teabowl

The medieval concept and practice of pilgrimages stretching over months or even years - to Jerusalem, Rome or Santiago de Compostela - sits uneasily with today’s package tours and motorised travel. For the original pilgrims, though the destination (both physical and metaphysical) was important, the journey was the thing, with all its physical hardships, the hazards along the way and the shared experience, occasionally violent but mostly convivial. Today there are less onerous, probably safer and certainly faster ways to visit the magnificent abbeys, priories and cathedrals that criss-cross southern France and punctuate the various routes through northern Spain. Yet something is missed if we are accorded only the briefest of glances before the tour guide summons us on to the next step in the itinerary. Medieval men and women had the time to become absorbed, the capacity to be enraptured. (John Eliot Gardiner, from the sleeve notes to Pilgrimage to Santiago)

There’s been a slew of recordings in the last few years from musicians making the pilgrimage (the ‘Way of St. James‘) to Santiago de Compostela, a city in Spain where the remains of St. James are said to be kept. This medieval pilgrimage of potentially 1,000km or more has been made for more than 1,000 years from various originating points across Europe. Pilgrims typically walk; many cycle and a few ride on animals.

John Eliot Gardiner, renowned British conductor of choral music, and his Monteverdi Choir, undertook to walk the camino and sing in many of the churches and cathedrals along the way. These performances of 12th century choral music were recorded and released as Pilgrimage to Santiago.

Pilgrimage to Santiago

Codex Calixtinus Anonymous (Composer). Soli Deo Gloria 2006, Audio CD, $23.98

In 2004, Canadian violinist/fiddler Oliver Schroer chose to walk 1,000km of the camino through France and Spain with his wife and two friends. He carried his violin in his backpack, wrapped in socks and underwear (as described in the sleeve notes (PDF), which are great). Over the course of two months, Schroer recorded himself playing beautiful improvised music in 25 different churches and cathedrals, using a Sony DAT recorder.

Camino

Big Dog 2006, Audio CD, $16.98

The result is Camino, one of the most intriguing and beautiful records I’ve heard in recent years. For me, the comparisons are the solo violin architecture of Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin, the improvised classical/jazz fusion of Jan Garbarek and the Hilliard Ensemble, or even Keith Jarrett’s solo improvisations. The music is of the same ethereal quality. While it seems that Schroer’s more often associated with playing a slightly left-of-centre version of Canadian ‘Celtic’ fiddle music, there are only limited traces of that in this work. His 5-string violin soars and sings, establishes musical structures involving counterpoint and other ‘baroque’ devices, and inhabits a sonic space that can only be described as ‘classical.’ There are pieces, such as ‘The Garden of Birds and Flowers,’ where a Celtic fiddle/bluegrass sensibility comes a little more into the foreground. But it’s always tempered by what I can only call ‘the opposite of Celtic fiddle music’: the naturally beautiful acoustics of the churches put this music firmly in a spiritual light - there’s none of the rhythmic, foot-stomping, dance music intensity (not that there’s anything wrong with that…) of Ontario fiddle music.

And then I stumbled on another kind of tune. What I call the fractal tune. The material that became O2 and Camino. It had a very different quality to it. It was less of an entertainment, and more of a sacrament. This was music that came to me from a different place. Very deep, unexpected, inexplicable and spiritual. Talk of keeping me amused. It had progressed beyond amusement into spiritual practice for me. And getting back to the search for meaning, there was a lot of meaning in this music. It connected with people, it connected with soul, it expressed something profound for myself and apparently for others. It was a mystery, and a beautiful mystery at that. So that, for what it’s worth, is a bit of the story of my musical journey thus far.

