Love, Hate, and Don Henley

The other day, I bought a copy of Don Henley’s album Building the Perfect Beast. I found a copy of the CD in a junk shop. The booklet was mangled and the jewel case was cracked, but the disc was pretty clean and so I bought it anyway. Later that day, at another junk shop, I bought a copy of the LP. You see, then I would have a copy of the LP to keep on the shelf and the beat up CD to rip to my iPod and then give to a friend when I was done with it.  Normally this would seem like rather strange and obsessive fan behavior. But as I am someone who has been effusive about my hatred of the Eagles and Don Henley, I realize that it is just downright odd.

My hatred for the Eagles is not because I think that they are untalented. Quite the contrary. It is pretty much accepted that these guys were excellent musicians, good singers, and gifted songwriters. Skill, however, is different than art, and it is the fact that they used these skills in such a blatantly commercial way, apparently aiming to make a musical product that would please everyone, which taints their success in my eyes. The mellow, middle-brow pandering that pervades their music even diminishes their occasional success when they actually would create something that was nearly universally pleasing.

Thus, the Eagles created a body of work that spoke to everyone on a superficial level. They speak to a larger group, but not very deeply. I have never met anyone who said that the Eagles were their favorite band, but I have met countless people who rank them as their second or third favorite. They simply do not arouse passion. Indeed, it has been argued that the early 70s were an era in which much of the music, from the Carpenters to James Taylor, deliberately provided a gentler soundscape to counter the turbulence of the times. Still, mellow is one thing, tepid is another.

To be sure, I take no joy from hating the Eagles. Even the backlash against them is tepid. Sure, when you mention the Eagles to people my age (or a bit younger), often you’ll hear the quote from the Big Lebowski: “I’ve had a hard day and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man!” But they don’t say it with feeling. I’ve never met anyone for whom the Eagles were their most hated band, either.

My feelings about Don Henley are a bit more intense.  I find him to be the most reprehensible member of that outfit. I certainly do not harbor the same disgust for Joe Walsh (latecomer to the group that he was), and his records with the James Gang get frequent spins on my turntable. I don’t even have the same disdain for Glenn Frey, whose influence in the band was perhaps equal to Henley’s. It could be in part because Don Henley has been the most successful and the most visible of the Eagles since their breakup. I think the bigger reason, however, is that he has provided us with the most unflattering caricature of the aging baby boomer rock star in all of its ugliness. His vaguely cynical demeanor, the graying ponytail, and what many consider to be his pretentious but dilettantish dabbling with social and environmental causes, simply rub me the wrong way. (I understand that, in fact, his dedication to these issues is very intense and sincere with his Walden Woods Project representing a huge commitment of time and energy. The successes and unexpected negative consequences of his involvement in these movements have been expounded on more thoroughly by David S. Meyer and Joshua Gamson in their paper, The Challenge of Cultural Elites: Celebrities and Social Movements*. At any rate, this is supposed to be a rant, not intellectual discourse.)  

So why did I buy the album? I bought it for “Boys of Summer.” It’s a damn good song. It is a song that that is moody but driving, fresh but classic, cynical but sentimental. It is a true classic and I love it with every fiber of my being. Consequently, I have conflicted feelings considering how much the song speaks to me and who it is that’s speaking.

Given Henley and the Eagles’ tendency to aim for the middle, the fact that “Boys of Summer” speaks to me should be no big achievement. It speaks to a lot of people. However, as I have already established that this kind of deliberate universality is actually a detriment in my eyes, it is a bit strange, But what is stranger is that the song spoke to me as a boy of seven, when the sentiments of the song were clearly aimed at baby boomers finding their first gray hairs.

Maybe the song just caught me at the right moment. I first knew the song from the bleakly beautiful video on MTV. By the time that video came out, MTV had already been priming me to be neurotic and melancholy (MTV came on when I four, and when other kids my age were making the move from Sesame Street to The Electric Company, instead I went right from Big Bird and Grover to Martha Quinn and Mark Goodman). My favorite videos from the year before were “Overkill” by Men at Work, “Synchronicity II” by the Police, and “Mama” by Genesis, all songs about alienation, desolation and despair. In retrospect, this was odd fodder for a six year old. I’m not sure if I was affected by this or if I was predisposed to be drawn to these things. That’s something to work out with my therapist, I suppose.

