I just spent twenty minutes of my life searching the internet for an episode of that show Unwrapped. You know, the one hosted by Marc Summers—former host of kid programs like Double Dare, and quite possibly the mildest man in America. I actually think of Unwrapped as one of the better offerings on the Food Network, if only for its often horrifying revelations pertaining to how anything from gumballs to hot dogs to pickles are manufactured and distributed. An uneasy TV cousin to both Alton Brown and that Dirty Jobs guy, I often find myself roped into episodes of Unwrapped, even if I have only a fleeting interest in whatever the subject matter is.
Then I saw the episode about how cast iron cookware is made, and it was like watching Satyricon, 2001, Fitzcarraldo, Chelsea Girl, and a Skinemax movie all at the same time. Wow!
Naturally, I'm a big cast iron fan. In any post-apocalyptic/zombie takeover/survivalist scenario, I'm sure it would be among the first things I'd scavenge for in the wreckage of our failed society. Cast iron (skillets, in particular) are incredibly useful, satisfyingly heavy, boast a hidden health benefit, and are virtually indestructible. My wife and I have a beautiful one that she found in someone's trash on Flatbush Avenue. It was in pretty bad shape, but we cleaned it up and now use it constantly. (Interestingly, while scrubbing loose some burnt-on schmutz from the underside of its cooking surface, the manufacturer's imprint was revealed for what seemed like the first time in a century. I Googled the name, and indeed, the company that made it went out of business more than 50 years ago! As such, our skillet is already well on its way to family heirloom status, even though we're not the original owners.)
Anyhow, I'd never given much thought to how cast iron was manufactured, but the episode of Unwrapped that covered it was utterly riveting, so keep an eye out for it. As a consolation, here's a dorky, but similarly informative video put together by Le Creuset that covers a lot of the same ground. (Albeit with less molten metal being splattered around and a totally unnecessary smooth jazz/trip hop musical accompaniment.) [Link]
My only business at this year's WFMU Record Fair was to catch up with Vicki Bennett, whom radio listeners and patrons of avant media know as the supremely talented People Like Us. In the midst of all the vinyl which the Fair aggregates on an annual basis, Vicki and her pal Irene Moon helmed a stall festooned with trinkets, baubles, plastic grapes, and the pair's many independent and self-released audio/video projects.
Vicki's immense catalog of work includes the Story Without End DVD, which is a wonderful collection of her inventive and forward thinking media manipulations. Using found footage, impossibly obscure audio, and relics of both mediums that have fallen into the public domain, Vicki weaves disparate themes into an all new narrative which is light years away from anything the original creators could have imagined. A recurring theme in her work is a breathless anticipation for an orderly, technologically advanced near-future that would improve our lives while simultaneously bringing us closer to one another. But with those eagerly foretold years now behind us and their promises unfulfilled, there is a poignant subtext which stands in stark contrast to the bright eyed characters who populate her universe.
"Resemblage", which is included on the DVD and which was created with materials from the Lux collection of moving images has an unusually sinister tone to it, but it is one that works to brilliant effect. Beginning with some undeniably Gilliam-esque paper collage, the film quickly moves into foreboding territory through the colliding images of burning landscapes, failing powergrids, and digital static. Although it clocks in at only slightly north of four minutes, I've found it to be among her most compelling works to date.
The true magic of People Like Us is Vicki's unique model of promotion and distribution. By operating so far outside of the mainstream, she has freed herself of the baggage that customarily inhibits artistic growth, and her lengthy career and incredible prolificity bear testament to that truth. In the past, she has said:
"I believe that through the internet, people can experiment and distribute their work for free, or very cheap, and become famous through their idea, rather than through having financial backing. I see the value of working below the radar because I believe all things float to the surface eventually. And so I reinterpret the media through my work."
Here's a recent interview with Vicki in which she further expounds upon these themes, her source material, the Story Without End DVD, and other aspects of her very inspiring career.
Finally, here's one of my favorite People Like Us MP3s, originally from the All Together Now CD. (Download the whole album, and lots more great PLU sounds in WFMU's Free Music Archive).
I've just been reminded me that we've passed the five year anniversary of John Peel's death—certainly one of the greatest and most unexpected losses the music and radio realms have ever endured. There was a real majesty to Peel's presence on the radio, and unlike the many hacks and imitators who've since tried to fill the void left by his departure, none of it was part of any marketing strategy on his behalf. Peel came across as a modest and reserved gentleman, and carried himself thusly. His respect for the innumerable artists who performed on his program was abundantly evident, and the praise he earned from those fortunate enough to have worked with him was pretty much universal in tone. John Peel was a class act.