Schroer’s camino music is an interesting hands-on illustration of how closely related ‘old’ music and ‘folk’ music really is. Ultimately, the similarity between Bach’s rigorous partitas and Schroer’s spirited improvisations are a matter of what informed them. Both require incredible technique, focus and musical invention. The fact that Schroer’s compositions were not written down (at least I assume they weren’t, even though his liner notes indicate that some pieces are ‘recycled’ from past projects) is actually the least significant point of difference. Going through some samples of Schroer’s earlier recorded work (http://www.oliverschroer.com), it feels as if the cathedral locations and the spiritual focus of walking a thousand kilometers in the footsteps of pilgrims have caused a shift - away from secular solo violin music (much of which already had the same technical elements as Camino) to playing music for the glory of God. (In a fitting parallel, Gardiner’s new independent record label is called Soli Deo Gloria - for God’s glory alone.) Even if Oliver Schroer notes on his website that his dialogue with God has been incomplete at best (not unlike my own, I think):

The meaning I was looking for I didn’t see or find meaning in religion either. Not that I didn’t see other people finding a lot of meaning and solace there. But somehow it was not cut out for me. And that is not to say that I didn’t have an ongoing dialogue with God my whole life long. I used to read the Bible in secret as a teenager. Always 17 verses a day. I ‘m not sure why. So I was not ill disposed toward religion. It’s just that I never found that oomph of certainty that other people seemed to get from it.

Camino is more than a violin solo recording. It’s also a clever audio document of the pilgrimage: every so often, there’s a short ambient track featuring the sounds of the trail. There are church bells, the sound of footsteps on a sandy path, voices of other pilgrims, cathedral doors. I initially thought this would be an unpleasant distraction from the music but I’ve since decided that these brief interludes are sort of like the pickled ginger when you’re eating sushi: they clear your head before the next beautiful morsel of music.

Schroer’s technique never ceases to amaze. I still remember being transfixed, as a child, by my parents’ old Yehudi Menuhin recordings of Bach’s partitas. I remember that I had previously thought of the violin as an instrument that was only capable of activating a single string at a time - I recall thinking that’s why you needed so many of them in an orchestra. Hearing the Bach sonatas and partitas jolted me out of that belief and helped me see the possibilities of coaxing harmonies from violins. Of course, Bach also opened my eyes to many other things. (And I once, during my university days, opened a guitar-player friend’s eyes to “where Deep Purple got all those guitar solos from” by introducing him to Bach’s sonatas and partitas - but that’s another story entirely…).

Oliver Schroer combines elements of classical technique with controlled harmonics (which are only enhanced by the suberb natural reverb of the Spanish cathedral acoustics), subtly ‘Celtic’ harmonies and rhythms, and a meditative, circular way of arranging his melodies - the 8-minute opener, ‘Field of Stars,’ doesn’t seem long at all. If anything, you experience a sudden longing for more once it’s over.

The recording quality also deserves commentary. It’s nothing short of remarkable what can be done with a single Audiotechnica stereo microphone and a Sony DAT recorder. This is the sort of recording that’ll make you want to get out the good headphones, or finally upgrade your stereo. I would say it’s as close to impeccable as recording a solo violin can get in a natural recording space. And it’s especially remarkable that it was made by Oliver himself without any assistance from a professional recording engineer. Even if it didn’t contain some of the most extraordinary improvised music you’ll ever hear, this record would be worth hearing for its acoustics alone.

Oliver Schroer has been diagnosed with leukemia and appears to have spent the last two years in and out of various Toronto hospitals undergoing chemotherapy. His website’s ‘Leukemia‘ section has all the details and his thoughts on this weighty subject. Suffice it to say that I hope his treatments are successful and that we’ll have Oliver Schroer around for many, many more years.

(Camino and Oliver Schroer’s other CDs are available directly from his website. Amazon.com availability seems a bit patchy.)

Blame It On Gravity

New West Records 2008, Audio CD, $16.98

I love this band. They’ve gone through many changes over the years, but there’s alway something musical and inspiring to discover in their records. I’ve never seen them play live, but their 2005 live album, Alive and Wired, suggests they’re a “smoking” live act (as the sleeve notes say).

