Trombone Player of the Week - Mad Max

Full disclosure - I've never actually seen "Mad Max," the Mel Gibson flick. I have no idea what it's about. As such, it bears utterly no relation to this week's trombone player.

I invite you to imagine a man, a man who finds it within himself to wear what can only be charitably described as prescription motorcycle goggles at all times. Prescription goggles so strong, they're the kind where you can visibly see a major distortion in looking at the guy's eyes. Mad Max also has a big Abe Lincoln beard, an omnipresent denim shirt, and slicked back hair almost fuming with pommade. He also plays a straight horn, adding to his daredevil persona.

Now, the most amazing thing to me about Mad Max is the aforementioned prescription goggles - they are really a sight to behold. I realize I'm fairly minimalist when it comes to eyewear, my own glasses are little more than two pieces of plastic flimsily attached by a couple strips of metal. I can appreciate the benefits that more substantial glasses could bring. But it takes a bold, bold person to wake up in the morning and put on a pair of goggles. Surely, he has to have a motorcycle. I guess my question would be, why not just get another pair of glasses? Maybe a pair without flames on the sides? (really).

I suppose all things considered, in the alien menagerie that is trombone choir, a man with a beard wearing prescription goggles is relatively benign.

I don't really know what that means.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

No, no, no, no, no!

How will I ever achieve my life goal of getting in the Hormel Hall of Fame?! I can sing the whole damn song from memory!

Now that you are at the game.
Are you in Hormel's row of fame?
If you're in a lucky seat.
You'll win a Hormel hot dog treat.
Great for lunch, great for dinner.
You will be a wiener winner!
In the Hormel row of fame!

Indeed folks, it's a sad, sad day.

Levity

Folks, when you're in a bad way, you need to take joy in the simple pleasures of life. Spring training, for example. Hope always springs eternal in spring training. I love to hope, and I love to hold on to said hope, and what better way to do that than spring training?

Also, if this video doesn't make you feel a little better about yourself, you are officially heartless. This, my friends, is why we should simultaneously both cherish the 90's and be terrified of them.

Twists

Friends, it is a sad, sad day when you realize that your biggest fault in life is having too much love, too much capacity for emotion and loyalty. Actually, maybe that's unfair, maybe "fault" isn't the correct term. It's a sad day when you feel utterly heartbroken precisely because you have too much love.

It doesn't make sense, it makes absolutely zero goddamn sense. Folks should justly be punished for doing bad things, people should feel awful when they lie, or when they hurt other people. There are lots of reasons that bad things should come to those people who deserve them. But even if I lived a thousand years, I'll never figure out why bad things happen to people who manifestly don't deserve them. I will never, never understand why such a beautiful feeling as love can end up feeling so utterly terrible.

Cosmic injustice is the term I prefer; it just isn't fair for those of us who cultivate a life trying to do good things for others, who try to care as much as they can, and in some instances, even love - it just isn't fair that we should suffer because of it. I mean, if anything, we should be getting prizes for having too much love, for having too much feeling that goes to creating a more pleasant world. Indeed, we should be commended, and be celebrated in song and tale for our willingness to fully give of ourselves in the hope that someone will realize the depth of our capacity. And of course by "we," I mean "I."

I hate getting too personal in this space, I dislike it immensely. But this is applicable not exclusively to me, but for anyone who has been bewildered by this cruel twist of fate. It's just, it's not fair, and it's not right. What sort of a world do we live in, where it's easier to tear folks down, and gossip about them, than to be honest, and say good things to people? And why are such good things so difficult to see and accept? What the hell is wrong with us; why do we live this way?

Anyways, that's all for now. It's a terrible injustice, and I can only really be disappointed in the slow, twisting river of life, not any individual person. And I can only hope, one day, it will be righted, restored to its proper flow. This is the risk you take though, when you are willing to fully give of yourself. It's not exactly pleasant, but I think it's the right way to go about things. It's no way to go through life, not being willing to invest your entire self in the things you believe in. Otherwise, what the fuck is the point?

Album of the Week: XX

Hello folks. Back with the internet's favourite irregular music column, I hereby present you with this week's album - XX, by, ironically enough, an English group entitled The xx. I thought about trying to write my review as minimalist as possible, in celebration of the wondrous minimalism of this album; but let's be honest, I'm verbose and wordy. So instead, in contrast, we'll juxtapose the simple beauty of this music with the prolixity of my prose.

