Oh, so that mannish voice…is…a man??

Antony Hegarty – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Let me preface this with a brief statement in defense of my lacking  awareness of music news/collaborations/history etc.  I once had a heated discussion with some prick about the Wailers singing with Ziggy Marley instead of the Melody Makers.  In my booze-induced state I argued that they also sang with Ziggy (I still can see this cd I took from my mom in elementary school that contained this music, but I was an experimental child from a young age, so my memories are all…fatal, more fatal than your average go-getter’s memories) until I had to google it with him standing behind me to gloat in his musical righteousness. 

So, I did apologize and admit that he was allowed to be righteous, but the prick wouldn’t let it go, so that’s why I am still calling him that.  Well, anyways, I’m just saying I am most definitely not any kind of authority or remotely correct about a lot of things musical. 

Many of you may already be completely aware of what I am posting and think…”duh” but for the rest of us who read SPIN at their own leisure (like, 2-3 months past the month it comes out) and hate being wrong about little details that might make you feel stupid when arguing with a music snob. Granted, this Wailers/Melody Makers info isn’t any kind of rare, interesting or snobby data..

The following tidbits and Antony Hegarty wikipage are for YOU – you laid-back, easy-going, music-lover, you.  Let me know if you’re listening to him, I love his voice.

So I always (well for the past couple of years) thought that the sisters in CocoRosie had one with a lower voice that sounded mannish (I thought of her as the Coco, since Rosie seems more fem) and I always attributed the deep voice in the “Beautiful Boyz” song to the mannish one, Coco. This morning I was listening to the Joan as Police Woman REAL LIFE album and heard that voice again so I was like: cool! CocoRosie & Joan are in cahoots! I love it!

So, I looked it up and apparently this person is:

1. Not in CocoRosie, but does sing in “Beautiful Boyz”

2. Co-writer of the “I Defy” song (REAL LIFE)

3. And, uh, that mannish voice is…a man! (A man who has also sang with Rufus Wainright whose whole folk-singing family has a warm place in my heart.)

I also thought they were French, but they are American.  That isn’t that stupid of a mix up, though, the first album title is in French, so meh!  And they talk funny.

One more comment: I think Joan as Police Woman should collaborate with the Roots.  I would love to hear that.  Let’s make it happen, kids.

Behind Analysts, the Pentagon’s Hidden Hand – New York Times

Behind Analysts, the Pentagon’s Hidden Hand – New York Times
Hidden behind that appearance of objectivity, though, is a Pentagon information apparatus that has used those analysts in a campaign to generate favorable news coverage of the administration’s wartime performance, an examination by The New York Times has found.

Not exactly a big whopping surprise, but I am glad to read about this instead of another puff pastry stuffed with “objective” views from military analysts working as a mouthpiece for the government.

Don’t everybody like the smell of…bananas?

Bananas United Fruit | Salon Books

Great, great, great article.  Funny, scary, and sweet.
Bananas are scary, delicious, and comparable to OIL.
Reminds me of the time a good friend of mine, Lydia Hicks, said:

“Aw, Banana Republic…I really love how the name of the company reflects the tragedy of the country that Gap out sources their sweatshops to so they can make the clothes they sell in the store for cheap, cheap, cheap!”
(well, she said that in so many words..)

Great QUOTE from the article:
In some countries, United Fruit blatantly paid no taxes at all for decades. In others, when troubled by local officials, it simply installed a more sympathetic government.

(keywords: simply installed)

would also like to note the fascinating appearance of the Grandfather/Godfather/Father/King of PR, Mr. Edward Bernays, which, as some of you may know, was the nephew of none other than Sigmund Freud, and used many of his research in publicly relating to a LOT of people. (SEE: Adam Curtis documentary CENTURY OF THE SELF)

Deep breath, you can watch it for free on google video, I’m pretty sure of that, so do yourself a favor and get it in your head.

“One United Fruit P.R. man wrote a “report,” which he sent to 800 influential conservative Americans, sounding the alarm about communism gaining a foothold in Latin America via Guatemala. The company employed no lesser force than the father of public relations himself, Edward Bernays. Promptly, Bernays flew journalists to Guatemala on luxury “fact-finding” missions, which resulted in dozens of articles published in Time, Newsweek, the San Francisco Chronicle and the New York Times, portraying the Guatemalan leader as a dangerous threat.”

Bridges Freeze First

People think about bridges. It’s irrelevant what kind. Whether suspension, draw, or wooden, they’re always on our minds. This is made clear by how often they work their way into American idioms. Here’s one:

It’s water under the bridge. This statement lets us know that something that was once burdening has now passed. The burden is driftwood and it’s gone down stream. Theoretically, it eventually reaches the ocean and settles with all our other problems.

