Don't tell my newspaper colleagues, but only one entry into my project of releasing a new song every other week, I've already blown my deadline. So, let me introduce a new series of sketches of unfinished music.
Here I am with hat in hand. A song every other week used to be laughably easy for me. I mean, I used to make a record a week. Granted, they were uniformly awful, but still it's fascinating how much slower the whole process is for me.
With that said, I don't present to you a completed song. This is a sketch of "My Own Teeth," which began as an acoustic guitar ditty. The lyric conceit is from a Fela Kuti song ("Only a fool eats his own teeth"), which made me think about a fool and then a cuckold. Musically, I wanted to sound like the Beatles, but the prolonged Fmaj9 vamp as an intro pushed it in a different direction with the almost classical piano melody leading into big Who-style suspended chords, a verse out of Motown and a pre-chorus stolen from the Band. So where's the song going? Who knows!
What the sketch doesn't have is any live instrumentation overdubs, and I didn't really mix it at all. This is as is. Enjoy.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Current reads no. 1: Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace
The first in a series of posts about the books I'm reading.
My first brush with novelist and essayist David Foster Wallace was in the 150th anniversary issue of the Atlantic Monthly released last year. His short piece -- the rule was 300 words maximum -- effectively conveyed the problem facing the United States as it ages. That is, can it continue to protect the safety of its citizens in the days of relentless, resourceful and faceless terrorism?
All the formal tics are present including the endearing (or infuriating) use of footnotes for asides. Even so, he managed to condense a nuanced set of ethical questions for our fair nation into a tight word count. (Very much unlike Tom Wolfe, whose bloated piece was three times the size of the next largest yet nonsensical in its self-aggrandizing pomposity.)
With that said, I can't really give a more detailed breakdown of Wallace's work. His career in letters has been so vast and varied it's impossible to begin at just one point. He's written novels, including the gargantuan Infinite Jest. He's a frequent contributor to magazines as a fiction writer and as a journalist, including humorous coverage of the 1998 Adult Video News Awards for Premiere Magazine.
The aforementioned piece -- titled "Big Red Son" -- opens his collection Consider the Lobster. It's both robust and precious -- he refers to himself and a group of porn journalists as "yr. corresps." He also manages to provide a point-of-view perspective of the affair while maintaining some critical distance. Wallace isn't afraid to write what any person attending the AVN awards for the first time would be thinking: "Are we going to have sex?" He answers truthfully.
No.
And with one negation he's managed to humanize an industry that does not a priori dehumanize as feminists would like to claim, although it indeed does so by merit of the demands it makes on its workers' ethics, self-image and physiology.
Other thoughts as I read:
"Certainly the End of Something or Other, One Would Sort of Have to Think": A sharp critique of John Updike and, by proxy, his great white, male generation of writers. No throwaway bit of criticism here.
"Some Remarks on Kafka's Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed": The text of a speech by Wallace. He attempts to reveal the humor students are missing in Kafka's writing. Unfortunately, I think most of the general populace fails to recognize the humor in Kafka. Wallace doesn't make a clean case.
"Authority and American Usage": Wallace sinks his teeth into the decisions -- and thus intellectual movements and politics -- involved in how the American language is used. Not finished with reading this essay (it's on the long side), but it's fascinating and a great overview of many different threads, including a brief stroll through Chomsky's universal grammar.
My first brush with novelist and essayist David Foster Wallace was in the 150th anniversary issue of the Atlantic Monthly released last year. His short piece -- the rule was 300 words maximum -- effectively conveyed the problem facing the United States as it ages. That is, can it continue to protect the safety of its citizens in the days of relentless, resourceful and faceless terrorism?
All the formal tics are present including the endearing (or infuriating) use of footnotes for asides. Even so, he managed to condense a nuanced set of ethical questions for our fair nation into a tight word count. (Very much unlike Tom Wolfe, whose bloated piece was three times the size of the next largest yet nonsensical in its self-aggrandizing pomposity.)
With that said, I can't really give a more detailed breakdown of Wallace's work. His career in letters has been so vast and varied it's impossible to begin at just one point. He's written novels, including the gargantuan Infinite Jest. He's a frequent contributor to magazines as a fiction writer and as a journalist, including humorous coverage of the 1998 Adult Video News Awards for Premiere Magazine.