Now, were I to describe this album in the form of a picture, I would first of all, point to the album cover (shown above). But aside from that, I think I would choose the following:


Mainly I chose this work because it was one of the first images to pop up on google that wasn't obnoxiously neon, but that's besides the point. It's quite fascinating, I think, in its simplicity - much like this week's musical selection. For those of you with any interest in these sorts of hoity-toity, latté-sipping artistic endeavors, the above painting is by American artist Frank Stella, and is entitled The Marriage of Reason and Squalor, II.

Now, as wikipedia has informed me, minimalism is marked by an attempt to strip the artwork down to its most fundamental features. I think the above artwork by Mr. Stella is quite indicative of that principle. Applying that definition and theoretical conception, I have never heard a rock album quite like "XX." Now, you may all be aware that I place quite a bit of emphasis in my own listening on the overarching texture, tone, and trajectory of an album. In meeting these criteria, I think "XX" is one of the most extraordinary albums I've heard in a while; mainly because the simplicity of the music just kind of sucks you into another world. In terms of creating an aural experience, I actually have likened it somewhat to the "()" album by one of my favourite bands, Sigur Rós. But whereas Sigur Rós creates orchestral tapestries, The xx creates a sort of anti-matter musical experience. Your stereo won't explode, but it very well may collapse in on itself like a dying star.

Simply put, The xx has embraced a concept of music that is seldom even considered, much less put into practice, by mainstream artists - that silence is as important as sound. By sticking to simple melodies and a stripped down instrumentation, what is not being heard almost comes across as an instrument in itself. The silence actually speaks. This, I think, is a fairly impressive achievement. In my opinion, minimalism, as maybe evident by the above art, tends to walk a fine line between the profound and the prosaic. After all, there's only so much meaning you can pack into painting some lines on a canvas, just as there's only so much silence that can go into music before it becomes just dead space.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit, as a general rule, I'm partial toward minimalist art, as well as abstraction. I think I tend to find more meaning in it, which probably explains my transfixed gaze whenever I chance across a Mark Rothko painting. So maybe "prosaic" is a harsh term, if self-application is the rule. However, when you try this sort of thing stylistically, risk is definitely involved. In the case of "XX," the success of this risk, in my opinion, adds substantially to the "I'm impressed" factor.

Now, I use the term "simplicity" to explain The xx, but that shouldn't be used as synonymous with "simple" music. The compositions here are quite unique, almost all utilizing very sparse, single note guitar lines, synth, and what sounds like a beat machine. The vocals mesh seamlessly into this sound tapestry, which I think is due to the emotive understatement that the two singers (one male, one female) manage to convey. As an excellent NPR review points out, for being so cool, XX is reassuringly vulnerable. I chalk this up to the realization that some things are better in small doses, be it good scotch or synthesizer.

After all that, I suppose the individual songs are in and of themselves, irrelevant to the overall scope of this album. But, for the sake of being thorough, I think my preferred tracks thus far are "VCR," "Crystalized," "Heart Skipped a Beat," and "Infinity." On "Infinity," I can't get enough of the finger snapping and the faux-synth-clapping. Seriously folks, why isn't there more faux-synth-clapping in the world?

But please be forewarned, this is undoubtedly cool music for cool kids. "XX" would be right at home in an industrial-ish club in a trendy area of town - the kind that features lots of stainless steel, exposed ceilings, minimalist decor, patrons clad in black, and $20 sake-pomegranate-tinis. It's music that seems like it should be reserved for icy, pale, beautiful women, the sort of women you are fearful to approach because they literally appear otherworldly. Or, I suppose, it would also probably be equally at home in a sushi restaurant - but only one exclusively patronized by pretentious white people.

For those of you who don't spend enough time in cool, stainless steel bars, don't have an icy, otherworldly demeanor, or don't consider yourself a pretentious enough white person, take solace in the fact that you could probably also listen to "XX" at Chipotle; what with the industrial-chic interior and all. Maybe that will make you feel a little better about the five thousand calorie burrito you just ate.

If this is cool music for cool kids, I know you all have the same question on the collective tip of your tongue: why the hell am I, of all people, reviewing this? Self-admittedly, and with my eyes gazing at my shuffling feet, I probably have to fit into the aforementioned burrito group. But whatever, "coolness" is only a relative concept anyways.

If you're looking for some music to sing along with in your car, I probably would not recommend this album. If you're looking to get pumped up for some big event, skip "XX," and get some Rage. But if you want some uber-chill music that can be both artsy and enjoyable (thus scoring you major culture points with any guests), you are hereby required to check out The xx and their debut album. Wild, wonderful stuff.

Addendum - check out the NPR link above to listen to some of the music.

Trombone Player of the Week: The Guttblaster

Hello folks. This weeks trombone player is representative of an important trait of trombonists worldwide, a trait so closely associated with the instrument as to be nigh inseparable. Alright, everybody together now - beer drinking!

