7/4

May 7, 2006 Music Paul Simon's Electric Sonic Texture Test By ALAN LIGHT, NYTimes IT'S a weird time to be a 60-year-old in pop music," said Paul Simon, whose new album, "Surprise" — his first in six years — will be released Tuesday. "If this record found a significant audience, I wouldn't be shocked, because I think it came out of an interesting way of composing and working." "But if it didn't," he continued, "I would say O.K., because I'm not really following in anybody's footsteps here. I'm kind of in my own zone and really have been since I wandered off 20 years ago with 'Graceland.' So I can imagine both extremes, having experienced both extremes." Mr. Simon, who is 64 to be precise, was taking a break from rehearsing his band in a Midtown studio. They were preparing for a Sunday appearance at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, and the public debut of songs from "Surprise," an ambitious and challenging work full of sonic experimentation and oblique lyrics. Its 11 songs elliptically convey the struggle to navigate an absurd, often tragic world where registering to vote makes you "feel like a fool" and conscience is something "sticking to the sole of my shoe" — even as the singer confesses that "it's outrageous a man like me/ stand here and complain." Dressed in a striped polo shirt that showed his impressively bulked-up arms, jeans, black zip-up boots and an orange baseball cap, Mr. Simon was chatty over the course of a conversation that ranged from the contemporary political climate to his disappointment in his peers from the 1960's. Mostly, though, he was excited about his new album, a project with an especially difficult genesis. "I usually start off with that question of, 'Are you sure you want to do this?' " he said. "Then, 'O.K., so what do you have to say?' And that's always part of the process, but it was exaggerated this time by 9/11, and also by entering my 60's. I think after 9/11, the first really big question was, does this obviate art? And popular music, what place does that have? But after you go through all that, you say, let's begin; we'll find out, and all you can do is try." As always, Mr. Simon's writing started with the drums; this time, he wanted to pursue more "American-sounding rhythms" than the polyrhythmic grooves that have dominated his work since the South African stylings of "Graceland," the 1986 smash that not only revitalized his career but also served as a landmark in introducing world music to the masses. But in 2003, with just one song finished ("Father and Daughter," which was written for the animated "Wild Thornberrys Movie" and was eventually nominated for an Academy Award) and a few scattered ideas and fragments, he was introduced to the electronic music pioneer Brian Eno, a former member of the art-rock band Roxy Music and producer for artists like U2 and Talking Heads. "We met at a friend's house in London, at a dinner party," Mr. Simon said. "Brian invited me to his studio. I came over and brought a little bit of this work. He started to play over the CD, and it was a really nice combination. I think we both saw it immediately." Over the next two years, Mr. Simon and Mr. Eno convened four times, for stretches of no more than five days. "I brought him different songs at different stages of completion," Mr. Simon said. "He would play something that would add texture or space. Sometimes he would take a sound that existed already and put it through his electronics, change the sound and the musical implication." The final credits for "Surprise" read "Produced by Paul Simon, Sonic Landscape by Brian Eno." At first glance, the pairing of Mr. Simon — whose urbane, poetic lyric writing set to folk forms helped define the idea of the singer-songwriter in the 1960's — with the avant-garde visionary Mr. Eno makes for a true odd couple. When the album was announced earlier this year, the influential indie-rock Web site Pitchfork (Pitchforkmedia.com) wrote that though "we like to focus on all the cool stuff" Mr. Eno has done, your mother "will be happy to learn that Eno has spent the last few years working under the radar with Paul Simon." (Though, to be fair, no less an indie icon than Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes has called "Graceland" one of his favorite albums.) Mr. Simon counters that the collaboration wasn't such an unlikely match. "We had a lot in common," he said. "One of the things that we're both interested in is attention span. At what point have you heard enough repetition in a song that you're no longer enjoying it? Because Brian thinks about space and length, he had the same intuition about theme and variation." On the skittery, fragmented "Everything About It Is a Love Song," the arrangement threatens to run away with the song. But when Mr. Eno's atmospheric washes of sound elevate Mr. Simon's shimmering guitar on the opening "How Can You Live in the Northeast?" or the luminous "Another Galaxy," the effect is hypnotic. The varying tone of the lyrics — from the comic "Outrageous" to the soaring "Wartime Prayers" — can also occasionally make Mr. Simon's intentions difficult to parse. Is "Beautiful," an account of a family that adopts a series of babies from around the world, meant to celebrate or mock the situation? Mr. Simon acknowledges that "Surprise" is an album that's much more focused on asking questions than providing answers. "The songs are a little bit elusive," he said. "They have emotions and thoughts swirling through them, but you can't exactly say what they are. At the same time, there's a musical dialogue that's going on: shifting keys, changing rhythms. So those elements are combustible, and when they have a nice little explosion, it's a good song." Over time, Mr. Simon has adjusted his commercial expectations — after 20 years of consistently knocking out hit singles (first alongside Art Garfunkel, then as a solo artist), he has spent the last 20 years pursuing less-popular directions. Most of the 1990's were devoted to his ill-fated Broadway musical, "The Capeman," which was followed by a lackluster reception for the album "You're the One" in 2000. He says that although "Surprise" represents a return to Western rhythms and harmonies, its unconventional sonics and song structures are hardly the stuff of today's pop radio. "It may be that it's just too abstract for a lot of people," he said. "It may be that, as with Brian's work, it's meant to speak to a specific group of listeners, and that group may not number in the millions. They might number in the thousands. That doesn't mean that you shouldn't do it, it just means that you have to accept that you're going to be talking to a smaller group of people." Mr. Simon, who is married to and has three children with the singer Edie Brickell (she and the New Bohemians have an album due out in July), expressed frustration that more of his peers haven't maintained their creative competitiveness and musical passion. He said that while he respected Neil Young, for example, he was not that excited by Mr. Young's newer work. He did offer admiration for the sheer perseverance of the Rolling Stones, though: "I don't think Mick and Keith ever liked each other any better than Artie and I did, but they show other bands that it can be done, that it's possible." "That's more interesting," he added, than watching Paul McCartney "go out and play Beatles songs." The risks taken on "Surprise" back up Mr. Simon's words — and besides, he knows better than to assume too much about his audience at this point. Who would ever have guessed that an album recorded with a bunch of South African musicians would turn into a blockbuster, anyway? "I understand that what I'm doing might not be interesting to a lot of people," he said. "I think the key is that you don't give up — you just keep going."

