One of the highlights of my lazy, hazy, Monday off was seeing these guys perform in the Pit in Harvard Square. I’d been sitting on one of the low brick pillars, reading the end of Time Out of Joint, when they came and set up their equipment — which consisted of a drum set, an amp, some speakers, and this little wooden box I heard someone call a “modulator” — but I have no idea if that’s really its name. They looked pretty normal at first (and very young — I thought they were in high school, but they might be older). Then they slipped on these ski-masky things, for some reason I don’t really understand, and started to play.

To be honest I wasn’t paying too much attention. I was getting to the unveiling of the mystery in my book, and the sun on my back was very soporific. I was mostly hoping their music wouldn’t be too annoying (you have to remember they were wearing ski masks, and looked about seventeen. I was not expecting genius). Then, just as they were launching into their stompin’ beats and boops, the blues guitarist who’d been playing on the other side of the escalators blew over — quite irate. He explained that they either had to stop playing or move, he had a permit, it was against the rules, wringing of hands, etc. The drummer gazed up at his busyness rather blankly, without responding in any intelligible way that I could hear. He may have scratched his head. I think at one point he uttered the word “Huh?”

Eventually they seemed to reach an agreement of some sort and the nattily noired dudes moved their speakers — I swear — a total of three inches further away, and turned them about 90 degrees. Then they started up again. I was sure the guitarist would come stomping over again, and frankly I was quite looking forward to it. But either they were now soft enough not to drown him out completely, or he’d decided he didn’t want to deal with it, and he let things be.

Who’da thunk it, these guys turned out to be awesome! The one on the homemade “portable analog filter” (according to the website) was especially thrilling to watch, fingers fiddling and meddling with dials in seeming slow motion, yellow and black Puma’ed foot tapping. The drummer’s cymbal was torn from being smashed. It was quite the aural sensation — I was very entertained. It made up for there not being a big stinky fight between the forces of blues and electronica.

They gathered a big crowd, too. The most interesting audience member was, naturally, someone who couldn’t resist dancing. There’s always someone who decides the performers in the Pit are their own personal Mariachi band, and it’s usually an old lady of the I shall wear purple ilk. This time it was a fat old man with white hair and a red face, who appeared to be a little loopy. Don’t take my word for it — he was barking remarks at those of us not shaking our booty, and I believe one of the things he said happened to be, “I’m insane!” I’m really not sure, as I couldn’t hear him clearly. But if those were in fact his words, I salute him for his clearheadedness. Actually, I salute him anyway — he was having a fabulous time, and he made my day. I have pictures of him, but I don’t feel right about posting them, so I’ll refrain, and leave him to your imagination.

The good folks of Urban Electronica donate all their proceeds to the Pine Street Inn, which is more than decent of them. I left them five bucks and a note suggesting they hire the blues guitarist for ambient noise.

(Follow the thumbnail for more pictures.)

I love this guy! I’d forgotten all about him! Sarah, if you’re still looking for books in translation try tracking him down.

I think this article is spot on. More later maybe.

There’s Nothing Deep About Depression

I want to tell you that I am writing this entry while sitting at my kitchen table (in a patch of sunlight. I love that winter is over.) eating breakfast. Want to know what I’m having for breakfast?

The last bits of a bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate, which Erica brought back from London for me, and the dregs of a bottle of Coke.

Life is decadent when you have Monday off. Good thing I have an appointment with a dentist on Wednesday. (At which, CT, I am terrified they will tell me my wisdom teeth should definitely come outta there, but that they’re impacted in such weird ways that the surgery would be too risky so we’ll just have to see if they grow into a nerve and paralyze my jaw. Wish me luck.)

The birds outside are calling me, and there is a day full of reading on grass ahead of me, but I did want to check in here before I put on my SANDALS and head out the door WITHOUT my coat. There was that movie I said I’d tell you about, City of God.