The Guttblaster, as this week's featured trombonist, stands about 9 feet tall, and is roughly proportionate to a 50 year old Jolly Green Giant who sees no problem with throwing back a six-pack of Bud Ice before dinner. He also rocks a largely unkempt beard, which is crawling dangerously down his neck. The term "Guttblaster" refers to two important characteristics of this trombonist.

(1) He has a gigantic beer gut, accentuated by his propensity for tucking t-shirts into his jeans. Thus, the "gutt."

(2) He plays the bass trombone, as loud as humanly possibly, into my right year every week. Thus, the "blaster."*

I think my favorite aspect of the Guttblaster is his t-shirts. It takes a bold man to tuck his t-shirt into his jeans, one who is incredibly confident with both his body and his station in life. The Guttblaster is a bold, bold man. But the best part is, I have only ever seem him wear beer shirts. Today's was a Leinenkugel's shirt, I think it was Oktoberfest, and it had "Prost!" in big letters across the back. I think last week was a Guinness one, but I can't quite be sure.

Now, this makes perfect sense to me. Trombone players like beer: they like to talk about it, drink it, guzzle it, and eventually, regurgitate it while playing air guitar at 4 AM. This is simply the way of things.

Of course though, any trombone player looking for street cred could simply buy a beer shirt; hell, I have a Guinness shirt I could pull out if I had too. But the thing about the Guttblaster, is that he literally looks like he goes home and drinks about a case of beer every single day. Part of this comes from his imposing figure, part of it the look in his eyes. But in large part, I think this can be attributed to the bass trombone.

Bass trombonists are a completely different animal; they're kind of the like the crazy uncle of the trombone family. I don't quite know what it is, but thinking of every single bass trombone player I know, I can name some sort of social deviancy. And they just tend to get drunk a lot. So, the beer shirts make perfect sense.

What's fantastic about the Guttblaster, is that he plays his trombone every day like it's his last. By that I mean, he always is firmly planted in a "stance," and he always, always, always has his trombone at a 90 degree angle to the ground. In a line of poor saps trying to play "Brombones," staring into the ground, the Guttblaster stands tall and regal amongst the throng, almost like some sort of Olympian figure. The rest of us may be playing the music, but the Guttblaster plays the music. He wills it to being through the force of his presence. It's a spectacle to behold.

So Guttblaster, this week, this beer(s) is for you. Cheers.

* "Blaster" may be a bit of a misnomer - the guy is actually pretty damn good

Operetta Review: The Reluctant Dragon

Talking a break from my semi-regular "Album of the Week" column, as well as my even less regular "Movie Review" column, comes now the even less regular "Operetta Review" column. And while I had the pleasure of hearing this music in the midst of a very fun concert by the Valley Chamber Chorale and a bunch of Stillwater-area middle school kids, I think I'll focus here on this piece.

The Reluctant Dragon is a children's operetta composed by John Rutter, and has words by David Grant. It's based off a short story by Kenneth Grahame, and it tells the tale of a poetry-loving, peaceful dragon, who finds himself face to face with St. George, England's legendary slayer of dragons. These two unlikely bedfellows are mediated by a young village boy, who befriends the dragon, and doesn't want to see him hurt. Since St. George actually thinks the dragon is quite a fine chap, he doesn't want to slay him, so they decide to stage a fake joust (which St. George wins). However, the dragon, wishing to recite some poetry, shows up at the celebratory dinner, so St. George has to convince the townsfolk that the dragon is indeed, not dangerous (which he does). It's a very delightful story, I think.

I went to this concert to hear a good friend of mine; I was also intrigued by the prospect of hearing/seeing such a tale about a poetic dragon. And although Stillwater is approximately 8,000 miles away from every other civilized place on the planet (i.e. 25 miles from St. Paul), I have to say the drive was completely justified. They had some pretty intense dragon/knight costumes borrowed from the Guthrie, and the singing, for a community group, was top notch. Most of what was so pleasant, was how funny it was. I spent most of the 20 minute or so performance laughing, be it pursuant to the ridiculously exaggerated British accents being bandied about, or the absurd lyrics about eating and chomping. Absolutely fantastic. If you ever have the opportunity to see this performance, I highly recommend you take it, juvenile as it may seem.

Maybe that's the most shocking thing. In an audience comprised in large part of young kids, they sat absolutely transfixed through the entire performance. When was the last time you saw little kids sitting through quietly, nay, enjoying a "classical" music concert? Exactly - never. To me, this just seems like an absolutely fantastic way to introduce kids to some more serious music than they may otherwise be exposed to. Plus, it's fun for adults too (but you can't take yourself too seriously).