"New Jersey. It sucks."

Mo fiber.

I'm not spending a dime on Cruise. Not that he needs it. I'm just sick of him and all of his bullshit. What he said.

How about "We have more chemical plants than any other state!"

Hmmm. where do you live? If it's Portland, my marching band might be the guilty party. New Jersey. There's a couple of athletic tents next door and they're practicing there. It's the first time they've had a band in there, usually I just hear the crowds. Those tents are getting torn down and condos are getting built. More noise.

There's a marching band somewhere in the neighborhood. I opened up the balcony door to check it out. I have no idea what's goin' on.

Be careful...remember the stupid question thread?

I mentioned these guys a while back. It seems like nobody had heard of them. Another, older interview.

No problem.

Not a good idea. When I was younger I didn't. After a leg opperation 10 years ago, there's a strong possibility I'd fall down.

I see Bill Frisell holding a '69 Tele Thinline reissue. Nice!

Try reading my previous post.

Not sure what this means as I am not up on cybertalk. these people on those planes were friends, neighbors, relatives of close friends. sorry if you are bored. They're entertained and eating popcorn.

Nah.

How could you resist the free rubber skull?

Dan is posting so it's time move it to the politix forum.

I like eggs too. Gotta problem with that?

ain't nothin'. nope. see? we can get this done in no time.

ain't nothin'.