Perhaps the song is unique in Henley’s catalog as illustrating an actual unguarded moment, a truly introspective flash of yearning and nostalgia for halcyon days, ruing the loss of love and ideals, all brought to mind by the momentary espying of “a dead-head sticker on a Cadillac.” It is hard for me to ever think of Henley as being unguarded, though. Perhaps  the song resonates for me because,  growing up with MTV, on which the imagery was either plastic and nihilistic, or bleak and disturbed, it was nice to see that there was once a golden moment to back at longingly, even if I couldn’t remember one for myself.

Or maybe it’s just a good song. In spite of my other reservations about Henley, the fact is that he is a talented musician and songsmith who picks his collaborators well (Mike Campbell, Tom Petty’s secret weapon, co-wrote the song and played its haunting guitar parts). In this case he was able to create something with an atmosphere and a mood which could speak to universal emotions without having to rely on shared experiences. I guess I should try to stop analyzing it and just admit the power of the melody and performances were enough to teach a young boy, too young for nostalgia, how to be wistful.

*Sociological Inquiry, Vol. 65, No. 2, May 1995:181-206

Stanley Clarke & George Duke, B.B. King's 6/26/12

The Stanley Clarke / George Duke show on June 26^th at B.B. King’s, part of the Blue Note Jazz Festival, was a long awaited reunion of two jazz-funk legends, a sterling example of how an old catalog can be reinvigorated with pure, in the moment playing, and a complete shit show.

I have been a fan of George Duke since first hearing his playing on The Mothers’ Overnite Sensation album and I got turned onto Stanley Clarke in college when I first started listening to Return to Forever. I latched onto their solo works and other collaborations later, and loved the ability that both shared to marry jazz, Latin, R&B and even disco into a funky, kinetic hybrid. Obviously I would have preferred my first time seeing them to be the best example of their current live sets, the best of what they have to offer today, instead of making the best out of a bad situation, trying to play the best possible set while dealing with pervasive sound issues. Well, shit, I guess that’s live music for you.

Clearly, the intended show was a greatest hits show, playing through jazz-funk classics from their solo albums of the 1970s (aside from the R&B hit “Pretty Baby,” they largely eschewed material from the duo’s collaborative albums from the 80s) laying down energetic, stretched out versions of classics like Stanley’s “Silly Putty” and “School Days” and George’s “Brazilian Love Affair” even throwing in a bit of Zappa.  

Often at shows like these, it is inevitable that the mind will jump to unfavorable comparisons with the artists’ former selves, playing with less agility and fire than during their glory years. As George began singing “Brazilian Love Affair,” I could not help but notice that his vocals, an octave down from the falsetto line he sang on the original album, did not cut through the arrangement very well. However, when he began his piano solo, the intense, funky lyricism laid to rest any suspicions of lost chops.

George first whipped out the old Keytar during “Silly Putty,” and though I generally disapprove of emulating guitar lines in that fashion, George’s facility with the instrument made him one of the only people today who can play it without looking like a schmuck (apologies to Donald Fagen).

The sound issues had became evident almost immediately with a clipping sound becoming pervasive by the middle of the first song. When drummer Henry McAdams took an extended solo, it was obvious that the purpose was to fill time and try to isolate the issue in the channels of the other instruments even before the house lights started going up and down and the engineers started roaming the stage.

At this point, their acoustic performance of the jazz standard “Autumn Leaves” served several major purposes in the scheme of the show. It gave both musicians a platform to show off their chops and pure musicality without the frills of the technology with which both had done such pioneering work. Also, for those members of the audience who wore out the grooves on their copies of School Days and Reach For It in the late seventies, but were unaware of their earlier work with Cannonball Adderley, Stan Getz and Chick Corea, it firmly established their presence in the pantheon of jazz musicians and their roots in its tradition. For the sound guys, it provided a chance to change out second keyboardist Bobby Sparks’ main keyboard in hopes of isolating the source of the clipping sound. The chaos happening at the back of the stage, however, did not distract from the intricate but fluid interplay between these two masters.

After this the sound issues seemed to be a bit more under control, if not fixed. The rest of the show featured the duo displaying the best and worst of their talents and excesses. Stanley showed how he could still play funky lines better than most young lions while occasionally being so percussive that the notes would disappear. George displayed both his masterful playing and his mastery of the technology and the ability to give human qualities to electronic instruments. It still sounded strange when he applied pitch bend to the acoustic piano patch on his keyboard. In the end, though, it’s easy to forgive such eccentricities when the moments that lead to a roll of the eyes or quizzically raised eyebrow are so outweighed by the moments that inspire pure awe.

Basically, these guys are just really funkin’ good at what they do (pardon the pun, but I felt it was necessary).

