Media Overload

I went to see guitarist Mike Stern and his band play at The Centre last Tuesday. Imagine the jazz equivalent of an all-out frenetic heavy rock band, and that was how the show went, complete with Keith Moonesque drum solos and Clarence Clemonsesque sax playing. Throw in also adjectives like funky, lyrical, and melodic. I'm now a fan.


The opening act was Vancouver's Gordon Grdina. I've never heard of him till the concert, but now that I have, I'm convinced that the man really needs to buy a vowel. Like Stern, Grdina can sound like Pat Metheny. Accompanying him was superstar bassist Gary Peacock. Because Peacock played the bass (not the electric bass guitar) seated on a stool, fully one-third of the instrument's neck was behind his head, so it was entertaining to see Peacock's fingers flying above and behind his left ear.

Two observations from this and Monday's concerts:
1) Jazz music keeps its practitioners young—70 year-old Peacock and 60 year-old Hutcherson are trim and carry themselves like men two decades their junior.
2) The most intimate of jazz instruments is the bass, IMHO.

***

I bought and watched American Splendor. Very good, though not excellent. If one were curious about what kind of films appeal to me, here's a good example (how can one go wrong with a movie exuding jazz music and books?).

***

Took the kids to see Cars. Of the last five animations, by far the best. I was floored by the graphics—incredible overhead racetrack camera views, and mind-blowing freeway/highway and terrain camera angles, lighting and rendering. The storyline was good too. Shaula (9) and Matthew (3) want to see it again. Me too.

***

Interesting that I was at the library last Monday trying to track down a Rainer Maria Rilke work when, lo and behold, the Gordon Grdina CD booklet has this Rilke quotation

...No one can advise or help you—no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself... Confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: Must I write?
-from Letters To A Young Poet

Compliment Paid at Jazz Concert

I went to see the Bobby Hutcherson Quartet play at The Centre Monday night. He's on a Grant Green CD I recently bought. I'm sure if I look carefully enough, I'd find Bobby sidelining elsewhere in my music collection.

Hutcherson is one of the premier jazz vibraphonists.

***

I caught the SkyTrain down to Stadium Station and stopped by the main branch of the Vancouver Public Library to grab a smoothie at the atrium shops. I browsed the bulletin boards and noticed that the VPL has a number of interesting reading/book clubs. Unfortunately, they meet downtown in the evenings throughout the year. It sometimes pays to have a condo in the city core. As there was still time to kill, I decided to wander inside the library.

I spent time querying the catalogue system for Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters To A Young Poet and watching the adjacent lineup and users at the "Express 30 Minute Internet" computers. People of all stripes were there— young Asians, twentysomething guys with shorts, backpacks, and headphones; trim fifty year-olds. Some were probably foreign exchange students or tourists. I surmise the rest were either "living on a budget" or of a minimalist bent. (There's that minimalist thing again; I really must pare down my materialistic side.)

I left with a hardcover copy ofJoseph Heller's Something Happened—we'll see if I have the time, this is one long book—and finally made my way across the street to The Centre

***

I had centre orchestra seats one row in from the stage. Had I been a deranged fan, I could have with little effort assaulted one of the musicians or uprooted the drum kit before being restrained by security. I sat between two forty-/fiftyish couples. The male of the pair to my left pointed to my library book and asked if I was studying for exams. 'Gads, man, how old do you take me for? [Privately, I gloated.]

The opening act was the Amanda Tosoff Quartet, a local group of young musicians. Unlike rock concerts, the sound level at the front and everywhere else in the theatre was altogether sane. Unfortunately, the other instruments drowned out Ms. Tosoff's piano on the louder passages. Either she wasn't hitting the keys hard enough, or the sound technicians goofed up the gain on her microphones. She made herself available for CD signing at the end of her show. Seems to be a very nice girl.

As for the main act, the quartet was outstanding. On piano was Vancouver-raised Renee Rosnes, well-known and respected in jazz circles. I don't know if she and Bobby Hutcherson were a little peeved that the evening wasn't sold out (in Renee's hometown). I walk away convinced that the vibraphone is not my favourite of instruments, no slight to Mr. H.

It was really fun to watch the interplay between players and how they would let their arms hang loose while one of them was soloing. CBC Radio was there to record the show. One other observation for the night: for sheer calorie burn, the award goes to the drummers.

Great straightforward jazz.