His bio on Wikipedia is a good launchpad for further reading. Posted below are some classic Peel quotes from an email that went around shortly following his death in 2004, all of which acknowledge his wry humor and enviable talents. The closest I ever got to the man's legacy was having the honor to air segments from his syndicated highlights program, Peel Out in the States, on WPRB back in the early 90s. Then as now, it's reassuring to see that he is still regarded as a hero to so many.
___________________
When asked what he would say to George Bush if he was stuck in a room with him:
I'm a bit of a hippy and a peace loving man.....I'd cut the bastard's head off!
On retirement:
I don't plan to retire before I die. I don't like the idea of retirement. I don't want to play golf. I just want to keep doing what I'm doing. I do regard the playing of golf as like entering the antechamber to death. When my mates tell me they've started playing golf, I mentally cross them off the Christmas card list.
Following George Micheal and Aretha Franklin performing a duet on Top Of The Pops:
They say Aretha can make any old rubbish sound good -- and I think she just has.
On Big Black:
Once a week I drive a nail through my foot to remind myself of the stupidity of not going to see them when I had the chance.
Regarding his debut on Top Of The Pops:
In case you're wondering who this funny old bloke is, I'm the one who comes on Radio 1 late at night and plays records made by sulky Belgian art students in basements dying of tuberculosis.
After playing 'Higher State Of Consciousness' by Josh Wink for the second time: I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking that sounded better when I played it the other night, at the wrong speed.
After an expansive, brain-frying track by someone like Spacemen 3 or Flying Saucer Attack: I'm beginning to suspect their spirit of adventure has driven them to experiment with states of mind well beyond those traditionally associated with the consumption of three pints of Old Peculiar.
John Peel once joked he wanted to die while broadcasting. On his 60th birthday he said:
I'd quite like to die on the air but not in a melodramatic way. I would prefer to go during a long track. Then a continuity announcer would come on saying, "John seems to have been taken ill. We will take you over to Radio Two."
Then you'd hear the sound of my heels being dragged down the steps. And that will be that.
Janice Long's favourite Peel quote, from when they introduced David Cassidy on TOTP:
Janice: 'Ooh, I used to have him on my bedroom wall' Peel: 'That was very athletic of you Janice'
His wonderful on-air legal warnings:
It is my duty to warn you that in the next few hours you may be exposed to language and concepts you find unsettling. If this is the case I suggest you turn over. And here's Fuckatron, on Cunty Records, with "I Sodomised My Dad"
Some advert on his show, for some other awful daytime DJ like Gary Davies said "Gary Davies, playing the best music in the world." To which John replied:
Oh, he plays the Butthole Surfers does he? I must give him a listen.
Tomorrow night, sessions from the Janitors and The Smiths. Two bands with an 'it' in the middle. Very conceptual this programme gets at times.
I just found this excellent dub poetry take of LKJ's "Inglan is a Bitch", the musical version of which was one of the first reggae songs I ever heard on the radio. "Reggae Fi Peach", which can be found along with this one on the excellent Independent Intavenshan retrospective, remains one of my favorite tracks of all time. Read up on Linton Kwesi Johnson here.
Tullio de Piscopo performs "Stop Bajon (Primavera)". Why? Because it's amazing, and also because it's been stuck in my head since I first heard it on Siblingshot on the Bleachers. [Go there for the MP3.] Contrary to my wildest hopes and dreams, that's not Andy Samberg on the trumpet.
History likes to identify the most successful small businesses as those that lashed out against popular convention, constantly sought to raise expectations, re-worked the rules to their own advantage, and remained unflinchingly committed to their ideals. Since the United States vastly outflanks all other countries in the sheer number of independent startups that are registered annually [source: The Economist], there's an awful lot of evidence to sift through in order to discover how accurate that claim really is. But with so many small businesses introduced in the U.S. each year, it's a simple matter of natural selection that a lot of them fail, even during more prosperous days than those being offered by current history. However, a curious detail that's commonly overlooked is that even doomed startups often make a good deal of money, but wind up tanking as a result of poor asset management.
I got to thinking about this while watching the BBC's excellent documentary on the rise, fall, and second coming of England's legendary Rough Trade Records. While it's true that most Americans would be flummoxed by the notion of marketing radical bands like Metal Urbain, the Desperate Bicycles, and Pere Ubu, the Rough Trade story remains an indisputably worthy and thoughtful tribute to the pioneer spirit of entrepreneurship. As a result, the available lessons are ones that any open-minded small business owner can certainly benefit from. Whether you approach this compelling documentary as an established fan of British youth culture, or as a visionary who's sitting on a great idea, the necessary tools for raising your own empire will be revealed with a clarity that's truly inspiring.