Old 97’s are from Texas and come from the same ‘cow punk’ school made popular by Uncle Tupelo: a punky form of country rock, sort of the anti-Eagles… like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young if Neil had been allowed to plug in his guitar. This is country restored by injecting Texas singer/songwriter cred and hardcore’s energy. Their early records contained such spectacular songs as ‘Doreen’ and ‘Barrier Reef’ - by the sounds of it, fanbase favourites and staples of the live show.

Since about 1999’s Fight Songs, main songwriter Rhett Miller (who has solo aspirations - there are two solo records) has steered the Old 97’s towards a more pop-inflected sound. The country roots are definitely there, but the subject matter and melodies are oriented towards an indie-pop kind of sound (think Barenaked Ladies or They Might Be Giants). The resulting sound is like a more energetic version of Blue Rodeo, or a slightly slicker, more modern Uncle Tupelo. Where Wilco rose from Tupelo’s ashes and gained virtually limitless credibility by mixing country and experimental indie rock, Old 97’s chose to blend country punk with pop. They’re an easier listen, much lighter than Wilco, and a little less sleepy than Blue Rodeo (who, I always thought, were the anti-Wilco - at the opposite end of the modern country/rock spectrum). (I should say that I deeply admire both Wilco and Blue Rodeo.)

Enough of the comparisons and historical situating and on to the new Old 97’s record. Blame it on Gravity is a very listenable, friendly indie/pop/country album. Perhaps not their strongest studio effort, but it’s got strong highlights in ‘Dance with Me’ and ‘She Loves the Sunset’ - both with wacky Latin influences, putting an indie spin on Jimmy Buffett in a manner of speaking. ‘The Easy Way’ has a bit more crunch to it, ‘The One’ rocks and ‘Color of a Lonely Heart is Blue’ is an excellent ballad.

I’m less positive about songs like ‘My Two Feet’ or ‘Ride’ - they sound too pop or indie, too run-of-the-mill to me. It’s as if their lack of country twang hampers them, holds them back from becoming everything they could be. This band shines when a thumping double bass provides a solid two-note baseline to twangy story songs.

Old 97’s are a band worth exploring. You’ll find a lot to like. I’d suggest you start with their earlier records, but this new one is certainly worth listening to.

Today’s bookmarks:

• Measure for Measure - Opinion - New York Times Blog - “The contributors to this blog — all accomplished songwriters — will pull back the curtain on the creative process as they write about their work on a songs in the making.”
• Kale with Garlic and Cranberries Recipe at Epicurious.com - “Garlicky kale, a robust winter green, gains an unexpected twist with dried cranberries’ saucy hits of tartness.”
• homeownership, real estate, mortgage crisis, housing | Salon Life - “How vastly overrated and costly and crazy-making an enterprise home ownership turns out to be.”

What is it about popular music, sung in English, that originates from outside of the English-speaking world? This is a topic that’s occupied me for a few years now. Not in the least because I didn’t grow up speaking English, or in the English-speaking world. My own relationship with popular music has been one of love for the sounds, textures and rhythms before I was ever able to appreciate, or even understand, the lyrics. Words, for me, have always remained secondary. This makes my experience of music very different to that of most people I know. It’s also influenced how I have approached and consumed the music I’ve loved: I can still sing/hum Stevie Wonder’s harmonica solo in the Eurythmics’ “There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)” note for note, but I could barely tell you what the song is about. Conversely, I struggle to truly appreciate people like Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.

The world is full of people who don’t speak or understand English. Yet English is still the single most important language for singing popular music. While it’s the lingua franca of pop and widely listened to everywhere from Russia to Argentina, it’s not necessarily understood by those listening. And of course it’s not really necessary to understand the words to appreciate great music. (What’s interesting is how the music may be adopted by another culture but its level of ‘cool factor’ may not be fully understood; witness Queen’s undying popularity in South America, or the somewhat surprising, though nothing short of delightful, Siegeszug of Germany’s Rammstein in North America.)