It was uncertain whether they would end the show with one of George’s songs or one of Stanley’s (but the fact that they had already played “School Days”, arguably Stanley’s biggest cut, tipped the scales in George’s favor), and the intro simply confused the issue. Recalling “Space Lady” (the old Cobham/Duke Band piece featuring George accompanying a psychedelic/sci-fi story with odd textures on his keyboards), George began reciting in a low voice: “Many moons ago…”

Unfortunately, the old sound issues gave way to new ones, and the desired effects apparently were not backing him up. He kept repeating the phrase “many moons ago,” each time hoping that things would fall into place before eventually declaring with a laugh: “It was working at sound check.”

They promptly aborted the introduction and jumped right into George’s classic (although with its mix of P-Funk grooves with James Brown clichés, quite derivative) rave-up, “Reach for It.” With this they got the largely post-baby boomer crowd screaming along, if not on its feet.

Hopefully, the late show fared better, with the sound problems proving to be less of a hindrance. However, the band appeared, at least, to take the issues in stride and just play with that mix of tight discipline, loose spontaneity, and plain stinky funk that they are known for. This may not have been their most exemplary show, but I’d rather see this than the best show by a lesser group.

Empire Jazz: What Could Possibly Go Right?

I was quickly flipping through the recent arrivals of used vinyl at Generation Records when I came across a odd little gem that I had never heard of before: Empire Jazz, music from The Empire Strikes Back arranged by the legendary bassist Ron Carter and featuring Bob James on piano, Billy Cobham on drums, and Hubert Laws on flute (among others). I was intrigued. It was a horrible concept with an even worse cover (is Darth Vader drinking cosmos?). How could something made by this group possibly be as bad as it looked like it was going to be?

It was a steal at $5.99. I told everyone I encountered on my way home that I had found the “best-worst jazz album” of all time, and showed them the cover as evidence. What was this thing going to sound like? The presence of Bob James made me think smooth. I was surprised to see that he would not be playing any electric piano.  Billy Cobham made me think that maybe the album might have a bit more energy behind it, though.  The album was released on RSO records, not Ron Carter’s usual label, but, in fact, the label that issued the all the Star Wars soundtracks. Was this album his idea or a commission job or sorts? Would this end up being one of my crazy guilt pleasures or utter shit? Arriving home after midnight, I was irked that I would have to wait until morning to find out, lest I inspire the wrath of my neighbors. They don’t know good music when they hear it.

The next morning, while sipping my coffee, trying to wake up just enough to fully appreciate the album, I checked out Amazon.com. I found that this album was never released on CD, nor is it available as a download. Not a great sign, but hey, a lot of great music is out of print. Besides, some guy thought enough of it to call it a collector’s item and is asking fifty bucks for it. Just think, I got it almost 90% off.

After the second cup of coffee I felt ready.

The album begins with a straight forward outline of classic "Imperial March" arranged for the small horn wind ensemble before breaking down into a series of competent solos and all too brief moments of real swinging. Mock film-noir music meets cocktail jazz.  Hubert Laws does a fine flute solo which almost threatens to take the piece into the stratosphere but is shot down prematurely. Billy Cobham’s subsequent drum solo became evidence of the lifelessness of the recording, with the normally dynamic and fiery player sounding like his kit was set up in a shoe box.  Overall, not a good start.

However, the bossa-nova, lounge take on the "Asteroid Field" has just enough schmaltz dripping off it to bring a smile to my face from the opening notes. As the track goes on, the solos reveal the impeccable musicianship that make this track a bit more than merely an exercise in swankiness. Though the theme, based around the powerful cascading melodies that accompanied the Millennium Falcon’s pursuit by Empirical T.I.E. fighters through (you guessed it) an asteroid field, is one of my favorites in the movie, it is sadly not recognizable or iconic enough to give the track the appropriate kitsch factor. Still, it is the most enjoyable piece on the album.

At this point, looking at the track list, I indeed noticed that the pieces are (aside from the "Imperial March") arrangements of less instantly recognizable bits of scoring. Evidently, Carter was not trying to do a winking, ironic twist on a pop-culture phenomenon. There was not even a take on the epic title theme (perhaps he was only allowed to do music from The Empire Strike Back and not the first movie). Maybe he was simply arranging and repurposing movie music as a vehicle for jazz. Nothing new, I guess. How is it any different from Dave Brubeck’s Dave Digs Disney?

Side 2 begins well enough. "Han and Leia’s Theme" opens with some beautiful and elegant acoustic piano playing by Bob James (a man well known for beautiful and elegant, if not terribly ballsy, playing) before Ron Carter’s bass enters into the conversation. The horns, arranged with just the appropriate amount of dissonance added to arrangement, are used sparingly enough to add color without wearing out their welcome.