Don't snooze on this one, as BBC content is often yanked from third-party hosts!
Ahhh, the old folks... I'm fascinated by their weird eating habits, their love of golf, and their apparent desire to experience life without any ventilation. If you've got parents or grandparents who live in Florida, you know exactly what I'm getting at and have probably fought the associated battle of eating "dinner" at 2 in the afternoon, or having to argue to get the windows opened on a beautiful Spring day. Not to say that everyone on the AARP's mailing list is just stewing in their own juices until either death or an early meal dictates otherwise, but there's certainly enough evidence out there to keep the stereotype fixed in popular perception. In my case, I need only to spend a few hours with my parents to be reminded of this. In their later years, they've revealed a subtle type of insanity where the symptoms include thermostats being set to 80 degrees, vegetables being intentionally cooked down to a lifeless paste, and the rationalization that driving two hours to buy a particular kind of honey is a perfectly good way to spend a Saturday. (I've had this honey, and think it tastes just like the kind from the supermarket. They seemed really insulted when I revealed this.)
Ultimately, I consider myself lucky. My folks are pretty healthy, they're much more active than a lot of their peers, and their mounting eccentricities make for great discussion behind their backs. (Guess who's never going to read this because they don't have the internet at their house?) In a lot of ways, they defy the stereotypes laid on many people their age, and subsequently, they've got a spirited relationship with their kids and grandchildren that keeps us all guessing as to what they might do next.
But the refusal to open the windows is an old-timer habit that I just can't wrap my head around. This is chief among my father's daily battles with his wife -- any sensation of moving air is, as far as he's concerned, a draft. As such, he ritualistically strides through the house in his robe to close windows, shut doors, draw curtains, turn off fans, and check thermostats like some kind of third shift security guard. Not only do the windows rarely get opened, but even at the peak of summer, the air conditioning won't kick on until things reach a stifling, near-tropical temperature. This routinely relegates my mother to some distant corner of the house, where even on a cold day, she can be found planted in a cross breeze created by two open windows, glass of white wine in hand, industrial strength fan blowing straight at her chair, and somehow, she's perspiring.
Sometimes I think the lack of ventilation (and by extension, the lack of breathable oxygen) is what makes people get so weird in their old age. In my father's case, I think it's more about him being in control than it is an effort to keep the cold at bay. I know I'm never going to convince him of anything so simple as the fresh air being good for him, so my methods tend to be a bit more devious in nature. Like convincing him that his stubborn ways have ruined something... Something that could have been enjoyed by his whole family were it not for his desire to live inside a blast furnace. Case in point: A 1971 bottle of Bolla Amarone (pictured) which was rendered utterly undrinkable thanks to his improper storage of it in a hot house for more than a quarter century. Frankly, I could tell by the way the cork immediately disintegrated under my wine key that this lauded wine from Italy's Valpolicella region was a goner. It didn't smell good. It didn't look good. And it really didn't taste good. Yet so great was my desire for substantiation, I simply couldn't resist choking down a few wretched sips. With much to be said regarding the difference between old wines and new wines, and how untrained palates can mistake complexity for spoilage, the reality in this case was unmistakable: this was bottled filth.
I quit when I started feeling sick. Samples were poured for my wife, and then my sisters -- all of whom responded with horribly contorted facial expressions and demands for glasses of water, or cookies, or cigarettes, or anything to rid their mouths of this most foul taste of the ages. (My mom tried it too, and thought it was OK, but this is a woman who pours Sabra on her ice cream and calls it "lunch". Her viticultural opinions are not ones we assign much authority to.)
Brokenhearted that my first experience with old wine had been such an epic failure, I poured the remainder of the murky liquid down the drain, and snuck away to exact revenge upon my father's thermostats. As I gleefully watched his target temperatures plummet in one room after another, I vowed to an unseen god that I would one day have my own subterranean wine cellar, so as to prevent these unfortunate events from ever being repeated. Because carelessly allowing wine to go bad is as much a crime against tradition as it is against art and intelligence. My wine cellar will be cool, dark, and will boast custom wooden shelving, hewn from the most majestic trees in the forest. It will be a place of respite from the chaotic world, and I will spend hours wandering its many aisles. Lost amongst the shelves, I shall thoughtfully consider which bottles will best accompany the grand feasts to be prepared in the upstairs kitchen. My wine cellar may even have a window -- which I will never open, because there will only be dirt on the other side.