The aforementioned piece -- titled "Big Red Son" -- opens his collection Consider the Lobster. It's both robust and precious -- he refers to himself and a group of porn journalists as "yr. corresps." He also manages to provide a point-of-view perspective of the affair while maintaining some critical distance. Wallace isn't afraid to write what any person attending the AVN awards for the first time would be thinking: "Are we going to have sex?" He answers truthfully.
No.
And with one negation he's managed to humanize an industry that does not a priori dehumanize as feminists would like to claim, although it indeed does so by merit of the demands it makes on its workers' ethics, self-image and physiology.
Other thoughts as I read:
"Certainly the End of Something or Other, One Would Sort of Have to Think": A sharp critique of John Updike and, by proxy, his great white, male generation of writers. No throwaway bit of criticism here.
"Some Remarks on Kafka's Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed": The text of a speech by Wallace. He attempts to reveal the humor students are missing in Kafka's writing. Unfortunately, I think most of the general populace fails to recognize the humor in Kafka. Wallace doesn't make a clean case.
"Authority and American Usage": Wallace sinks his teeth into the decisions -- and thus intellectual movements and politics -- involved in how the American language is used. Not finished with reading this essay (it's on the long side), but it's fascinating and a great overview of many different threads, including a brief stroll through Chomsky's universal grammar.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Looking forward and "Week no. 1: 'Finlandia Cried'"
Sounding off on the future of the Chatterbox and introducing a new feature: a song release every other week.
As I said in my first post on this site, I never intended this blog to be about culture. Rather, I was planning to do simple, "Here's what I'm doing" posts. Even with the launch completed, there were a couple of nagging thoughts in my head about what I really wanted to be doing.
With that said, I'd like to turn the Chatterbox into a small-circulation magazine someday -- perhaps two years down the road -- with a separate, integrated Internet component and contributors from the ranks of all the talented folks I know.
You're yelling, "Why?" I can't blame you. Surely such an ambition is ripe for emotional, physical and financial breakdowns. But I'm tied to the idea of doing something small scale, bold and personally fulfilling. I also want both the print and Web product to be a place of experimentation for the kind of work one does personally and for the work itself.
Now you're asking about the kicker because there's always a kicker. Well, with this post, I'd like to launch the first in a series of songs every other week in the spirit of the Chatterbox experiment. The challenge: Write , arrange, record, produce and post a song every other week for public comment. It's a watered down version of what Michael Zapruder did.
As I said in my first post on this site, I never intended this blog to be about culture. Rather, I was planning to do simple, "Here's what I'm doing" posts. Even with the launch completed, there were a couple of nagging thoughts in my head about what I really wanted to be doing.
With that said, I'd like to turn the Chatterbox into a small-circulation magazine someday -- perhaps two years down the road -- with a separate, integrated Internet component and contributors from the ranks of all the talented folks I know.
You're yelling, "Why?" I can't blame you. Surely such an ambition is ripe for emotional, physical and financial breakdowns. But I'm tied to the idea of doing something small scale, bold and personally fulfilling. I also want both the print and Web product to be a place of experimentation for the kind of work one does personally and for the work itself.
Now you're asking about the kicker because there's always a kicker. Well, with this post, I'd like to launch the first in a series of songs every other week in the spirit of the Chatterbox experiment. The challenge: Write , arrange, record, produce and post a song every other week for public comment. It's a watered down version of what Michael Zapruder did.
Interlude:
I never met Zapruder, but I covered him during my brief sojourn as a music writer. At the time I was writing about the Mission Creek Music Festival for the San Francisco Bay Guardian. I stumbled across his name, Google-d him and discovered a fine songwriter whose work anticipated the recent crush of literate, hyper-orchestrated adult contemporary* that people are considering indie these days. What really caught my attention was a project he did called 52 Songs, in which he challenged himself to write one song a week. He put it out as a 3-CDR -- I think -- set. I couldn't afford it then, so I didn't buy it. I regret that decision now because it's out of print. I did a brief e-mail interview with him and gushed about 52 Songs. I made his show one of my picks for the festival but couldn't make it myself. Another missed opportunity.
* Feist anyone? I personally don't get why she's so popular. I might just have to buy her album The Reminderto find out. Future blog post?
End interlude.