"Lando’s Theme", while lovely when played by an orchestra, seems too boring when set up by this jazz ensemble, and fortunately the melody is abandoned immediately in favor of the soloists. Still, it sounds hopeless dated (even more than the rest of the album), sounding like soundtrack music to a 1970’s romantic comedy about neurotic urbanites. Much the same could be said of "Yoda’s Theme", the album’s closer. While the melody is one of the most lyrical and sensitive in the movie, it does nothing here. More cocktail jazz. I suppose that I should have taken the cover as a warning, but I really expected more from an ensemble of this caliber.

Yeah, I suppose this album is justifiably out of print. The problem is clearly not a lack of good musicianship, and the lifeless recording isn’t it either. It’s not even the fact that the album feels like a grab for a quick buck or a joke that the creators weren’t in on. Sure, part of it could be blamed on the fact that 1980 was terrible time for jazz when a neutered version of traditional jazz was emerging in response to the excesses of fusion. However, if all of these things came together perfectly, it could have created an album so spectacularly horrible that it would be an underground classic. Sadly, the actual results are just below mediocre, at least for this crew. Much like my copy of The Best of Marcel Marceau, this is an album I will keep on my shelf to show to friends, but will probably never play it for them. The fact is, the cover aside, the album largely eschews kitsch without making up for it with quality. Though there are a couple enjoyable cuts, they are not likely to end up getting a lot of play. If it was just a little worse, it would have earned a few novelty spins, but hey, I suppose you can’t lose them all.



For the curious, here is a link to "The Asteroid Field" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVnqF_YFDdg

The Greatest "Rolling Stone Greatest Albums of All Time" Issues

Rolling Stone magazine has put out a new collector’s issue (or what is apparently called a “bookazine”) of the top 500 albums of all time. Being a true collector, I bought this new one for 11.99 even though I had the virtually identical one that they put out in 2003. After all, isn’t the old mantra “collect them all?”

In fact, my years as a rabid collector (some would say pack-rat) began when I found a copy of Rolling Stone’s "The Top 100: The Best Albums of the Last Twenty Years"(issued in 1987 to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the magazine’s founding). When I bought this issue (off a junk sale table, probably in 1989, a couple of years after the initial pressing) it inaugurated my years of collecting not only records, but also collecting Rolling Stone greatest albums lists collector’s issues.

I am aware of how silly this behavior is, but it fits with my rather compulsive character. Also, at the tender age of twelve, that first magazine helped to broaden my musical tastes, give me a solid grounding in classic music, and expose me to artists who were slightly outside of the classic rock radio canon. It also helped to keep me completely stuck in the past. That first magazine came to be a check list of records that I needed to own (I am missing four, and one of those is because I have been slow about replacing my scratched old copy of The Doors’ first album. I mean, it’s a great album but Jim Morrison just puts me off), and by and large, it served me well, turning me onto artists like the Modern Lovers, Graham Parker, and Captain Beefheart, years before I might have heard about them otherwise.

The newer lists have been notably less useful to me (I never did actually pick of a copy of the top 100 album of the 80s which came out a couple of years after the 67-87 issue , and checking the list now, I found to my chagrin that had only 49 of them). Mostly they’re just a reason to argue about music. When each new list comes out, it enables me to carry on about old stuff, but somehow still be current. For example, the soundtrack album to the film The Harder They Come may be an old album, but its placement at number 122 for the top albums of all time is new, right (it ranked at #119 in the 2003 issue)?

Well, as new as anything in Rolling Stone can be I suppose. Perhaps I am making unfair statements about Rolling Stone, as I have not subscribed in years (Although a little while back, I did get a few months for free for some reason. This was around the time that it changed from its classic large magazine format to its current incarnation, looking like Entertainment Weekly’s aging auntie who just got a face lift and is trying to pick up college boys.), but my basic impression is that we are a lot alike. We both idealize a time long since past, but attempt to remain “hip” (is that term even used anymore?) through somewhat half-hearted attempts to find out what the young people are listening to.

The new list has on it 15 albums that had not been released when the last Top 500 issue was put out eight and a half years (some of the other new entries had already been released, but were too new in 2003 to attain such stature). I did find myself breathing a sigh of relief that I had at least three of the new ones. I also noticed that three other of the new entries were by Kanye West. Now, I know I am not as up on my hip-hop as I’d like to be. I realize that it is a hole in my musical knowledge, and maybe even a flaw in my character. That said, I refuse to believe that 20% of the best albums of the last eight and a half years came from Kanye. (An interesting side note: Kanye did appear in the 2003 issue. Not on the list, but in the "New Faces" section on page 52.)