____________________
For much more accessible (not to mention enjoyable) drinking, allow me to recommend this 2003 Recorba Crianza, which normally sells for $18 a bottle, but which our local shop recently cleared out for ten bucks each! (And before you email me to ask, yes, we bought everything they had left. But I'll bet there are still some around your neck of the woods.)
A quick search of the music library reveals many wine-related songs, but perhaps none more appropriate to the above discussion that Government Issue's "Strange Wine", from their 1988 Crash LP. [Now available on Complete History, Vol. 2.] [Download]
OK, I'll fess up to not knowing what a "lorry" was until this past week's episode of the BBC2 series Top Gear. (Spoiler: It's a big truck.) And to think that I stumbled ignorantly through nearly 37 years of life without ever bothering to discover this detail... Furthering my personal shame is the realization that I've owned an LP by that band Red Lorry Yellow Lorry since high school. Oof.
Curse my ignorant and lazy ways, and then enjoy this clip of the latest Top Gear challenge. It easily ranks among the show's best and funniest ever.
One of my favorite movies turns fifty this year, and that's as good an excuse as any to make it an object of public affection here on R:M:B. Black Orpheus is the 1959 re-telling of the Greek tragedy Orpheus and Eurydice, set against the festive backdrop of Rio de Janeiro's Carnaval. I can't remember how or why I first saw it, but I know I was instantly hooked by Jean Cocteau's Orphic Trilogy when a friend made me watch it years ago as part of her college thesis work. That experience alone may be what pushed me to load up my own academic curriculum with as many film classes as possible, and it's an interest I've tried to stay connected to in later life. (And I've got the Kenneth Anger and Maya Deren DVDs to prove it, bub.)
Black Orpheus is arguably among the most visually stunning films ever made. The colors of Carnaval literally jump out of the screen in a style that is definitively enhanced by a bossa nova soundtrack that David Ehrenstein describes as "eruptive, convulsive, [and] infectious". Indeed, the manic drumming of Carnaval -- which explodes out of the gate during the opening title sequence -- remains audible at some level almost throughout the film's entire duration. In its most frantic moments, this percussive presence is mixed to nearly in-the-red levels, adding an additional layer of urgency to Death's thematic pursuit of Eurydice. Elsewhere, during Black Orpheus' more somber scenes, it maintains its residence as an important component of the story, though in such instances, it is appropriately deployed as less of an aural centerpiece.
Even if you don't know the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice (but really, didn't everyone have a copy of The Big Book of Greek Mythology when they were kids?), this is a completely appropriate version to treat as a starting point. Symbolic nods to the original tale are artfully interwoven into the narrative, and a single viewing will likely inspire you to research the original Greek legend on your own. Committed fans who re-visit the film repeatedly are rewarded with the careful considerations that director Marcel Camus took in sculpting this modernized version. His efforts were duly noted in their own time, as the film handily took the Palme d'Or at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival, as well as the 1960 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. An expected DVD edition was released by Criterion in 1999, which is still readily available for sale and via Netflix.
The soundtrack (by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Luiz Bonfa) is an artifact that's also well worth tracking down. Interestingly, it seems to have been more of a phenomenon than the actual film was, at least in America, where the bossa nova sound fruitfully intermingled with jazz during the apex of its popularity (1958-63, so sayeth Wikipedia.) As a result, used vinyl copies are today a fairly ubiquitous presence in the soundtrack sections of most decent record stores. I think I paid ten bucks for mine, though I've seen them go for as little as two. Alternately, Amazon's got it available in both physical format and as an MP3 download.
For further reading, I'd strongly recommend Lawrence Russell's Culture Courtarticle on Black Orpheus. To be completely fair, it's something of a head-spinning treatise that's clearly geared towards film geeks, but it makes compelling observations vis-à-vis the film's nods to voodoo, and does so in a way that casual observers can definitely glean insight from.
On a more immediately relevant tip, no less a man than Barack Obama has recently sought to add to the discussion of Black Orpheus. In his "Dreams from my Father" autobiography, he notes that his (white) mother was an avowed fan of the film, and he describes how she had once characterized it as "the most beautiful thing [she'd] ever seen." But after viewing it for himself in 1983, Obama went on to admonish the film for what he interpreted as a needless exoticism being ascribed to the all-black cast. Writing in The Guardian earlier this month, Peter Bradshawcame to the film's defense and made a number of astute observations regarding its ongoing cultural relevance. However, with consideration given to the President's remarks, he also comments on what he calls "a loss of liberal innocence about racial difference." It's a great read about a great film, but assuming you're still not convinced, here's a spoiler-free excerpt that gracefully demonstrates the romance, comedy, frenzied momentum, and poetic sadness of Black Orpheus.
