Alexander

Another great T.S. Eliot poem. I read this one to my daughter all the time: Song of the Jellicles Jellicle Cats come out tonight, Jellicle Cats come one come all: The Jellicle Moon is shining bright-- Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball. Jellicle Cats are black and white, Jellicle Cats are rather small; Jellicle Cats are merry and bright, And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul. Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces, Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes; They like to practise their airs and graces And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise. Jellicle Cats develop slowly, Jellicle Cats are not too big; Jellicle Cats are roly-poly, They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig. Until the Jellicle Moon appears They make their toilette and take their repose: Jellicles wash behind their ears, Jellicles dry between their toes. Jellicle Cats are white and black, Jellicle Cats are of moderate size; Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack, Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes. They're quiet enough in the morning hours, They're quiet enough in the afternoon, Reserving their terpsichorean powers To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon. Jellicle Cats are black and white, Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small; If it happens to be a stormy night They will practise a caper or two in the hall. If it happens the sun is shining bright You would say they had nothing to do at all: They are resting and saving themselves to be right For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.

Another favorite: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? . . . . . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I don't write poetry myself, but as I am an English teacher-in-training, I have several favorites that I can share. Here's one: THE SUN RISING By John Donne Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus Through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the King will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy Beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She is all states, and all princes I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere. Another favorite: This Is Just To Say William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

Yarrrr! We've done the pirate thing before. My pirate name be Iron Jack Flint, and a Flinty soul I be! Yarrrrrr!

Rage Against the Machine? They had a searing version on their covers album a while back. I seem to recall U2 doing a version of Maggie's Farm...

I miss the old Mr. Potato Head! My daughter has one that just has no character! They've tried too hard to make him "cute!" He even has a revoltingly cute little Mr. Potato Head (nicknamed "Spud" by my daughter) in tow!

Well, by definition small children have short attention spans.

Wasn't that game exactly the same as "Headache," except that "Headache" had little cones and "Trouble" had little pegs? They were both from Ideal and they both used that damn Pop-O-Matic thing! Hey, anybody remember that game Perfection? Where you had to fit all the little shapes into the holes before the board popped up? That game was the shit! I also had a more advanced version called Super-Perfection. Then I had these board games that were based on Disney World rides, like The Haunted Mansion and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Man, I've got to get my daughter some board games!

I don't like DEEP or his posts, so I don't read them. I don't read any thread he starts. I think the Orginissimo guys have done a bang-up job of managing the board. If things get out of hand, I'm confident that they'll handle it. I certainly hope that Bev and Chris come back!

Elvis Presley did a very good version of "Tomorrow is a Long Time," as did Rod Stewart on "Every Picture Tells A Story." Speaking of Rod, he did a version of "The Wicked Messenger" on the first Faces album, I think (or the first Small Faces album with the Faces line-up, whichever you prefer).

It is for me, but it has to be something I know really well. If it's a new CD, I'm constantly distracted.

I'm in grad school, so most of the reading I do nowadays is class-related. I do manage to sneak in a few recreational reads now and then, however. I reread "The Lord of the Rings" triology recently (gotta get ready for the "Return of the King" on December 17th!) and I'm currently at work on Philip Roth's "The Human Stain" (haven't seen the movie, though. I had planned to read it when it first came out, as the review in the NYT book review was really interesting, but I never got around to it. The movie's release reminded me that I had wanted to read it, and I picked it up in soft-cover). Getting through books can take a while for me since I tend to read several things at once. At the moment, as I said, that mostly involves school books, but will also recreate by reading books of cartoons and comic strips (like the most recent Krazy Kat volume) if I don't feel like reading something heavy. And, of course, I read the newspaper every day. For me, finishing a book is a melancholy experience. As I near the end I start putting it off, reading other things just so I won't have to finish. There's always the question lurking in the back of my mind: What will the next book be? Sometimes the book just presents itself (I recently read an interesting cultural history of Halloween called "Death Makes a Holiday" just because I saw it at work), but more often I agonize over the choice for several days. I have a huge backlog of unread books that I picked up with my employee discount when I worked for Barnes & Noble, so there's no shortage of selection...

That was a great episode. That was the one where George keeps trying to make this woman dump him, but can't seem to do it. Finally, he winds up telling her that he's a porn star and his name is Buck Naked, but it backfires. Instead of being disgusted, the woman gets turned on...

Elvis Costello (who you mentioned in your excellent analysis) has stated in numerous interviews that there was no such thing as New Wave. He says that the term "New Wave" first appeared as the title of an awful American compliation of anonymous pop music (vaguely attempting to cash in on the sudden hipness of punk). Costello (who was recording his first album for Stiff records at the time) claims that it was he who (as a joke) started writing promotional material for Stiff that used the slogan "Surfing on the New Wave," and the next thing he knew, people were talking about him as a "New Wave" rather than "Punk" artist. Certainly people like Costello, Nick Lowe, and Joe Jackson were far too musical to be lumped in with punk (the point of which was to promote bands that could barely play three chords, such as the Pistols). I'm not sure I really believe in "New Wave" as a genre, though, since it is far too diverse (as your essay shows. You left out Blondie, by the way). Many of the groups you site as "post-punk" and "New Wave" were, in fact, New Romantics (the Human League, Spandau Ballet, etc). For myself (and I'm a big Costello fan), I regard the early 80s as a fairly barren period for music. There's very little pop from the early and mid-80s that I still listen to (Costello is an exception, as is Prince's seminal "Sign O The Times").