84

G H W
www.gavinhw.blogspot.com

June 25 2006

Those On The Internet
East, West, North, South, & Up


Dear Readers

I have just finished Helene Hanff's 84, Charing Cross Road, brought to my attention by the inimitable Wheatsone, fellow cubicle farm denizen. It's an easy single-sitting read for anyone born before 1980; for those born after 1980, half that or an outright nonstarter.

There are lots of reviews here, so I won't bother. What I found endearing and life-affirming was the "The more things change, the more they stay the same" aspect. It's pretty much like reading a modern day email, except that fifty years ago, the gap between replies was in the order of ten days. I suppose language doesn't change that much when measured in decades. Not so long ago I took out a Library of Congress recording of Jelly Roll Morton to sample some early jazz. What surprised me (Creole accent aside) was how thoroughly modern his vernacular was in the recorded interviews. Like a modern-day Louisianan. There were however a few dated expressions in this book that I haven't heard in ages, such as "a whole raft of ... cousins", meaning a whole bunch.

Jelly Roll Morton is dead (1941). So are the two correspondents, Frank Doel (1968) , and Helene Hanff (1997). For some reason, the book seems more real to me, more flesh and blood, when I consider that Frank, Helene, and I all drew breath at the same time.

I've read that the screen adaptation is pretty good. If any of you have the DVD, feel free to drop it off on my desk at work.

Sincerely,
Gavin

C: Drive

Some videos from last weekend on Commercial Drive. Thanks to Den for helping me figure out how to do it.

Dancing In The Street


The Crowds


The Drums (large file)

Alarm Clocks Kill Dreams

We made the right decision spending Father's Day at the second annual Car-Free Commercial Drive Festival instead of heading south to the Seattle Premium Outlets. The weather held, and in spite of a local's (and co-worker's) prediction that the area will be flooded with tourists from Surrey, the family and I had a great time. I didn't notice too many Money Mart or "As Seen On TV" patrons in the area.

We took the SkyTrain and a connecting bus. It goes without saying that automobiles weren't welcome at the event: the six blocks along Commercial Drive from East 1st Avenue to Venables were pedestrian-only for the day. Outside this zone were Fratelli European Bakery [closed!] and, perhaps a sure sign of gentrification, Starbucks and Cobs Bakery. The bus was diverted to run parallel to Commercial along Victoria Drive. We got there at noon.

It was a great opportunity to break in my new Converse "Baboo Ox" sneakers, a Father's Day gift. I was worried that the toe box was going to be too narrow, like the Vans I tried on on Saturday but that turned out to be unfounded. Six hours on my feet and no pain. (Note: Betty also bought me a whole bunch of Underarmour gear. Great stuff!)

With the two kids in tow and the crowds, I couldn't capture everything on "film"—stores with interesting-looking window displays that we didn't step foot in: Sativa Labyrinth, purveyors of gothic goods, fetish items and hemp products; the hippy Beckwoman's, "because my father never owned a business and I'm not a man"; the Kid's Zone play area, the stalls and activities at the two parks and spilling onto the side streets—all these went unrecorded. Herewith, however, an account of some of what we did see.

Mosaic taken early in the day. You can still see the storefronts.


Mosaic as above, but taken a bit later in the day.


Roller derby musical chairs.


Crowd near Venables.


Donair meat


Crowd #2


Crowd #3 (with wide angle attachment)


Soccer fans at one of the many ristorantes.


Calamari at Lombardo's.


Salmon pizza at Lombardo's, made and cooked right in front of us (our table was near the counter).


Quintessential Drive #1


Quintessential Drive #2


Quintessential Public Dreams #1


Quintessential Public Dreams #2, Recycle Lady on stilts.
This picture's for the boys. Click on it for a sizeable blowup. Ain't I nice?


Car-free theme


Crowds, looking toward the North Shore.


Quintessential Drive #3


Urban Empire


A taste of Europe.

The title of this blog entry is taken from a tee shirt being sold at the Work Less Party table. I asked the person manning the booth whether this was part of the Slow Movement—I had just finished reading Carl Honoré's In Praise of Slow. Indeed it was I was told, except that Carl's book was one work he didn't care much for. While I looked at the shirts, he chatted about an upcoming party with two women friends wearing "Dyke Walk Ottawa" tees. Nearby, a man sported a paper bag hat emblazoned with the slogan "Satan Drives An SUV". The smell of pot was pervasive here at Grandview Park.

Boy, did I ever feel out of place.