On a final note of poignancy, I just learned that the actors who portrayed Black Orpheus' doomed lovers -- Breno Mello as the heroic Orpheus, and Marpessa Dawn as the breathtakingly beautiful Eurydice -- both died within weeks of one another during the summer of 2008. In spite of their exemplary performances and the success of the film, neither were particularly prolific in the years that followed. You can read their respective New York Times obituaries here and here.
In the first installment of this series, I wrote about my experience cooking duck breast with fig and red wine sauce. Since the ostensible topic was inexpensive eats for tough times, referencing exotic ingredients in such a discussion was an editorial feat requiring what Dabney Coleman once called "balls as big as church bells." Several of you were concerned enough to point this out to me privately, so okay -- I get the hint. My original purpose was only to proclaim that cooking on the cheap need not sequester you to the rice and beans ghetto, where the rewards are as limited as they are gastrointestinally challenging. But somewhere along the way, that idea was diluted by my sudden desire to work prepared waterfowl into the mix, and my good intentions were misinterpreted as support for clinging to extravagant ways, even as the world collapses all around us.
Fine. You're right and I'm guilty: The 28 dollars I spent on a modestly elegant home-cooked meal for my wife have eternally damned me along with the hoards of asshole investment bankers and their zillion dollar "retention" bonuses. When the middle class tax revolt is finally upon us, just cast me in a role like Harry Dean Stanton in Red Dawn -- thrown into re-education camp, force fed propaganda films vis-à-vis the merits and virtues of Top Ramen, and screaming for vengeance from behind barbed wire fencing in Central Park. I am signed on and anxiously anticipating your hotly prophecized dystopia.
Or not. While I'm in full agreement that we're all screwed six ways from Sunday on the economic front, I can't bring myself to abandon all indulgences in the face of adversity. But in a nod to the committed doomsayers in our midst, here's a recipe for an amazingly satisfying dinner, the ingredients for which can be 100% obtained at the local ghetto C-Town. So tasty and simple (and cheap) is this concoction that the associated agonies of your hastily departed life savings will vanish after just a few mouthfuls. To wit, please sit back and enjoy three minutes of the über-foxy Nigella Lawson as she whips together this sumptuous favorite of my broke-ass-poor ancestors:
One observation: Umm, pardon me, Nigella. But exactly how big are your wine glasses? Your call for "about half a glass" looked more like half a bottle to me, unless that's just some visual trickery created by the multiple camera angles. Not like I'm one to complain about an excess of wine, but honesty is a critical element for those of us who enjoy cooking by the light of a flickering computer monitor.
This recipe is seriously idiot-proof. Unless you are wholly unfamiliar with the use of A) a wooden spoon, or B) your hands, there is really no way you can muck this up to a state of ill fame. However, after several experiences in turning this one out for ourselves as well as for company, I would recommend the following alterations:
* Brown the chicken for a few minutes before adding the tomato. I am a major salmonella-phobe, and I have been guilty of cooking chicken to the point of non-recognition (and then taking it outside to run it over with the car a few times just to make sure it's really dead.) Fortunately, you're not me, so there's no need to behave so irrationally if you believe in the basics of physical science. After all, the chicken is going to boil away in the tomato and wine for a good while, thusly killing any bad bits which might make you sick later on. Just thank the god of your choice that dark meat is usually merciful enough to stay juicy no matter what indignities you inflict upon it.
* Bacon, of course, is the noblest of all cured meats, but even I recognize that not everyone eats it and that you've got to cater to all sorts in this world. If you're against using it for some reason or another, I can freely recommend Godshall's Turkey Bacon as an acceptable stand-in. Godshall's is the only brand of turkey bacon I have come across which doesn't make me want to light myself on fire and run screaming into the night. And no, I don't actually want to know what they do to it in order to achieve that effect. If you opt for real bacon, however, definitely spoon out some of the excess fat before browning the chicken, lest your guests' arteries seize up before you've had a chance to offer anyone an apéritif.
* Use more rosemary. Because really, when have you ever eaten anything that had too much rosemary?
Next time: Recession Transgression in full effect! (AKA How to make a tasty broth by boiling up the Doc Martens that have been lying in your closet since Autumn of '91.)