But, as I said, these lists are made to be debated. Pontificating in a bar to a baby-boomer who had the misfortune of pulling out this issue in my presence, I proceeded to argue that a good amount of the entries should be invalidated. Most of the dubious entries were for one of three reasons:

1. They were compilations.

2. They were live albums with a questionable place in the artist’s discography.

3. They were made by Kiss.

The list seemed rife with greatest hits albums (some assembled long after the artist or group became inactive) that secured a presence on the list to bands and artists whose output was primarily singles, or whose best songs were strewn about on a series of mediocre albums. There could be mitigating circumstances, however. If a compilation was made with the involvement of the artist during that artist’s period of activity, and contained material unavailable on other LPs, it might be okay. For example, I objected to the Temptations Anthology, which was just one of a series of 2 CD sets put out by Motown in the mid-nineties to repackage their old acts. However, Sly and the Family Stone’s Greatest Hits, assembled by Sly Stone himself at the peak of his popularity in order to make his best non-LP singles available with his best album cuts, was okay with me… kind of.

The live albums thing is pretty straightforward. James Brown Live at the Apollo and The Who Live at Leeds are quintessential live albums capturing, and released by, the acts at their respective peaks. Sam Cooke Live at the Harlem Square Club 1963 may be an unearthed gem, but released 20 years after his death it falls into the category of an archive item.

Finally, how the hell did Kiss get two albums on there?

I was a bit perturbed when Elvis’ Sun Sessions LP was replaced by the 2 CD set, Sunrise, which covered the same ground more extensively, but was compiled and issued long after the deaths of both Elvis and producer Sam Phillips. I was tickled when I saw both albums that No Doubt had landed on the 2003 list were absent from the 2012 edition. I was confused when Creedence Clearwater Revival’s albums Cosmo’s Factory and Green River were ditched and replaced by the corporate-made compilation Chronicle Vol. 1, while Willy and the Poor Boys, which chartered lower than the previous albums, remained. Also, I wondered how they could open the list to Jazz records when they could only let in a few (or do they really believe that Def Leppard’s Hysteria is a better album than Sonny Rollins’ Saxophone Colossus or Dave Brubeck’s Time Out?).

All said, though, I think I was less perturbed by what had changed and more by what had stayed the same. Sure, deep down I was glad that Rolling Stone did not have the temerity to introduce any new albums into the top 20 since the 2003 issue. In 2003, I did raise an eyebrow when Nirvana’s Nevermind was placed at number 17, but even though I was not even making an attempt to listen to current music when that album came out, I couldn't deny its influence on music and culture at the time (however, with cultural impact being clearly a important criterion, it does make me wonder why hip-hop didn’t appear on the list until Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation to Hold Us Back squeaked into the top 50, landing at 48). More or less, the list that was decided upon was orthodox, respectful of tradition, and argued tacitly that our culture has become so much broader and more fragmented that it would much harder, if not impossible to find albums that had as wide ranging cultural impact as the albums of the 1960s before music audiences became largely divided along racial, ethnic and economic lines in the early 70s (a phenomenon from which it would take decades to recover). Essentially, the top ten was dominated by Beatles and Dylan with entries by the Clash and Nirvana so as not to appear stuck in the 60s, and entries by Miles Davis and Marvin Gaye so as not to appear racist.

Yes, I certainly would be among the millions of people (mostly older than I) who would argue that Sgt. Pepper is the most important album ever made in spite of the fact that it is not my favorite album or even my favorite Beatles album. However, I acknowledge that its inventiveness, its artistic breakthroughs in recording, songwriting, and presentation resonate and continue to inform music making today. In fact, the relative stability of the list would not bother me tremendously if it were not for the fact that the whole issue has a cut and paste feel to it. While I was secretly happy that the top 20 had not changed, I was less amused that the accompanying blurbs had not changed either. For twelve bucks, I would have hoped for some new writing, some new appraisal of the album and where it fits into our culture and musical landscape today. Even if things have not changed that much in eight and a half years (which, incidentally, was a year longer than the time between the first and last Beatles albums), at least make an effort if you want me to keep collecting your Greatest Albums issues.

To conclude, I am going to make my top 5 list of the best Rolling Stone’s Best albums issues:

5. The 2012 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” bookazine- Rehashed blurbs and plethora of dubious entries make this one a loser.