Here’s one, too:

Don’t burn your bridges. In this case, the connections in question represent the future. For instance, the bridge is a former colleague named Derek: Don’t burn Derek or he might not help you get that promotion in three years.

The bridgeism that’s always stuck like mortar in my thoughts, however, was given to me by the Masons. Bear in mind, the Masons I’m referring to have no affiliation with the fraternal organization, though they are every bit as free. And if these Masons were Masons, it would have little or no affect on the impact of their words. (For reference, I believe the Masons were Christian.)

From the time I was eight years old to fourteen years old, Grant Mason and I were friends. His siblings, Tyler, Arthur, and Madison were also my friends, but to a lesser extent. Plain to see, the Mason children were all named after former Presidents of the United States of America. Unfortunately, Madison always harbored some resentment for being named after a man and chose to go by her middle name, Hillary. Oddly, I myself had (and still have) the last name of an American President—one who served two terms, in fact!—which was a popular topic of conversation on our summer road trips.

On one such trip I traveled with the Masons from home to Niagara Falls. It was a venture via station wagon, so needless to say we were bound to cross over several stretches of water. It ended up being six, roundtrip. Wedged between Grant and Madison, with Arthur to the right of Madison, I enjoyed the backseat revelry that was sing-a-longs, counting license plates, and dozing in and out of claustrophobic slumber.

In a Midwest state full of corn and men who harvested it, a flowing, glimmering oasis appeared on the horizon. As if stirred by innate patriotic intuition, the other Presidents and I awoke. It was a very large river. It was the Mississippi River—likely named after the state, I thought. There were boats. There were water skis. There were fresh water fish (presumably). Every station wagon on the road slowed to admire, as if simultaneously running out of gasoline and coasting to a halt.

Every passenger and every driver turned their gaze to the natural divider as it approached. Everyone but Mr. Mason. (I never acquired Mr. Mason’s first name, probably because he was ashamed that it wasn’t shared with an American Head of State.) He stared straight ahead, knuckles turning white as he clenched the wheel with more authority than he had the entire drive thus far. A protective and alert focus to his expression, Mr. Mason spoke with calculated certainty moments before crossing the first steel beam of the bridge.

“Bridges freeze first.”

It was July. The temperature was roughly ninety degrees. In the backseat, the temperature was roughly one-hundred and ten degrees. Nonetheless, stone-faced and concrete, his words stood more steadily than the bridge itself. He had spoken this phrase hundreds of times before, was prepared to speak it five more times on this journey alone, and would speak it again and again for the rest of his life.

“Bridges freeze first, kids. Always remember that.”

He was, of course, referring to the scientific truth that in cold weather conditions, bridges will freeze before normal roads, so they must be driven over carefully.

Even at my young age, I felt there was something more to this caution than on the icy surface. Now an older man, I still think about bridges and the fascinating dichotomy they possess. They rise. They fall. We travel through them and over them. Some are short. Some are long. Burning fire, frozen ice, and the water underneath.

Grant I were friends until I grew fourteen years old. He enjoyed athletics and actively participated in them. I didn’t, so I didn’t. I’ve just never liked anything spherical and most sports include a ball. It was a divide—a river, perhaps—that separated us and inevitably ended our friendship. Today, despite being old and mostly made of stone, I regret losing Grant. He was a nice young man at a time when I was, too.

Once we parted ways, Mr. Mason’s warning gained profound relevancy to me. It can be spoken as such: Bridges are relationships. They are everything, in fact. They are life, death, Heaven, Hell, station wagons, baseball gloves, rivers, Presidents, and time. But especially, they are relationships.

“Bridges freeze first,” Mr. Mason warned us. With Grant, I didn’t burn my bridges. There were no hard feelings, no mean spirits. However, the water never went under the bridge, either. The remorse stuck, as I lost a friend for no darn good reason. Balls! Why didn’t I like balls? The relationship was frozen. Not burnt, never washed to the ocean of other regrets, but frozen.

As it turns out, all the bridges in my life are frozen. Maintaining connections is a difficult practice. For most of my life this was very troubling to me, up until the point that my friend Saul (who is more of a mentor than a friend) pointed out that I wasn’t as lonely as I thought I was. “You learned,” he said, “so you’re not lonely.” His words have always satisfied me, or at least enough so that I can sleep and eat and live. Still, I can’t help but think about bridges.

Read more Rory at http://rorycleveland.blogspot.com

How I learned to stop worrying and love the recession.

Recession, economy, market | Salon Life

“I figured I might meet a dashing young heir in line at the taqueria one day, and the next day I’d be flying off to the South of France to dip my toes in the crystal blue Mediterranean while nibbling on fine wine and really good cured meats and aged cheeses. These days, though, I’m old and I need a haircut and all I really want is a good recipe for black bean soup.”