THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
“I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.”― Jack London
Today we celebrate the birthdays of two of my favorite artists, Jack London and Mississippi Fred McDowell.
I wrote my honors thesis on Jack London, fighting the Berkeley English department initially that London was more than just a pop writer. Having just reread Call of the Wild with my daughter…and about to embark on White Fang…I am reminded at how poetic a writer he was and how his fixation on the battle between the ideology of Socialism (London was a socialist) and the reality of Darwinism is still playing itself out on our country’s stage right now. We all should be equal; we are not equal; we need to strive to be more equal…and we need to find our voice when doing it.
Whether through the eyes of a dog in the Klondike or through a struggling writer, Martin Eden, in the Bay Area: there is deep hardship in rising above the conditions one is born into and an inherent tension between ones dreams and the affects of trying to realize them. London was able to write himself into a life that he dreamed of…but it also killed him.
Mississippi Fred McDowell rose above his impoverished life through the genius of his artistry. For those who love the Hill Country Blues like I do—that beautifully monotonous, lulling sound—there were folks who came before McDowell, but he is the one who defines the genre. As my friend Scott Barretta so wonderfully showcases in the documentary he made of him (it really is worth the watch), McDowell made his guitar sing with the bottleneck he wore on his finger (or as he discussed, sometimes it was just a beef bone he was holding) and after Alan Lomax first recorded him in Como, Mississippi in 1942, his playing made him a legend.
He would slide down the guitar strings as light as a water bug skating on a pond, sometimes using his guitar to complete the verses he was singing. His rhythms and melodic slide-playing are a feast to behold. I was going to make a mix of his music this morning, but there is nothing better than the record he made for Capital Records in 1969, I Do Not Play No Rock ‘n’ Roll where he not only showcases his greatest songs with a sweet band in tow, but also tells his story as he is doing it. One of the greatest records of all time.
Punk rocker Adam Ant lived in Pikeville, Tennessee, and left boxes of stuff behind
No one suspected that Adam Ant lived in….Pikeville, Tennessee. This is a brilliant story….more than just about the leaving behind of boxes filled with music history.
Earth's rotation sped up in 2020, we may need a "negative leap second"
Slow down, you move too fast…
Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe: You're in America
“Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe wants you to feel seen…In every brushstroke, every flower, every mouth covered and eyeball exposed. He is methodical. A powerful narrator, he documents Black life by painting subject’s likeness, enriched with flourishes from his personal memory bank. It is almost historical fiction, yet his instincts are spot on.”
Shopping channel hit with claims of forgery over £10,000 'signed Charles Dickens letter'
The Hard Crowd: Coming of age on the streets of San Francisco.
Thank you John Sloan for turning me onto this great New Yorker piece by Rachel Kushner. Her story of growing up in SF and mine have intersections…definitely makes me miss the days where up-and-coming rock bands could live in beautiful Victorians and actually afford to scrape by in the city. It’s funny…she came in contact with the UK Subs bass player, Alvin Gibbs. I lived across the street in the Outer Richmand to UK Subs guitarist Nicky Garratt. Who knew this classic English punk band set up camp in the bay. Who knew there would be two articles today featuring English punks living in America!
The Second Coming
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
~~~
(thank you Todd Krieger for reminding me of this poem)