Pop sung in English is almost completely pervasive. There are strong movements in a variety of geographies in support of rock sung in the native tongue (Rock en Español or Deutschrock come to mind), but the majority of artists from outside the UK-US-Canada nexus that have achieved any kind of international exposure sing in English. And I think their music is often particularly vivid: it has a musical ’sheen,’ a certain glow that often elevates it above their peers’ output from the UK-US-Canada.

I don’t think there are any ‘accepted’ theories about this anywhere, so I’ll posit a few thoughts and suspicions, and we’ll see if they fit. I think that artists from ‘elsewhere’ who sing in English treat pop music like something special, something that doesn’t really belong to them. The associated danger is that they’ll make it into a cliché - and the less accomplished do that quite readily. But there are many instances where pop from elsewhere is more beautiful and reverential, a musical hommage to pop and everything associated with it. Is there something like a ‘beautiful cliché’? Let’s maybe call it an archetype instead.

Singles 1984-2004

Warner Strategic Marketing 2004, Audio CD, $26.99

A-ha are an interesting example of a band from elsewhere. The three Norwegians found international exposure and acceptance in the early-to-mid 80s with a string of hits. What most people missed was that they were serious songwriters, with excellent English lyrics, and that Morten Harket’s pronounciation was as highbrow Brit as the news on BBC World. A-ha dropped from view for many years in the 90s but have since returned with several excellent, mature pop albums that are culturally switched-on, beautifully written and produced and a great enhancement to their body of work (Minor Earth Major Sky, Lifelines, Analogue and the wonderful live How Can I Sleep With Your Voice In My Head?). Perhaps Norway’s proximity to the UK had something to do with it. A-ha continue to create archetypal pop music, and - I think - the lyrics are at best an equal part in the overall mix.

How does geography influence artistic merit? Does being from the fringes mean that you’re more driven and focused to create? Or does it mean that you’re able to ‘try on’ certain aspects of musical or ‘youth’ culture without being fully in it, fully committed to it? Does this outsider’s point of view give you the power of not doubting?

Kingwood

Burning Heart 2005, Audio CD, $13.98

Sweden’s Millencolin are a skate-punk band, in a vein similar to the Descendents. They play fantastic, driven, energizing pop-punk that’s melodious and full of hooks. And their English lyrics are, well, questionable :) It all sounds perfectly okay until you listen closely and you realize it’s just slightly off. It’s the subject matter, the song titles, and the turns of phrase. None of it is completely bad… or maybe some of it is, but the undeniable spark of the music more than compensates for it. At least for me - but I’ve already confessed that I don’t care much about lyrics. Favourite song title: “Biftek Supernova.” Awesome.

Is writing pop songs a struggle in the absence of having a complete command of English? I think it is, having tried my hand at it once or twice when I was a teenager. The English-speaking listener expects a certain level of subtlety and wit, and songs whose lyrics sound ‘off’ stand out like sore thumbs. I wonder, though, if their awareness of this encourages artists from elsewhere to ‘try harder’ musically and therefore compensate for the not-quite-right lyrics.

I think there may be other geography-related factors in play too. Europe typically has better music education in schools, so perhaps more European kids emerge from the system being able to play an instrument. And what about the influence of ‘national musics’ on popular music from outside the UK/UK/Canada? I’m not sure I have any further insights about these; they’re just thoughts.

Other examples of great elsewhere-pop that are worthwhile suspending one’s disbelief for are Germany’s The Robocop Kraus (seriously), Sweden’s Shout Out Louds, Germany’s Fury in the Slaughterhouse, and a few others.

In another post, I’ll look at country music from Australia. In the last few years, Singer/songwriters like Kasey Chambers and Keith Urban have consistently created music that’s more ‘American,’ archetypal and expressive than most of the North American country music industry’s commercial output. And their North American nasal ‘twang’ is simply fantastic.