4. The 2003 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” issue. The issue that first contained the blurbs contained the in book and bookazine to follow and the blueprint for the lists, put together by a huge panel of judges ranging from critics to artists. A little better, but still, who decided to give Britney Spears a vote?

3. The 1989 “100 Best Albums of the Eighties” issue. Since it only covered 100 albums, the blurbs were able to be more than two sentences. Even though it had the misfortune of being about the 80s, it brilliantly contextualized the music from that decade in the greater scheme of popular music.

2. The 2005 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” hardcover book. Removed a few compilations from the 2003 list and made room for Boz Scaggs’ self titled album.

1. The 1987 “The Top 100: The Best Albums of the Last Twenty Years” issue. Okay, the scope is oddly limited (banning anything before 1967), and there are glaring omissions (“If Kinks boosters, for instance, happen to split their votes among such eligible LPs and ‘Something Else,’ ‘Arthur’ and ‘Lola,’ the result is likely to be a list with no Kinks albums on it.” This is indeed what happened.), but it was a great period for music and with intelligent voters and good writers, it looked like Rolling Stone

could be the people to do these kind of lists properly. And being the first one I bought, it’s a sentimental favorite too. Also, even though it covered the 70s, there is not a Kiss record to be found.

Enough with the Hipstamatic Thing

(I almost didn’t post this for fear that it would make me seem like a surly, bitter luddite… but why fight it?)

The hipstamatic thing is getting old. I may get some shit for saying this, as I have many friends who use this app constantly, but it seems as though no one takes normal pictures anymore. I see these images popping up on Facebook constantly. Everyone else seems to love it. I guess I am the only one who views the Hipstamatic app as merely a way of dressing up pictures that are only marginally interesting by whipping on a dash of readymade nostalgia. Somehow making a boring digital photo look like a boring Polaroid makes it worthy of being shared with the entire world.

Now I no longer have to read about what people had for breakfast, but I also have to see a picture of it, but made less appetizing with a sickly orange tint (or greenish-bluish, depending on the filter).

To be sure, I dig the effect. I grew up with Polaroid. The first picture I ever took was a Polaroid, which the Hipstamatic is ostensibly attempting to replicate. (The picture ended up being the right half of my mother’s face. I can’t remember if this was deliberate, but in any case, it did not come out the way I wanted it to) Also, though I would never use it, I praise the ingenuity of the creator of the app. However, when I take digital photographs (and though I am the proud owner of a 35mm SLR camera, I am ashamed to say that I never use it anymore), I tend to go for the most high quality image that I can get and save the digital trickery for Photoshop, in which one has a powerful tool for refining images and also, through exploration and play, for creating a whole range of unexpected effects. While I did not create Photoshop, I also do not feel restricted by the aesthetic sensibilities of the people who did. I do not think that Hipstamatic users can say the same.

I know that I am probably breathing too much into this. After all, these are just snapshots, right? Isn’t the Hipstamatic itself basically emulating a format which sacrificed image control to capture moments instantly, albeit imperfectly? Yes, and I have no problem looking at simple snapshots (or not looking at them but acknowledging that they exist). However, I believe that there is some artistic pretense with the Hipstamatic which has the power to turn the nice, innocuous snapshot into bad art. Worse, I see more and more “artistic” photos being posted which would not be worth a second glance if it were not for the readymade effect. Art is not using some labor-saving device for lazy people who want to create something that appears artistic.

Perhaps I am being a bit cantankerous. Again, I do not have a huge problem with the app itself. While I take issue with the fact that it has made one type of visual cliché so prominent over so many other possibilities, there may be very good reasons why this particular style has struck such a chord. It could be a warm feeling obtained when looking over childhood photos. It could be the recognition that the next generation’s experience with that will be so vastly different that we long for some connection (if artificial) to the old fashioned ways. It could be a connection to a grittier era, like people who idealize the dirty, dangerous New York of the 1970’s. Or it just could be that “it looks kinda cool.” Whatever the reason, however, the huge proliferation of its indiscriminate use has made the effect so common that I believe that it largely loses its power. Furthermore, I see the app as becoming more important than the subject matter. It is a way of taking a cool looking picture rather than a cool looking picture of something. It all too often seems to be a way of polishing a turd, replacing creativity and discernment with an app.

So I offer this challenge to all Hipstamatic users: The next time you take a picture, ask yourself if the basic image is interesting enough in the first place. Ask if digital meddling will enhance the image or distract. Finally, ask yourself how the Hipstamatic effect is the best choice for the image at hand. It may not be. Find what is.