I've always said that the Who is probably one of the earliest examples of Punk...

Michelle Shocked did a swing album back in the early 90s called "Captain Swing" (all originals, no standards). Joe Jackson did a jump blues album. Brian Setzer and David Lee Roth have both covered Louis Prima...

I don't know how well mine works: Murphy Sterling. I suppose it works...maybe...

I don't think it would amount to an admission of liability. Having worked in retail for nearly six years (much of that time at a supervisory level or higher), I know a thing or two about this sort of thing. I know that Walmart cannot say that they are "sorry" without admitting liability (that was the first thing I learned about retail management...no matter what happens, never say "I'm sorry"). But they could certainly give her a DVD player (or even a gift card in the amount of the DVD player, if it's a matter of not screwing up inventory) as a gesture of sympathy. It would be viewed as "good customer service" not "admitting that they were at fault." If anything, the offer to hold the item in question just makes them look insensitive. Kinda like that Starbucks in NY that tried to charge the 9/11 emergency workers for all the bottled water they used... Incidentally, I am blessedly OUT of retail this holiday season. And I'll never go back, either!

The former was your original point, the latter was the point I was trying to make. It was certainly never my intention to convert you or anything like that. It didn't sound like jazz to you, but there's a great deal of jazz that may not sound like jazz to you...that doesn't mean it's not jazz. Remember, there were those who said that Trane wasn't playing jazz. There were those who said that Bird wasn't playing jazz! You likes what you likes. Only narrow-minded bigots would decry an artist they don't care for as "not playing jazz." You're not a narrow-minded bigot, are you? Of course you're not. I'm sorry to hear that you didn't dig Cassandra's show. You might enjoy the Verve "Sings Standards" collection, which would probably be a bit more up your alley (standards sung with a traditional jazz combo), if you'll ever consider giving Cassandra a second chance. This was actually the material that originally got me into her!

Oh, please tell me what that rubric *is*. Because I can tell you that Brubeck *isn't* jazz as Jelly Roll Morton would recognize it. I notice you didn't even mention Cecil Taylor or "Bitches Brew." Do those fit into the "rubric?" When does the "rubric" begin, and when and how often does it change? If the "rubric" started in, say, 1900 then nothing after 1920 fits into it. If the "rubric" changed to include jazz of the 20s, 30s, 40s, etc., then why can't the "rubric" change to accomidate Cassandra Wilson? Have you ever listened to The Brian Blade Fellowship, btw? Very eclectic music that has more in common with, say, Wilson than with Wynton Marsalis. I suppose that isn't jazz either, huh? Can a group that includes pedal steel guitar be considered jazz? Not only do I place Cassandra Wilson in the company of Dinah Washington and Sarah Vaughan, I place her in the company of Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Carmen McRae, and Abbey Lincoln.

If that's the case, then "Blue Light Till Dawn," "New Moon Daughter," and "Traveling Miles" were also in the "female contemporary" genre, since they all had the same instrumentation and the same eclectic mix of sounds and material as did "Belly of the Sun." Wilson does stretch the definition of jazz to include blues, pop, and world music influences. It would be entirely accurate to call what Wilson does "fusion," as it fuses jazz with a number of other genres. But it's still jazz. As for Brad's point about whether or not you can tell when something "sounds like" jazz, I challenge you to play a record by Jelly Roll Morton's Red Hot Peppers next to "Time Out" by Dave Brubeck next to a Cecil Taylor album next to "Bitches Brew" and tell me in what way these albums "sound like" jazz. You'll find that apart from improvisation (which is the defining characteristic of jazz), these records have very little in common. The thing that makes Wilson jazz has to do with her phrasing and the way she improvises on the written melody. No, she's not Sarah Vaughan or Dinah Washington (both of whom were also great). She's Cassandra Wilson. She does something different. Can't hack that? Don't listen.

What did I tell you? For myself, I like the list. It even has Harry Smith's "Anthology of American Folk Music!" How cool is that?

Shucks. How did I miss this one earlier?

Wilson does *not* sing jazz in the "traditional" sense, by which I mean that she sings very few standards and does not employ the trumpet-tenor saxophone-piano-bass-drums instrumentation that people generally associate with jazz. For myself, I'm a big fan and I can tell you that what she does *is* jazz, even though it might not sound like jazz to you. Yes, she covers pop songs. So did Billie Holiday. Can you tell me exactly why "What a Little Moonlight Can Do" is more intrinsicly "jazz" than "Last Train to Clarksville," "The Weight," or "Lay, Lady, Lay?" Wilson was here in Albany last weekend, and I had wanted to see her, but my wife and I had a prior engagement. Maybe next time!

I'd be interested in getting involved with the Miles tree. I'd love to hear that stuff! Who do I talk to? How do I sign up?