The Letter 'F' - Part 1

There's this blog game whereby somebody "tags" another person to write about ten things beginning with a certain letter. Well, it has happened to me. Andrea, after some deliberation and for reasons unknown to me, was kind enough to confer on me the letter 'F'. So here is the first in a series.

1. Fart
Matthew and Shaula, like most kids, are fascinated by flatulence. Last weekend, for instance, I let the tape run on the camcorder and gave Matthew free rein to talk about anything. The topic he chose was "peeing and pooing." Shaula piped in with her take on the matter.

"Farting means that your butt can talk," concluded Matthew.

Matthew also adds that his paternal grandmother laughs whenever she lets loose. We are talking about a seventy year-old lady here. I have no desire to establish the veracity of this claim.

***

About two years ago Shaula wanted to buy a gag toy from a dollar store. For some reason I couldn't remember the right word for it, so I asked a female clerk whether they had any "fart bags" in stock. She looked at me funny and pointed to the shelf with the Whoopee Cushions, they came in small and large. (I attribute my poor memory to my then-recent stroke.)

***

I recently saw a Science World billboard with words to the effect that people fart on average 14 times daily. This means that whenever your co-worker or boss gets up from his or her desk, quite often it's for no other reason than to let that warm little bubble see the light of day. Admittedly, this is done in conjunction with Number 2, and less frequently, Number 1.

***

I've met a few respectable people, more stranger than friend (like the chap at the Space Centre), who aren't shy about letting her rip in mid-conversation: "The transit of the 9th magnitude star ... BLEE-ET-ET ... is visible from Vancouver." It does make me a little uncomfortable, but I respect their honesty and stance.

***

I have it on good authority that it's a hassle farting at the Metrotown branch of the Burnaby Public Library. If you're anywhere on the second floor—and one can never know for certain whether the culminating gas is going to rush out as a silent stream or sound like a '76 Chevy Monza firing on three cylinders, so one has to play it safe—you have to trek all the way downstairs to the restrooms. It's not easy to blame somebody else in the quiet of the stacks.

***

Someone I know once blew a real stinker just before getting off the elevator. When he exited, and to his dismay, two people got on—two hot-looking women, okay they were young UBC students. The elevator doors closed behind him.

***

A friend of mine had observing time at the Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope atop 13,796 feet (4,205 m) Mauna Kea. On his spare time he decided to hike up to the summit from a much lower elevation, but only after consuming a can of soda pop. He recommends against doing this unless you are prepared for some of the most explosive and sustained farts humanly possible.

How The Wedding Went

As a rule I hate weddings. It's no fun wearing a hot, non-functional monkey suit over a shirt that wrinkles and untucks after five minutes, and then having to don a matching noose. Mercifully, it wasn't hot Saturday and my new shirt fit nicely and was comfortable, so I almost liked looking like a goof. So enjoy (laugh at? cuss at?) the photo of a rare event—yours truly looking like he's either at his high school graduation again, or is starting out as a realtor.

The ceremony was at a church in Kerrisdale. It went without a hitch, was unpretentious and short, lasting about 40 minutes. Because I didn't have the camera with me all day, I had time to take it all in and enjoy the food. Normally, I'm too preoccupied shooting.

Dinner was great, mostly seafood, my favourite. The sixth item on the menu was squab [pigeon]. I passed on it of course. The kids got a kick playing with the three pigeon heads. My brother brought three more over from another table for our amusement.

My daughter caught the bouquet and had a blast dancing with brother Matthew and her two cousins. For music, they played music videos ranging from Elvis to Motown to Gwen Stefani to the latest in hip hop. Needless to say, I stayed off the dance floor. (Imagine me in a suit jerking spasmodically to the beat. Ugh!)

In addition to the standard restaurant menu desserts, there were fruit platters, cake, shortbreads, and Murchies provided coffee and a multi-tiered plate of sugar-coated nuts.

Here's to a great life ahead of you, cousin Charmaine.

44

I thought I heard a dead woman sneeze
Four minutes and four seconds into a song
from Bill Evan's Waltz For Debby.
Perhaps she is not yet gone—
Just nearly.

Wedding This Weekend

Yesterday was Multicultural Potluck Night [aka, the annual mad-dash gorge-out] at my daughter's school. Ninety percent of her school is Asian, mostly Chinese, with India, the Philippines, and Vietnam thrown in. The four of us went, plus Betty's cousin Lou. Our carefully considered culinary contribution, representing North America, was a box of Church's Fried Chicken and for good measure, some Chicken Tenders.

