THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"Virtue can only flourish among equals."-Mary Wollstonecraft
There is a story that was passed onto me last week by my old friend Cary Baker that has just stuck with me. It starts with songwriter David Olney, who released dozens of records during the course of a long career as well as wrote songs for Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris, Steve Earle and many others, taking the stage on January 18th 2020 at the 30A Songwriter Festival in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida and beginning his set. In the middle of his third song he stopped playing, apologized to the crowd, closed his eyes and gently, unexpectedly passed away.
That unto itself is a story that stays with you…as my friends who witnessed the death of Col. Bruce Hampton on stage during his 70th birthday party will relate…it is an experience you will not soon forget.
This past month, the final record Olney was working on at the time was released: Whispers and Sighs with Anana Kaye. It contains a song called My Favorite Goodbye, a song that seems fitting on a record that is a final goodbye to Olney. But the aspect of this story that has stuck with me since I first heard it was that he recorded My Favorite Goodbye the afternoon before his passing, hours before his performance at the songwriting festival. He took time on the day of his untimely death to record a farewell.
It reminded me of the story of the late, great reggae singer Slim Smith. He recorded one of his iconic songs, The Time Has Come, in Bunny Lee’s studio the afternoon before he died. But in Slim’s case, it was suicide. What was Olney thinking that afternoon when he recorded My Favorite Goodbye? Did he have any idea the significance it might have?
It is impossible to listen to either of these recordings and not try to find hints of mortal recognition in the vocal performances. They are both so soulful, so deep. It is impossible to not think that artists have an innate ability to feel things others can’t…even if it involves their own mortality. David Olney RIP. Thank you for the recordings…your Grecian Urns…that you have left behind.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
Femi Kuti and Made Kuti continue Afrobeat legacy in two-part album
”The roots of Afrobeat — not to be confused with the more pop-oriented Afrobeats, which has exploded in popularity in recent years — is socially conscious music, according to Made Kuti, Fela Kuti's grandson.”
New Documentary Sisters with Transistors Celebrates the History of Women in Electronic Music
This movie looks just incredible. How was it in a male-dominated field of experimental music…music in general—that a group of women flourished during its’ beginnings? Clara Rockmore (above) with your theremin—Daphne Oram with your oscilater—Pauline Oliveros with your accordion and incredible drones—and so many who came before and after you…looking forward to watching this doc and digging into your stories.
Composer Erik Satie Was So Much Weirder Than You Realize
This is an old article but new to me. Satie—you were a damn nutty one.
…and then there is this.
SANCTUARY
"People pray to each other. The way I say "you" to someone else, respectfully, intimately, desperately. The way someone says "you" to me, hopefully, expectantly, intensely . . ." -Huub Oosterhuis
You who I don't know I don't know how to talk to you
--What is it like for you there?
Here . . . well, wanting solitude; and talk; friendship---
The uses of solitude. To imagine: to hear.
Learning braille. To imagine other solitudes.
But they will not be mine;
to wait, in the quiet; not to scatter the voices ---
What are you afraid of?
What will happen. All this leaving. And meetings, yes. But death.
What happens when you die?
" . . . not scatter the voices,"
Drown out. Not make a house, out of my own words. To be quiet in
another throat; other eyes; listen for what it is like there. What
word. What silence. Allowing. Uncertain: to drift, in the
restlessness . . . Repose. To run like water ---
What is it like there, right now?
Listen: the crowding of the street; the room. Everyone hunches in
against the crowding; holding their breath: against dread.
What do you dread?
What happens when you die?
What do you dread, in this room, now?
Not listening. Now. Not watching. Safe inside my own skin.
To die, not having listened. Not having asked . . . To have scattered
life.
Yes, I know: the thread you have to keep finding, over again, to
follow it back to life; I know. Impossible, sometimes.