So I kick it off with "Finlandia Cried," which is just a pop song. Nothing much to recommend the words beyond the allusion to the death of Baldur. But there's a backwards guitar solo! I just like saying that -- makes me feel like Jimi Hendrix. If you don't know my music, it is, as usual, performed by my lonesome with an assortment of guitars, sequencers, synths and drum machines.
"Finlandia Cried"
By Alex K. Fong
Finlandia cried
I was struck down by
mistletoe
launched by some Nordic cripple
And I don't care how far you are
'Cause we were meant for so much more
I will wait for you
I will waste for you
On and on and on and on
Finlandia cried
I was trapped under black ice
You weren't there
You were in the atmosphere
Music nerd alert: It's written in G major, built on a I-IV progression (voiced as add9's) for the verses, a V-II (with 7ths added) on the pre-chorus and a VI-IV-II-IV (again with the 7ths). The guitar solo is mostly over a one-chord, Gadd9 vamp except for a bar or two of Amin7, which leads back into the out chorus. Again, not a particularly complex tune.
More Peter Gabriel-era Genesis
Glam or performance art? Who cares! "I Know What I Like in Your Wardrobe" is catchy as hell.
One of the most awesome scenes in The Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy is when Will Ferrell hops on stage to play jazz flute. The ending of this song always makes me think of that wonderful moment, and sometimes I imagine a quote of "Aqualung" for kicks. Regardless, this song is a wonderful pop nugget, especially with that great synth line on the chorus.
One of the most awesome scenes in The Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy is when Will Ferrell hops on stage to play jazz flute. The ending of this song always makes me think of that wonderful moment, and sometimes I imagine a quote of "Aqualung" for kicks. Regardless, this song is a wonderful pop nugget, especially with that great synth line on the chorus.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Bleak House by Charles Dickens
Dense and unapproachable for the first half but moving and fascinating in the second, here's what makes the denouement succeed and what it tells us.
Victorian authors will never be remembered for concise writing (not counting Jane Austen, who preceded but, I think, anticipated the style of writing in its treatment of class) in narrative or in prose. Of course they often more than made up for it with their impossible erudition. Some of the most beautiful passages in the English language can be found in even the era's more humble classics, such as the proto-pulp thriller and class-conscious novel, The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins.
But I'm not here to talk about Collins. I'm here to talk about his much more admired and remembered friend, Charles Dickens and his novel Bleak House which took four arduous months to read.
I actually made it through both high school and college -- with a two-year stint as an English major -- without ever having to read anything by Dickens, aside from quickly crashing through A Tale of Two Cities.
That first experience -- that plucking of the blossom if you will -- was unmemorable and slightly uncomfortable. This is the great novelist of bildungromans and entangled plots? This is the amazing stylist of the English language? This is the unrelenting chronicler of the elite and the lumpenprole?
Perhaps I could not stand the sheer verbiosity of his writing. Dickens was paid by the word, and he was well compensated, judging by the thickness of his finished works. (Someday, should I ever own them all, I'll measure the volumes' aggregate volume and post it.)
The first 400 pages of the book introduces the major characters to us and to its own denizens -- introductions that begin innocently and, later, reveal inner motives and inequitable interelationships. Nevertheless, it is those initial impressions that defy the modern reader's expectation of drama at the onset. There is no clean explanation of the rules or a weighing of the consequences. Indeed, I could only read three pages per sitting, often repulsed by the lack of propulsion. Not until that 400th page does the novel begin an inexorable march to conclusion.
What Dickens loses in concision, he makes up for in clarity and correctness. His use of diction is first-rate. No passage ever remains neutral. (For more, I refer you to "Writing like the Dickens," an article by Thomas C. Renzi in the Feb. 2008-issue of the The Writer.)
Its structure is nothing short of brilliant. It is terrible, yet fitting, that Caddy Jellyby and her invalid husband, Prince Turveydrop, would have a deaf and dumb child, whose physiological defects mirror its grandparents' sins, for both Mrs. Jellyby -- mother of Caddy -- and Mr. Turveydrop -- father of Prince -- were oblivious to their family and life. They turned a deaf ear to remonstrance and held conversations of no lasting import, completing an inevitable arc from generation to generation.
And this is in the novel's minor characters.