A Belated Happy Birthday to Louis Daguerre

One night last week when I got home at two-something in the morning, I saw on Google’s front page a banner celebrating the birthday of Louis Daguerre, one of the inventors of the (aptly named) daguerreotype, the first widely used photographic process. I was pleased to see Google honoring him in this way (a small gesture to be sure, forgotten tomorrow, but nevertheless, I have never been so honored) not only because photography helped usher in a new age for arts and documentation, which ultimately led to a whole new philosophy of the image and the perception of reality, but also because of unique characteristics of the daguerreotype itself which bear little similarity to later photographic processes. To be sure, the photograph would have happened without the developments of Daguerre. Henry Fox Talbot was developing (If you’ll forgive the pun) his Calotype process at roughly the same time. While he was beaten to the market by Daguerre, the Calotype, which used a photographic negative to print onto treated paper, was much closer to the processes that would eventually become standard and lead to an era in which the mechanical reproduction of the image (hats off to Walter Benjamin) would forever change our relationship to the work of art. At the time, however, the roughness of the paper resulted in a less sharp image than the pristine glass of the Daguerreotype. The Daguerreotype was a one of a kind. Unlike the Calotype, further prints could not be made with Daguerre’s process.

In describing the process, it has been said that the daguerreotype created a positive image that could not be printed, but this is misleading. The fact that the image is not quite a negative and not quite a positive is one of the reasons that daguerreotypes are so distinctive and, in my eyes, possess a greater, more haunting quality than later processes. Printed on glass, the image is essentially a mirror with a positive image appearing when the glass reflects a darker surface. Consequently, one of the notable aspects of the daguerreotype is that, depending on the angle from which it is viewed and what the glass reflects, it will appear as either a negative or a positive. Thus, it shows both the face and its reflection, the ghostly, shadowy image that one must at least consider for a second to be that piece of the soul of which the photograph robs its subject.

Today’s processes are completely different. The photographic negative has all but become a thing of the past. Kodachrome is dead. Digital photography has become so prevalent and so easy that most people carry cameras everywhere they go even if they don’t intend to. The terminology has changed. An image is no longer an “exposure,” but a “capture.” The “capture” implies catching something, arresting the subject in time, which is all well and good. I prefer, however, the “exposure,” which insinuates and openness, a revealing, both of the subject and of the film, which undergoes a physical change by being burned by the light.

Of course I am being hokey when I speak of the soul being stolen by the camera, but I do believe that the soul can be revealed and magnified in the photographic image. Also, I believe that the organic processes with all of their imperfections are better at exposing that soul than the digital processes that allow a greater malleability which often leads to a product that illuminates more about the photographer’s aesthetic sensibilities than the humanity of the subject.

To be sure, the daguerreotype was an unwieldy, slow process which was not conducive to catching moments of spontaneity. However, the image that was produced was one of great gravity and intensity. It was unique and unchangeable. Unlike most photographic processes, this picture did not lie and it did not beg to be reproduced. Daguerre did not seek to change the nature of the image. He only wanted to draw with light.

Jazz in LIC

The other night, I ran into a friend of mine on the street near my apartment in Long Island City. As so often happens (particularly with this particular friend), the subject turned to music. We started discussing shows we had seen since seeing each other last, which led to complaining about ticket prices. This led to some serious bitching about all aspects about music and the music business before we brought it all back home by talking about our own neighborhood. “There aren’t really any good places to hear live music here,” he complained.

I understood where he was coming from. While there was more going on in LIC than there was when I moved in over a decade ago, it was not nearly enough for a place that has been hyped as “the next Williamsburg” since before I knew where Williamsburg was. However, many recent transplants to the neighborhood have been artists and musicians, hungry to create a local scene. Not only that, but a number of them have been jazz musicians (and some very talented ones at that) who have been determined to make their new home a haven for jazz music. While they have had some success in finding places to play, I could still see my friend’s point about the dearth of good venues.

Yes, there are a handful of places to hear live music, but I would argue that most of them are not very good as places to really listen to it, particularly when it comes to jazz. I have heard some great music played in a couple of cafés and wine bars in the neighborhood, and while they provided a pleasant atmosphere for the music, I got the feeling that the musicians were there to complete the scene, to add some kind of bohemian authenticity. I suppose that’s all well and good, until you end up sitting next to a couple on their first date who are more interested in small talk and their bottle of rosé than the music.