Bookmarks for the last few days:

• We’re not listening until you sing in English | | guardian.co.uk Arts - "And that's why we miss out on some of the world's biggest stars. Sophie Heawood reports."
• Deaf Couple wants Deaf Baby - Interesting piece from CNN.
• August And Everything After - Perceptive original review from Rolling Stone.

Earth Bowl is the yummiest, healthiest, most counter-intuitive meal imaginable. Originally published by Caroline Dupont in Enlightened Eating (an excellent, continually surprising source of vegetarian, vegan and raw food recipes and inspiration), Earth Bowl combines apples, celery and nuts into a healthy meal or snack. It could be breakfast because it has apples and nuts. It could be dinner because it has celery. It takes less than 5 minutes to make.

Earth Bowl

1 apple, diced (green or red, but should be crunchy and not mealy)
2 stalks celery, diced
half a cup of pecans, loosely crushed
quarter cup of pumpkin seeds (or maybe slightly less)
half a cup of sugared, pitted dates, chopped into small pieces
juice of one orange

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Stir. Eat. Serves one person as a meal, two as a side salad. I have no idea what you’d serve it with, though. But it’s really good.

My Revolutions

Hari Kunzru. Dutton Adult 2008, Hardcover, 288 pages, $25.95

A few years ago, I read Kunzru’s Transmission and loved it. I thought it was switched on to what the world was becoming and elegantly highlighted how people from developing countries are traversing the boundaries of distance and economics by plugging into the ‘new’ economy. Then, I tried to read The Impressionist and failed to finish it. It had the long-windedness of a Midnight’s Children without keeping me riveted in the same way. Maybe I’ll go back to it another time; maybe I won’t.

My Revolutions offers a lot - a good yarn, a close look at two trendy topics (late 60s politics and their contemporary ramifications; terrorism), masterfully told by a great writer. The language, the pace, the textures and emotions it conveys - all are well-judged and propel things forward at a good clip. I spent maybe a week reading it, weekday evenings and a weekend.

Chris Carver, from a lower middle class London family, becomes politically sensitized in the mid 1960s, does well in school, goes to the London School of Economics, and gradually becomes more and more radicalized. He falls in with a group of friends who set increasingly higher standards of political consciousness until it becomes inevitable that they no longer rule out violence. Their political actions turn darker, more paranoid and more hegemonic - initially, they fight the police at protest marches, then they squat in some buildings (on the homeless’ and their own behalf), then they rob a grocery store and redistribute the food; and finally, they start to bomb buildings. They’re modeled on Britain’s Angry Brigade, who, it seems, always got less prime time exposure than the Baader Meinhofs, and who were overshadowed in their own country by the Northern Ireland conflict and the increasingly militant IRA.

Woven into this tale of activism (incidentally, Kunzru somehow does an excellent job of representing the political jargon, and, as the text progresses, the jargon becomes denser and less pleasurable to read in a very productive parallel to Chris Carver’s own discomfort about his group’s militant activities) is a love story, between Chris and Anna, who is much more radical and invested in freeing herself and the population from capitalism’s shackles than he is. Anna is a leader.

A second love story is woven into the book’s second time plane, set in the late 1990s. Chris Carver, now called Michael Frame, lives a quiet life somewhere in small town England, having gone underground, spent years traveling, doing drugs and getting clean in Asia, and re-built his life under another identity. Mike lives with Miranda, a cosmetics entrepreneur, and her university-student daughter, neither of whom have any idea of Mike’s real identity.

Things begin to unravel and the plot propels forward when Chris/Mike thinks he sees Anna (who he believes is dead) on vacation in France. Shortly after the vacation, an old acquaintance from his political days reappears in his life, possibly by accident. And so it starts.