What really makes the novel succeed, however, belies Dickens' reputation as a sentimentalist. Although Carstone wins the aprocryphal court case that has locked away his and his wife's fortune, he receives nothing -- due to legal costs -- and dies. Like how David Simon describes The Wire, Bleak House is, in actuality, a Greek tragedy -- an existential meditation on the forces of chance that can favor or align against those caught in the middle.
The bittersweet ending is an antidote for the ills of today's culture. Popular opinion on the decline of newspaper circulation likes to point to the Internet as the cause, but, in reality, it's our culture. We put celebrity news and gossip on the front pages because our readers have said our news hole is too full of death and destruction. Reality television has made a point of highlighting swooping saviors. And when we do write about current events, it is of little substance and reflection. It's an ostrich approach to the world, one that values the silver bullet over practical solutions derived from past mistakes.
There is no silver bullet in Dickens. Only sensibility, perserverance and luck.
Correction: Jane Austen is not a Victorian author. She died before the birth of Queen Victoria in 1837. The original post did not provide additional context in the first paragraph.
Victorian authors will never be remembered for concise writing (not counting Jane Austen, who preceded but, I think, anticipated the style of writing in its treatment of class) in narrative or in prose. Of course they often more than made up for it with their impossible erudition. Some of the most beautiful passages in the English language can be found in even the era's more humble classics, such as the proto-pulp thriller and class-conscious novel, The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins.
But I'm not here to talk about Collins. I'm here to talk about his much more admired and remembered friend, Charles Dickens and his novel Bleak House which took four arduous months to read.
I actually made it through both high school and college -- with a two-year stint as an English major -- without ever having to read anything by Dickens, aside from quickly crashing through A Tale of Two Cities.
That first experience -- that plucking of the blossom if you will -- was unmemorable and slightly uncomfortable. This is the great novelist of bildungromans and entangled plots? This is the amazing stylist of the English language? This is the unrelenting chronicler of the elite and the lumpenprole?
Perhaps I could not stand the sheer verbiosity of his writing. Dickens was paid by the word, and he was well compensated, judging by the thickness of his finished works. (Someday, should I ever own them all, I'll measure the volumes' aggregate volume and post it.)
The first 400 pages of the book introduces the major characters to us and to its own denizens -- introductions that begin innocently and, later, reveal inner motives and inequitable interelationships. Nevertheless, it is those initial impressions that defy the modern reader's expectation of drama at the onset. There is no clean explanation of the rules or a weighing of the consequences. Indeed, I could only read three pages per sitting, often repulsed by the lack of propulsion. Not until that 400th page does the novel begin an inexorable march to conclusion.
What Dickens loses in concision, he makes up for in clarity and correctness. His use of diction is first-rate. No passage ever remains neutral. (For more, I refer you to "Writing like the Dickens," an article by Thomas C. Renzi in the Feb. 2008-issue of the The Writer.)
Its structure is nothing short of brilliant. It is terrible, yet fitting, that Caddy Jellyby and her invalid husband, Prince Turveydrop, would have a deaf and dumb child, whose physiological defects mirror its grandparents' sins, for both Mrs. Jellyby -- mother of Caddy -- and Mr. Turveydrop -- father of Prince -- were oblivious to their family and life. They turned a deaf ear to remonstrance and held conversations of no lasting import, completing an inevitable arc from generation to generation.
And this is in the novel's minor characters.
What really makes the novel succeed, however, belies Dickens' reputation as a sentimentalist. Although Carstone wins the aprocryphal court case that has locked away his and his wife's fortune, he receives nothing -- due to legal costs -- and dies. Like how David Simon describes The Wire, Bleak House is, in actuality, a Greek tragedy -- an existential meditation on the forces of chance that can favor or align against those caught in the middle.
The bittersweet ending is an antidote for the ills of today's culture. Popular opinion on the decline of newspaper circulation likes to point to the Internet as the cause, but, in reality, it's our culture. We put celebrity news and gossip on the front pages because our readers have said our news hole is too full of death and destruction. Reality television has made a point of highlighting swooping saviors. And when we do write about current events, it is of little substance and reflection. It's an ostrich approach to the world, one that values the silver bullet over practical solutions derived from past mistakes.
There is no silver bullet in Dickens. Only sensibility, perserverance and luck.
Correction: Jane Austen is not a Victorian author. She died before the birth of Queen Victoria in 1837. The original post did not provide additional context in the first paragraph.
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