I don't ever seem to have that problem though.

Trombone Player of the Week - Captain Hairmerica

You know, trombonists tend to be a jolly bunch. Typically, they enjoy drinking beer, telling fart jokes, being vaguely sexist, but not usually to the point of actually being labeled "sexist." Generally, good humored, and dimwitted; but they sure do mean well.

But there's always one Captain Hairmerica, as I have dubbed this week's trombone player.

First off, as you can imagine, CH sports a mullet, an absolutely disgusting mullet that is capped to his head like some sort of biologic helmet. But more irritating even than the mullet, is the cocksure sense of self-confidence that he carries about. He always has to be the loudest player, and you can hear his tinny, shitty sound carrying out into the ether of the Baptist church where we practice. Sure, he's not that bad, but the terrible thing is, he knows that. He knows he's not bad, but then again, he hasn't quite grasped the self-awareness that he isn't that good either.

He also dresses in this sort of everyman/Nascar watching/Brett Favre loving way, a nasty sweatshirt reminiscent of "Rocky," and the sort of Wrangler jeans that you would wear if you were off killing a bear, or whatever it is "real" Americans do in their spare time. The worst was last week, when he wore this baseball cap that said "Dam Ship" on it. I think it was from Holland America cruise lines.

Holland America = "hey, that's a foreign country!" = Amsterdam = "Dam" (which is hilarious because, shh, it's a swear word!) = let's put this on a hat because an exact clientele will buy it! = some poor sap will walk around thinking it's the funniest thing he/she has ever seen!

But the most wretched aspect of this week's specimen is his uncanny habit of asking every single ridiculous question you could possibly imagine. I'm sorry my friend, but only a verified idiot would need to clarify that we are indeed, rallentando-ing when "rallentando" is quite obviously written on the music. This is, in fact, the purpose of writing things on the music - you don't have to ask about them, or be confused. Instead, you transmit the information from the page, through your eyeballs, run it by your brain, and spit it out again via your mouth, which is conveniently attached to a trombone. It is clear that the only reason you are asking the question, is so other folks around you can see how perceptive you think you are, and thus be impressed.

This is a false assumption. I am not impressed. Nay, I am the opposite of impressed.

But alas, CH, you have a role to fill, and you fill it well. If only you could buy some more worthless shit to stick on your trombone to brag about, maybe like a little leather grip or a pencil holder, you can fully blossom into the trombonist you were born to become.

Tune in next week, for a gentler trombone player. Dare I say, a "gentle giant."

Cavalier

I've been going through old photos on my computer lateley; well, only "old" in the sense that they're from two or three years past. Mostly, I've been looking at the exploits I had in the spring of 2007. This was a period unique in my life, in that I was abroad, I was young and stupid, I had a certain amount of discretionary income to supplement my youth and stupidity, and I had, for one of the first times in my life, absolutely no boundaries. There were no parents or other authority figures to second guess what I was going to do, no one to query whether my plans were right or not. I suppose that's indicative of that entire year in England, but looking through photos, it seems to stick out most in the exploits of spring holiday.

I don't know quite what it is, I don't know why these pictures look so different. I mean, obviously, I look different, at least at a cursory glance. I didn't have a beard, had different glasses, was in the happy possession of more hair, etc. But what seems most significant, is the look in my eyes. Or to large extent, the look you have to infer through the aviator glasses that were seemingly glued to my face for a month. They have the look of a person who was living completely in the moment, a cavalier attitude towards what would or would not happen. I had a girlfriend, little to no actual responsibility, little to no actual knowledge of what I was doing. I just had a desire to "be," and to discover. Maybe that's the indestructibility phase that most men go through at some point in their lives. If there was ever a time that I was indestructible, that must have been it.

And I don't mean to bring this up to be sad, or to bemoan the comparatively less cavalier life I now am leading. That isn't to say that it's not positive to get that indestructible feeling back again every once in a while. I think for me, that feeling comes through travel. I got the same feeling again this summer, though I suppose a little different since I was alone. But it's still an exhilarating experience; one that almost puts a tangible shock through your body.

In that same vein though, I think it's good to keep a little of that cavalier-ness in everyday life. Given the current circumstances of life, that would probably be a good quality to have.

Dreams from Last Night

I had the most bizarre dream last night. I kid you not, it involved the following elements, all inter-correlated.

1 - Dave Brubeck (or was it old Jimmy Page?)
2 - that guy who does traffic for Jazz 88 FM
3 - Me de-icing interstate 94