" where they twitched and jerked along with the music. Meanwhile DZ directed the crowd ranging in age from 60-somethings to teenagers, conducting noise levels and tones in mass participation.
Frank Zappa never doubted that the powers-that-be are out to screw us. BOHICA!, we all shouted: Bend Over, Here It Comes Again! He's completely at home in our modern world, where our "protectors" are spying on us (hey, they were in the 70's too, but they lacked modern-day tools that really vacuum up everything we're doing). I'm sure he would have written some great songs about drones, waterboarding, and our compulsion to police the world - well, the part that has resources we want, anyway. The rest of them can murder each other as they like.
For me the evening was a confluence of two life-streams: in the 70's the Ogden Theater was
a down-at-the-mouth repertory movie house, no flick running more than 2
nights. For a dollar you could see Tallulah
Bankhead, Errol Flynn, Alfred Hitchcock's early movies, and many more.
And I discovered the Mothers of Invention at about that time, spending a spellbound half-hour listening to "Billy the Mountain," laughing to "Broken Hearts are for A**holes" and "Goin to Montana Soon, Goin to be a Dental Floss Tycoon."
So my advice, if you think Indie music is a little too restrained and diffident, if you want to hear intention behind the noise, if you appreciate rock bands but what they play on Classic Rock stations is a bore, is: get yourself some Zappa! Listen to Roxy by Proxy and rediscover music!
In which NC Weil reviews books and films, and considers this amazing world.
Showing posts with label Denver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Denver. Show all posts
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Admiring writers
First I'm going to apologize to Ann Patchett, who is a lovely writer. I just finished Run, her novel about family and politics and race and religion and Boston, in which a group of related characters are thrown together into new combinations in the aftermath of an accident. I enjoyed the book: well-crafted sentences, insightful observations, a vivid sense of place.
"Don't move her," a voice above her said. It was an adult voice, but she did not regard it. One of the first rules of safety in scouting was not to move a person after an accident, but that knowledge came second to the fact that no one can breathe facedown in the snow. When she had turned her mother just enough, she brushed the snow out of her nose and eyes. There was blood beneath her head, a bright and shocking soak of red against the white, but the sight of her mother's face, the weight of her head in her hands, calmed her and she was able to stop making that noise.
Fine work, an excellent writer.
Patchett's characters are well-drawn but they are characters. The ways they interact show us universals of the Human Condition. She limns ambition, disappointment, determination and love, and these qualities define the characters as her words skein and float and accumulate.
But I also read a couple of chapters of Fall of the Rock Dove, a novella by A. Rooney. He too chooses words with care, but his observations hit a different set of synapses. My head is nodding while my brain is still sorting out exactly what he's said, let alone why.
As storms go this wasn't much but like most of our wet ones it came up from the Gulf, over the mountains, and picked up some cold along the way. The moisture in the air makes it easier to smell people on the bus - cigarettes, bacon, perfume and cologne, shampoo and conditioner, marijuana. It feels a little bit like we're spying on each other, crossing into each other's lives.
Rooney's characters are people, living below and beyond the page, stuck in their struggles, small happy moments drowning in a sea of disability, disrespect and suicide. They are part ridiculous, part pathetic, part canny. Through their eyes we see a world that sneaks past us constantly, that we have trained ourselves to fail to notice. His words clang and hiss and startle.
[Trevino] also checks with Miss Cleo for her psychic predictions and except for Monday [when they all have to go to the Disability office to qualify for their weekly payment], he always asks her which days are best to go out. Bonifacio and Trevino got into it once when Bonifacio told him that Miss Cleo's psychic hotline was bullshit, that they busted her. I had to separate them but imagine a fight on a city bus between two disabled guys - one blind and the other with hooks.
You can't look away. This very short book is packed with pain and vitality, defensiveness and hope.
She never said it but I think my mother thought cars were messy, unpredictable, and expensive, and they could control you. I think not having one was mostly my mother's idea but because my dad was easygoing and had never driven before he went along with it. As a child, explaining to your friends that your family doesn't own a car takes some doing. They think you're either joking, lying, or really poor.
A. Rooney, I've got to hand it to you: the people you put on the page will stay with me. Sorry, Ann Patchett: I liked your novel but it never quite got its feet dirty. But Patchett has a reputable publisher and best-sellers to her credit; Rooney's work is self-published. Go figure.
"Don't move her," a voice above her said. It was an adult voice, but she did not regard it. One of the first rules of safety in scouting was not to move a person after an accident, but that knowledge came second to the fact that no one can breathe facedown in the snow. When she had turned her mother just enough, she brushed the snow out of her nose and eyes. There was blood beneath her head, a bright and shocking soak of red against the white, but the sight of her mother's face, the weight of her head in her hands, calmed her and she was able to stop making that noise.
Fine work, an excellent writer.