I would certainly recommend this novel as a solid, crafty and entertaining read. It deals with none of Kunzru’s ‘typical’ themes and that makes it an interesting departure for him, one that I liked very much.

The Guardian points out, in its review, that there’s another recent novel, by Dana Spiotta, that deals with similar situations and themes. That’s next on my reading list. Other reviews of Kunzru at The Independent and Jabberwock.

There’s an interesting interview with T.K.V. Desikachar, one of the founding fathers of modern yoga practice, in the March 2008 edition of the Indian news magazine Civil Society. It contains a number of interesting points, and I think the humility, simplicity and practicality of many of his and his school’s views are great. Yoga in the West, I think, is often taught either as a type of spiritual practice (by people who, when you see their tv shows, seem like earnest charlatans) or as a ‘performance sport’ with little focus on the individual’s physical and psychological needs.

The piece in Civil Society touches on a number of aspects around this. A key passage for me was about yoga and Hinduism:

[…] teachers were mixing Hinduism and yoga, presenting them as one, implying that if people wanted to follow yoga they had to follow the Hindu religion. Desikachar knew from his studies with his father that none of these practices followed the guidelines of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. For instance, Patanjali saw religious affiliation as a student’s personal choice not the teacher’s. If yoga is tied with Hinduism, then it would have to exclude people who may not be comfortable with its religious content.

What also resonates is Desikachar’s emphasis of individual healing as part of the process of studying yoga. Students come to KYM (Desikachar’s yoga centre) for many reasons, but often because they struggle with specific health issues.

An assessment is made of each person in his or her entirety. The student and teacher then understand each other through an evolving personal relationship. A course is designed for the individual and adapted according to the progress made. The personal factor plays a vital role.[…] Therapy at KYM includes helping those afflicted by psychological and emotional suffering. Here, too, the course is designed for the individual and adapted according to the progress made under the guidance of a supervisor.

This sounds enticingly different from yoga studios and schools in the West. Still, the spirit of this type of yoga was carried into the world by students of Desikachar’s. For instance, Vanda Scaravelli, an Italian disciple, brought some of these more interegrated, gentler, secular principles to Europe and North America. In Toronto, the Esther Myers Yoga Studio carries on aspects of this tradition today.

There’s an incredible feature of Toronto that I’m only discovering now: ravines. Before I moved to Toronto, this wasn’t even part of my vocabulary. A ravine is a small valley, often with an active stream, found in urban areas. Turns out the Toronto ravine system is quite extensive and provides beautiful pockets of green woodland in the middle of the city.

This weekend, a brisk, restorative walk through David A. Balfour Park and the “Vale of Avoca” ravine (who names these things? :) yielded these pictures. Sadly, I didn’t have my regular camera with me, so the contrast is pretty bad in these over-exposed phonecam pics. I want to go back and take detailed pictures of the graffiti everywhere.

As you can see, it’s a strange, almost mystical place, unexpected in the middle of the city bustle. On a misty day, you half expect to encounter fairies dressed in camo pants, or a group of trolls smoking weed near the riverbed.

There are multiple undocumented but reasonably well-maintained paths, some further up the slopes, some right down in the middle near the stream. What’s particularly delightful about this ravine is that it’s mostly empty, even on a beautiful, warm spring Sunday like yesterday. I think the ‘urban grit’ puts off many of the more middle class leisure walkers (who might prefer the Kay Gardner Beltline Park, a long linear trail of about 5km that occupies an old commuter train track from the 1890s). But it’s quiet (the city’s hum seems far away) and the air is good.

When I left the park, a bicycle cop was writing up two young men at the exit. One, a twenty-something with a red nose, bike messenger clothes, a bike and slurred speech advised me not to drink “down there” because he just got a ticket. I didn’t quite know what to say and mumbled something about “just walking.”

I think this blend of trees, trails, graffiti, concrete and urban decay is fantastic. Wear solid shoes.