THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
“Agreement and acceptance rarely stimulate experiments and progress.” ― Thor Heyerdahl
I was speaking with Detroit bookstore owner and Destroy All Monsters’ member Cary Loren the other day about noise music: The Boredoms, Universal Eyes, Gretchen Gonzales…when…as usual when talking with someone about noise…we veered off into other topics around the rich tapestry of music history, venturing from Velvet Underground bootlegs to the mystical, ghostly tango music of Poland that breathed momentarily in between the two great wars.
The period before the rise of Hitler was one where tango bands were popping up all around the nightclubs of Warsaw and beyond, often featuring a mix of Jewish and non-Jewish musicians…and the music, while fairly unknown today, was gorgeous. I was visiting Krakow a few years back for the annual music festival when I first heard about this musical moment and was intrigued enough to search for recordings to listen to. The first find I stumbled upon was an oft recorded stunner, Opium. And after a late-night session of internet searching and listening, I came upon the work of Wiktor Tychowski, a polish player that played a steel guitar in the classic Hawaiian style made famous by Sol Hoʻopiʻi and "King" Bennie Nawahi. That style of Hawaiian playing is known to have had great influence on many many musical styles, including our own County Music. But Poland, in the 30s? I had no idea.
Tychowski was somewhat prolific in the 30s with some of his recordings finding their way onto youtube, like Rozstańmy się (with Adam Aston, who also did Opium) and Lalka. There is not much written about him that is easily findable on-line but I did uncover this story: he was repairing a guitar for a Jewish friend during the very beginning of the rise of the third reich. There had been a curfew mandated throughout the city and the Jewish guitarist was attempting to venture across town to retrieve his fixed instrument. A Nazi officer was casing Tychowski’s building, questioning him about the goings-on in the area, and Tychowski, who was not Jewish, risked his own freedom by yelling a warning to the guitarist when he saw him approaching to flee the scene.
Tychowski soon after immigrated to England, where it seems as though he recorded for the BBC and even appeared in a few obscure films. I started searching out those UK recordings, finding his grandson in the process who was equally interested in the search. And while I have yet to uncover anything (some parts of the BBC library are difficult to penetrate) I am determined to keep searching until I hit gold…to uncover more of the story of Tychowski, and the Hawaiian/Polish sound he created during a short-lived, fragile, and ultimately tragic time in music history.
The Strange World Of… Howlin' Rain
There is nothing strange about the brilliance of Ethan Miller. From the early days of Comets on Fire to the rise of his band The Howlin’ Rain (which I got a front row seat to watch, releasing their early records) to his incredible record label Silver Current…to his other many many amazing bands…Ethan Miller’s musicality shines brighter than a thousand suns. He is an American institution that greater America is still finding out about. But for the growing hoard who know his work, and yes, the new Howlin’ Rain record, The Dharma Wheel, is just fantastic…for those who know, the experience is mighty.
It is pretty incredible that after all this time finds like this still occur. The Dawson City: Frozen In Time film from a few years back is an incredible look at a major find that helps us understand history through the heap silent films that were discovered. And while this film, The First Degree, is not of that magnitude a find, it is a pretty special look at pop culture and technology of the time and makes a good puzzle piece to a bigger story of the Silent Film era that is ever expanding.
Flaco Jiménez honored in Temple during Hispanic Heritage celebration
I have heard through the Grapevine that Flaco has not been well recently so it is great to see him being honored…and walking around, albeit slowly (it would be even better to see him on stage!). It is a pity the story makes no reference to Doug Sahm, who introduced Flaco to Jerry Wexler, Dylan and the world…or that he was a main member of The Texas Tornados…a band that sold millions of records. Regardless, amazing that September 25, 2021 was named Flaco Jiménez Day in Temple, TX.
Arid Meteor Outburst in the Works This Week?
“It’s not every day that we witness an outburst from a new meteor shower gracing the skies of the Earth. But that’s just what may be in store this week for fortunate observers deep in the southern hemisphere, with the advent of the Arid meteors…The new Arid meteor shower may be making itself known in early October 2021.”
Life and work of acclaimed poet Bishop examined in new film
“A new documentary about Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Elizabeth Bishop, who spent her early childhood in Great Village, Nova Scotia, is screening at this week’s FIN Atlantic International Film Festival…The film chronicles her journey to becoming one of the greatest American poets of the 20th century from her Nova Scotian origins through an adult life marked by profound personal loss while her work becomes more greatly acclaimed.”
AT THE FISHHOUSES
By: Elizabeth Bishop
Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.
Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.