April 30, 2006 A Cajun Craftsman Preserves the Hallowed Ping of History By JON PARELES SCOTT, La., April 26 — The triangle may seem like a humble instrument: nothing more than a bent steel rod hit with a steel stick, merrily clanging away behind the fiddle and accordion of a traditional Cajun band. Visitors here in the bayou country of Acadiana often buy them as souvenirs at tourist stops. But there are triangles, and then there are the triangles made by Dieu Donné Montoucet, an 80-year-old Cajun whose hand-forged, antique-steel, virtually indestructible triangles are prized by musicians for the way they ring. "They have a lot of volume, they have a lot of clarity and they have a lot of sustain," said Barry Ancelet, a professor of Francophone studies at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette who is a historian of Cajun music and a triangle player. "On a final note they'll continue ringing like a church bell." The simple triangle paces traditional Cajun music, and its peal echoes beyond the bayou. While Cajun music's stronghold is around Lafayette, about 130 miles west of New Orleans, its two-step beat and high, tense vocal style have made their way into American music like country and New Orleans rhythm and blues. Cajun music is a staple of the annual New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. [The 37th edition started on Friday and runs through next Sunday.] Advance ticket sales alone have topped 100,000. Among its headliners are Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon and Dave Matthews. But the lineup also includes hundreds of Louisiana bands, among them traditionalist Cajun bands like Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys, who use Mr. Montoucet's triangles. Hurricane Katrina did not reach Acadiana, and Cajun music may be making new inroads in the 21st century, since many New Orleans residents — musicians included — evacuated west into Cajun country. A small printed sign on Mr. Montoucet's workshop reads, "Don Montoucet, Lafayette — Lafayette Parish, Triangles — Cajun." His workbench and his office occupy one corner of his son-in-law's furniture warehouse. Inside, a dozen triangles hang on the wall; there's also a deer head, a stuffed raccoon and some birdhouses made from old license plates. A larger sign announces that Mr. Montoucet does Louisiana state vehicle inspections, his day job. Mr. Montoucet has never had just one job. He drove a school bus for 45 years and began fixing cars at his own Don's Garage in 1940. From 1968 to 1996 he played accordion in his own Cajun band, Don Montoucet and the Wandering Aces. It changed its name to Don Montoucet and the Mulate Playboys when it became the house band at the well-known Mulate's restaurants in Breaux Bridge, Baton Rouge and New Orleans. There's history in Mr. Montoucet's triangles. It's an old instrument; Mr. Ancelet says that triangles are described in accounts of medieval and Renaissance music. His triangles have a distinctive tight, flat loop at each end. He copied the design from a set — triangle and beater — that he inherited from his grandfather, a blacksmith who came to Louisiana from France. He made his first set around 40 years ago for a friend who knew he did ironwork. Soon word got around, not just to Acadiana but to Canada and beyond. He sells the triangles himself in his workshop; they are also sold at the Savoy Music Center in Eunice, La., a stronghold of Acadian traditional music founded in 1960 by the musician and accordion builder Marc Savoy. They cost $35. Mr. Montoucet makes the triangles from the U-shaped tines of salvaged old hayrakes: huge wheeled contraptions pulled by horses or tractors. The tines are springy and patinaed with rust from sitting in wet fields. He does not shine them up. "They can't be too rusty," he said. "The first thing that people ask me is, 'Is that the old iron?' They don't want to hear nothing else." With an acetylene torch — he used to use a coal furnace — Mr. Montoucet heats the tines to straighten them, then cuts them to the right length. (One tine makes a triangle and its beater.) He heats them again to bend them into shape and keeps them red-hot to make the loops at the end. "It takes 250 licks of that big forge hammer to make one," he said. The key to the sound, he says, is in the final stage: the tempering that heats and cools the steel for strength. He said: "If you heat them too hot, or not enough, it makes a difference. I can show you how to temper them, but if you don't have it here ..." He pointed to his head. The hayrakes were collected through the years by a friend who works as a trucker. There is no new supply. "The iron is getting scarce," Mr. Montoucet said. "A lot of these farmers, they were glad to get rid of these hayrakes and glad to get them out of the way. But they got no more, pardner. I have a few of them left. My oldest son says, 'Dad, what you going to do when you can't get any more steel?' I say, 'Don't you think it's time for me to retire?' " The triangles are guaranteed for life against the walloping a Cajun musician will give them. In the days before amplification, the triangle might have been the only thing heard by dancers at the far edges of a party. Mr. Montoucet knows of only one of his triangles that has broken: one that he made for Christine Balfa, the daughter of the great Cajun fiddler Dewey Balfa. After a forensic examination of the pieces, Mr. Montoucet found that there had been a hairline crack in the original hayrake tine. Although Mr. Montoucet makes triangles in set sizes — usually from 8 to 12 inches on a side — they are anything but standardized. Mr. Montoucet played a few of his 9-inch triangles: each had a different note and a different ring. "One day a lady came in and said: 'How come they're all different sounds? Why can't you make them all the same sound?' We were five or six men here, and I said, 'Lady, it's like this: if all us men liked the same woman, it wouldn't work.' Everybody likes different things. Some people like gumbo, some people don't like gumbo, but I don't know too many people who don't like gumbo." Cajun musicians do not simply hit the triangle. A Cajun two-step or waltz is defined by a quick-changing ping and clank that vary depending on how the triangle is gripped: with a few fingers, an open palm, a closed fist. Mr. Montoucet smiled as a visitor attempted to coordinate the rhythmic tapping, clasping and unclasping. "You ought to see my little 18-month-old great-grandchild doing that," he said. "He comes, and he gets all my tools, and then he picks up the triangle. His father says, 'He's probably going to be a mechanic.' And I say, 'He might be a musician too.' "

I might watch it on a broadcast channel between 1 and 5 am in 20 years.