So it was that our chicken blended in with the browns, tans and muted yellows of samosas, spring rolls, sausage rolls, spaghetti, chow mein, vermicelli, tortellini, deep-fried wontons, jerked chicken, pilafs, and pot stickers. People were grabbing for the wings and thighs even before Betty had a chance to put the food on the table.

***

Saturday is my first cousin's wedding. Fortunately I was able to fit a donated grey Harry Rosen suit that was now way too small for my brother. My recent weight loss has come in handy. Think I'll spend the money I saved by not having to buy a goofy suit on some books. Whooops, just did exactly that—ordered 84 Charing Cross online, recommended by co-worker Wheatstone, and a half-dozen other titles.

The reception is held at a restaurant that fell victim to a recent string of holdups by a single gunman, including one incident on Main street that resulted in dead diners. The evening should prove interesting.

There might also be some internecine squabbling; I don't come from a closely-knit extended family. As a result I'm not close to this cousin and besides, she's like 15 years younger than me.

***

Hats Off Day 2006

Every year the [Burnaby] Heights Merchants Association and the North Burnaby community shut down ten blocks of Hastings Street for Hats Off Day—a parade, street festival, and car Show & Shine.

We weren't able to make it last year because we were in Seattle shopping. Fortunately for everyone the weather was cooperative this year. The day started off coolish and cloudy, but by noon it was sunny and around 20°C.

The more "serious" faction of motorcycle enthusiasts were out in numbers with their hawgs, in charge of side-street security and traffic.

There were open houses, giveaways, good food, and great music. A street performer did a moving rendition of Louis Armstrong's What A Wonderful World, and I was blown away by the panache and ease-of-playing shown by a nerdy-looking high school jazz drummer. We had chicken gyros for lunch and sampled some Passion Fruit Lemonade at Starbucks. All in all, a pleasant afternoon.

***
Click on any image below to enlarge.


The Shriners, of course.


Mosaic 1 (click for larger image).


Mosaic 2 (click for larger image).


The kids got to sit in the driver's seat of this truck. I've always had a weak spot for brushed aluminum and stainless steel, hence the picture.


Get a load of the fire-truck red colour of this, uh, fire truck.


Italian sausage.


Looking east toward Capitol Hill.


There were legions of hungry people at the Legion Hall.


Wonder if passengers are allowed to drink coffee in this car.


Looking west.


Lovely lines.


Looking west, another shot.


I've always wanted to do a panorama of a fruit stand/fruits, so here's something fulfilled (click for larger image).

A Book, Films and Music

Last week I finished Stephen Lewis's Race Against Time, a collection of lectures done for the CBC. I'm pretty lazy about reviewing books and often have nothing intelligent to add. For other's comments, go here. I do, however, wish to draw attention to the following gleanings:

Women, specifically grandmothers, have become the backbone of southern and eastern Africa. They tend to the sick, put food on the table, and support the orphaned young—in many communities, the mothers and fathers have all succumbed to AIDS.

Famine is still an issue, but often because of AIDS, not drought. There are simply not enough able bodies to grow, harvest, and produce food.

To get anything done in the bigwig political and U.N. spheres, you have to put up with a depressing amount of bullshit like sucking up to the boss, having to deal with egomaniacs and buffoons, and putting up with office politics, finger pointing, and a gross lack of accountability. No surprise there, but refreshing to hear it from Lewis who is pretty much no holds barred in his condemnations.

This year I have committed 0.7% of my net income to the plight.

Me being me, I question my motives. I can truthfully say that it's not the result of guilt brought on by some religious checklist of good deeds as I'm not religious. What then...?

***

From Marc Ian Barasch's Field Notes On The Compassionate Life

Like most people, I adore my offspring, even when they drive me crazy; love my parents, despite the corkscrew of childhood; dote on my siblings (though there is that scrapbook of old slights); treasure my friends (even if they sometimes let me down). Conventional wisdom wouldn't fault me for saving the best stuff for my nearest and dearest and giving the rest of humanity the leftovers.

***

I rented The Incredibles for the kids. Good entertainment. I watched Finding Home till 4:00AM this morning. A quiet film about place, love, and forgiveness. The first half is slow with some weak dialogue but it picks up admirably toward the end. The average rating at IMDb is 4.5*. I give it a 7*. Recommended.

***

[Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris: All The Roadrunning—I first heard this playing at Chapters. Bought it immediately. Looking at the images in the CD booklet, Emmylou is ageless and still beautiful; even the post Dire Straits Knopfler is getting more handsome with time.]