And then there is the LIC Bar. More bustle than atmosphere, my major issue with that place is that it tries to be all things to all people. Whereas it used to be a lovely, chill spot without distractions like televisions, juke-boxes, and pool tables, now they boost their revenue by alternating sports nights with trivia night and, yes, music nights, all while offer cheap beer specials advertised on huge, tacky posters pinned up everywhere. Not a place that comes to mind when one mentions jazz. Perhaps I am being a bit cynical, but it is hard for me not to think that the main idea behind replacing the old photo booth with a small stage was less: “Hey, let’s create a performance space for neighborhood musicians,” than: “Hey, if we bring in musicians on nights when there’s no soccer match, their friends will come in and drink beer.” Anything to get people in the door, and, to be fair, they do get people in the door. So many people, in fact, that these days I find myself there less and less. So it seemed odd to me when a new friend of mine, a talented bass player named Diallo House, told me that his quartet would be playing there.

The night that Diallo was playing was one of those showcase nights with several bands playing with no stylistic theme unifying them. However, I would be remiss if I did not mention that the music that the other groups presented defied my expectations. On the other hand, the audience, largely, did not. Friends of the band would pay respectful, if somewhat exaggerated attention, as if dutifully making up for the rest of the people who were simply there to take advantage of three dollar Miller High Lifes and using all of their energy to make sure that their conversations were not hindered by the loud music.

It was a far cry from the last time I had seen him, playing a late-night set at Iridium, the prestigious midtown jazz club. On that night he played a solid, low-key set with a pianist and drummer, respectfully, maybe too respectfully, recreating the classic trio format for a small, but dedicated audience of uptight jazz buffs who went to heard music with the same mentality as going to Metropolitan Museum. Still, I thought that the LIC Bar seemed to misrepresent him and would not do him justice. In short, he seemed as if he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

However, it took seconds before they turned the wrong place into their place, challenging the volume of the restless patrons and playing with a blistering intensity that belittled their petty drinking activities. It was clear that here they could play the music that they wanted to play and not have to blend into the atmosphere or appease jazz traditionalists.

Drummer Ismail Lawal laid down a groove of unrelenting intensity in which one could hear hints of drummers such as Billy Cobham and Alphonse Mouzon, but also the influence of funk and hip-hop break beats. However, whereas the break beat serves to create a foundation for other layers and colors, Lawal eschewed the solid, unyielding rhythmic base, creating instead a space to be inhabited. Tight and driving enough to make a physical response from the listener an inevitability, but loose enough and with enough room for his fellow instrumentalists to play inside and not simply on top.

Feeding that groove and upping the stakes, Diallo pulled percussive, funky lines and phrasing out of his upright bass which seemed impossible or even incompatible with the staid, dignified instrument. He hunched over it, vibrating in time with the music with the kind of violence that a concerned onlooker would be inclined to call an ambulance if he didn’t have an instrument in his hands. A little lower and his chin would have been pounding out 64th notes on the belly of the instrument.

Against this, guitarist Michael Louis-Smith provided a striking counterpoint. Far less relentless than his band-mates, he played with a clean, understated tone, with his sound seeming to come straight off of jazz records of the sixties. His softer touch both balanced the commanding rhythm section while also seeming to represent the more traditional type of jazz which was only one of the many sounds that the band was using to its own ends.

Stacy Dillard on saxophone was a revelation, playing within the space with intensity and imagination. At first I thought I heard Wayne Shorter in his playing. At another time, I could swear I heard the influence of Steve Grossman. Before long, I simply felt bad about making any comparisons at all.

In short, these guys cooked. Playing the wrong room at the wrong time, clearly they had something to prove. While they played with respect for their influences, they had enough confidence in their own voices to avoid the stifling reverence to tradition which too often stagnates jazz and relegates it to background music for Sunday brunch on the Upper East Side. So what if the girl next to me would rather send texts than applaud at the end of a solo? Let her drink her cosmo and hang out with her vapid friends. I found it funny that the best place for jazz in LIC, at least for that one night, ended up being the place that seemed to have the least respect for it, leaving the musicians to play what they wanted: Music that was vital and dynamic, music that’s intelligence was only matched by its drive, music that acknowledged tradition while flouting it. This was not jazz as a museum piece. It was not new or old, it was simply and aggressively here.

So while I had to agree with my friend on the street that there were no really good music venues in long Island City, I had to assert that at least there was good music to be found in the wrong places. “And maybe one day the venues will follow,” I added, with a somewhat pessimistic tone in my voice. Before we parted, I told him that Diallo’s quartet would be playing at LIC bar again this month, and that he would do himself a favor by checking them out.

The Diallo House Quartet will be playing August 17th at the LIC Bar on Vernon Boulevard in Long Island City.

Photo by Jeremy Gordon