Maybe I should preface this by telling you that Ross had been wanting to see this for a long time, and every time he picked it up in the movie store I resisted. I had a notion that it was going to be a schmaltzy, preachy mess of a thing with a good deal of gratuitous pity-the-poor-people-but-they-are-so-beautiful thrown in for good measure. I think this is because I had it mixed up with that Patrick Swayze flick (if any of you loved that, please don’t kick my ass. I haven’t seen it). Also, City of God is apparently one of Adam’s favourite movies, and the last time we saw one of Adam’s favourite movies it took a while to recover from. Fortunately for us, I was feeling a bit under the weather on Friday, so Ross made all the Blockbuster decisions.

Because it turned out to be more like something Baz Lurhmann might have made, if he had made a realistic film about the drug trade in the slums of Brazil. It was incredibly gorgeous, one of those films that looks like it was shot on slide film or something, the colors in it are so luminous. It was very violent and quite morally ambiguous. It was somehow sexy as hell. And it was a really great story that managed to say some interesting things about the makeshift political structures that form when you force people to live under conditions of injustice and poverty, ignored by their own government. Highly recommended if you don’t mind blood.

I think it’s Erica’s turn to write about my visit to New Haven, since I did the honors last time. I’ll just tell you that it involved really good icecream and a lot of very small dogs. And I got to meet Ben’s new beau, who is adorable and reminds me a tiny bit of Sean. I’ll post a picture soon if he lets me.

***My parents just called and I was mean to them on the phone. Well. Not mean really. I just did that thing where you answer questions slowly and reluctantly, while tiptoeing carefully on the near side of actual sullenness. You know that thing. You do, right? Or is it just me? It’s that thing you do when you’re 15 and listening to music in your room and your mom comes and knocks on your door. Or when you don’t want to be on the phone, because there’s sunshine outside and a Philip K. Dick plot to unravel. I don’t do it very much anymore with my folks, but sometimes I can’t seem to help it. Sorry, parents! It’s probably all that chocolate and coke for breakfast. I’m coming down from my sugar high.***

My day is stretching out ahead of me like a cat. I’m going to go scratch its ears.

Going to New Haven to see the cool cat(s?). Back later to discuss the terrific film I saw last night. Meanwhile, hmmmm.

I wish you guys could be at our choir rehearsals. They’re like stepping into a parallel universe every Wednesday evening, one with deep political divides, mysterious histories, and more than its fair share of wonderful eccentrics. Last night as we were walking up to the building, B__ (a lovely old man to whom I wish were related) was sitting on a bench outside the front door looking happily pensive. When we said hello, he patted the seat beside him without saying a word, and we plopped ourselves down with our ‘Hiya’s and ”Whatcha watching?’s. Then we stared up where he was gazing, at the golden light of the evening sun on two tall, elegant trees.

Then there was the tiny mutiny brewing just before warm-up. D____, our choir director, is a dictator disguised as a democrat. We have a concert coming up in 8 weeks, and we’re nowhere near knowing all the songs he apparently wants us to sing. There’s one in particular we all kind of hate singing, and we could probably get decent at if we slaved away at it for the next two months, but

a) We won’t. We’ll futz around with various bits and pieces of other songs, in D____’s usual haphazard manner, spend two agonizing rehearsals on the Bach, and not be ready for it.
b) It’s a hideously difficult, virtuoso piece, and we’ll never be great at it. We’re like the choir that just wants to skate for fun, and our parents are making us go pro and buying us sequinned tutus.

Anyway, the coup didn’t fly. Our polite suggestions were dismissed with the flick of a fringe and we’re doing the Bach, by God.

I still love choir, though. I nearly died of delicious giggles watching C______, the grown-up version of that geek from middle school who always sat perfectly upright and liked to make announcements, contort his face trying to produce the right tone when we were singing scales. At one point D____ said “Ok, now close your lips and open your mouth!” and C______’s eyes bugged out. I think I might have peed in my pants. Did I mention I adore C______?

After practice Jo and I swang (swung? swinged? The Pinker lecture was all about irregular past tenses) and sang (sung? singed?), and cracked ourselves up doing “Do You Hear the People Sing?” in Animal voices. I haven’t laughed that hard since Jenn and I had that laughing fit phase at the end of freshman year.

This is a video collection of a million public lectures given at MIT in the recent past. I watched Steven Pinker distribute some of his intelligence the other night about how we remember words and already I feel like my brain is bigger.

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