Patchett's characters are well-drawn but they are characters. The ways they interact show us universals of the Human Condition. She limns ambition, disappointment, determination and love, and these qualities define the characters as her words skein and float and accumulate.
But I also read a couple of chapters of Fall of the Rock Dove, a novella by A. Rooney. He too chooses words with care, but his observations hit a different set of synapses. My head is nodding while my brain is still sorting out exactly what he's said, let alone why.
As storms go this wasn't much but like most of our wet ones it came up from the Gulf, over the mountains, and picked up some cold along the way. The moisture in the air makes it easier to smell people on the bus - cigarettes, bacon, perfume and cologne, shampoo and conditioner, marijuana. It feels a little bit like we're spying on each other, crossing into each other's lives.
Rooney's characters are people, living below and beyond the page, stuck in their struggles, small happy moments drowning in a sea of disability, disrespect and suicide. They are part ridiculous, part pathetic, part canny. Through their eyes we see a world that sneaks past us constantly, that we have trained ourselves to fail to notice. His words clang and hiss and startle.
[Trevino] also checks with Miss Cleo for her psychic predictions and except for Monday [when they all have to go to the Disability office to qualify for their weekly payment], he always asks her which days are best to go out. Bonifacio and Trevino got into it once when Bonifacio told him that Miss Cleo's psychic hotline was bullshit, that they busted her. I had to separate them but imagine a fight on a city bus between two disabled guys - one blind and the other with hooks.
You can't look away. This very short book is packed with pain and vitality, defensiveness and hope.
She never said it but I think my mother thought cars were messy, unpredictable, and expensive, and they could control you. I think not having one was mostly my mother's idea but because my dad was easygoing and had never driven before he went along with it. As a child, explaining to your friends that your family doesn't own a car takes some doing. They think you're either joking, lying, or really poor.
A. Rooney, I've got to hand it to you: the people you put on the page will stay with me. Sorry, Ann Patchett: I liked your novel but it never quite got its feet dirty. But Patchett has a reputable publisher and best-sellers to her credit; Rooney's work is self-published. Go figure.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Street Art, Denver Style
Recently a series of images appeared
on posts at intersections, above the
Walk button.
Someone has a sense of humor...
Yes, if everyone is doing it, you should too!
It's fun, it's a creative moment on East Colfax, not Denver's most beautiful street.
The drunks of Larimer Street (back in the day when Neal Cassidy and his father subsisted there) have been displaced by gentrification - but East Colfax has no gentry, so anyone can hang out.
And, in good populist fashion, low-rent artists find canvases for their creative notions.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Recycling Orphan No More!
In the morning we take possession of our new (to us - built in 1927) home - and its big purple recycling bin!
Since April we've been recycling orphans, lugging along our bags of newspapers, junk mail, bottles & cans to such diverse locations as Boulder's Eco-Cycle (the pinnacle of recycling), Allenspark's drop-off, the bins of Heinz and other friends, and Denver's waste & recycling facility.
I've been told "Just throw it in the dumpster!" - but I can't. It's wrong.
Yes, Denver offers curbside recycling. However, for buildings with more than 2 units, such as ours, different rules apply. The property management company rep said they're forbidden to offer recycling. I doubt that, but they certainly aren't giving us the option. After being caught red-handed dropping my stuff next door (and yelled at, and threatened with a $500 fine) I ranged further afield. Denver's recycling referral website has many obsolete drop-off places listed. The only one nearby still operating is the neighborhood Whole Foods - but clearly those bins are for a newspaper here, a soda can there - not my weekly accumulation.
So one of the aesthetic points of our new abode is that big purple bin - tomorrow I'm taking my overflowing bags and buckets over there - an orphan no more!
In the morning we take possession of our new (to us - built in 1927) home - and its big purple recycling bin!
Since April we've been recycling orphans, lugging along our bags of newspapers, junk mail, bottles & cans to such diverse locations as Boulder's Eco-Cycle (the pinnacle of recycling), Allenspark's drop-off, the bins of Heinz and other friends, and Denver's waste & recycling facility.
I've been told "Just throw it in the dumpster!" - but I can't. It's wrong.
Yes, Denver offers curbside recycling. However, for buildings with more than 2 units, such as ours, different rules apply. The property management company rep said they're forbidden to offer recycling. I doubt that, but they certainly aren't giving us the option. After being caught red-handed dropping my stuff next door (and yelled at, and threatened with a $500 fine) I ranged further afield. Denver's recycling referral website has many obsolete drop-off places listed. The only one nearby still operating is the neighborhood Whole Foods - but clearly those bins are for a newspaper here, a soda can there - not my weekly accumulation.
So one of the aesthetic points of our new abode is that big purple bin - tomorrow I'm taking my overflowing bags and buckets over there - an orphan no more!
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