This article was first published at Blogcritics
I would imagine singer, composer Rob Morsberger must be getting tired of reading all the comparisons that critics are so constantly making as they attempt to define and label him and his music for the audience as yet to hear him. He is a "Tom Petty/Bob Dylan hybrid," says one critic. He has the kind of "hyperliterate" style that "went out of style when Warren Zevon died," says another. His latest is done with "an Elvis (Costello)-esque mix of wit and grit." And that's not all, there's Tom Waits, Rufus Wainwright, Robbie Robertson and a touch of Randy Newman. But if he is, he's just going to have to live with it, because in each and every one of these comparisons there is much more than the proverbial granular truth.
Witness his latest CD, his fourth, The Chronicle of a Literal Man, a compilation of ten richly original compositions ranging from the anthemic title track to the lilting rhythms of "Stroke of Insight," from the introspective "Nebraska in Winter" to the rumbling passions of "Old Jolly Farm." His lyrics are dense with allusion, metaphor and creative rhyming. He writes lyrics that will reward the kind of explicative analysis usually accorded to the finest of poets. Often he seems to create so many voices not his own (to paraphrase one of those fine poets) to speak the speech, or more appropriately to sing the song (as in "Nebraska in Winter"). Moreover, he embeds his lyrics in tunes with melodies that will as often as not keep listeners humming.
Certainly his lyrics are literate; indeed they may be too literate. They are filled with references that will be meaningful to most listeners only with some kind of gloss by way of album notes, album notes that are not supplied with the CD, although all the lyrics are provided. While no doubt he isn't writing for the typical pop audience, his lyrics tend towards the kind of idiosyncratic allusion that sends one to Google. "Where is the Song" refers to an unnamed revolution in 1848. The speaker cries out from exile to a Natalia. In a recent interview, Morsberg says that the song is about Russian revolutionary, Alexander Herzen. Of course without his comment, I'm not sure how the audience is supposed to know that. "Old Jolly Farm," burial site of civil rights workers James Chaney, Michael Schwerner, and Andrew Goodman may be more identifiable to some. "Modestine," it turns out is the name of a donkey in Robert Louis Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes, certainly not among that author's most well known works. "The Chronicle of a Literal Man" deals with the motion picture, Papillon and morphs into a riff on McCarthyism and the screen writer Dalton Trumbo.
Is it necessary to understand all these allusions to enjoy the music? That is the question. While there is no question that understanding the lyric adds much to the enjoyment of music, it is also true that musical success has never depended solely on the comprehension of the lyrics. We don't have to understand what we are hearing to find it powerfully moving. Indeed, one might argue that not completely understanding the composer's intentions allows the listener to read his own meanings into what he is hearing.
A case in point: before Googling Modestine, I heard the line, "You're my beast of burden." My first thought was The Rolling Stones. At the end of the song come the lines: "You're the queen /of my world/please don't make an ass of me/Modestine." What I heard was a love song. The fact that it later turns out that it's a love song to an ass, only adds to the irony.
Morsberger's metaphors and similes remind me of nothing so much as the conceits of the seventeenth century Metaphysical poets, poets like John Donne and George Herbert. Depression, "the density of sadness" is "just like eating a stone." Life should not be like "an independent movie," a speaker in the song of the same name advises. Another song tells a friend complaining about his life: "If your life is God's idea of a sick joke/at least it’s a joke he's playing on you."
He likes creative rhymes: "them or us/Spartacus," Steve McQueen/ final scene," "pay your debt/cigarette," all in the title song. Scattered through the others are rhymes you might not ordinarily expect: "of vision/derision," "defective/perspective," "alter/falter," "a while/exile." He also gets some nice effects with off-rhymes. I should note that he tends to shy away from these kinds of poetic indulgences which focus more on wit than sincerity when he is looking for something more emotionally charged as in "Old Jolly Farm" and "Nebraska in Winter." These are written in a much more straightforward manner.
Morsberger does the lead vocals and plays keyboards. Robin Gould is on the drums, Jon Herington, electric and acoustic guitars, and Paul Ossola plays electric and upright base. Listen to them wail at the end of "You Don't Get It," the last of the album's songs. Jim Hynes does some nice work on the flugelhorn with the syncopated rhythms of "Modestine."
If you miss the late Warren Zevon, if you're looking for some of that Costello-esque wit, if Tom Waits or Bob Dylan or Rufus Wainwright is your thing, give Rob Morsberger a listen. You won't regret it.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Top Chef Tops
hioiThis article was first published at Blogcritics
I've been a fan of Top Chef ever since its first season in 2005 when Harold won out over Tiffani and the host was Katie Lee, and I've been following the show religiously as it is now in the middle of its seventh season. Occasionally I have dallied with other cooking reality shows, but never with the kind of devotion I have lavished on Top Chef. What is that cliché about first love?
Iron Chef America has glitz, but these are master chefs on parade. They would seem to have little on the line. They are more or less showing off. Hell's Kitchen is more about Gordon Ramsey's sadistic humiliation of contestants, than it is about cooking. Chopped and its mystery basket with anything from jelly beans to sardines has a kind of surreal appeal, but it since each episode is self contained, viewers are not likely to bond with individual contestants as they do when chefs are eliminated over a period of weeks. The Next Food Network Star solves that problem, but then the judges are as much concerned with a chef's star quality as they are with her cooking. Critiques of their on camera performance are as important in keeping contestants around as the taste of their food.
In a way you would think this should be a plus for the show. After all those of us watching at home, as none other than Top Chef host/judge Tom Colicchio pointed out in an interview on a Salon Magazine podcast awhile back , have no way of knowing how the food the chef's produce tastes. He was talking about the critical mail they often received complaining that the judges had made a mistake deciding which of the chefs should be sent to "pack their knives." At least when it comes to on camera personality, viewers have a reasonable basis on which to make a judgment. While this may well be true, I don't know that rationality has anything to do with the popularity of these shows. Moreover, it is clear that a reality show contestant's personalities are more likely to depend on selective editing than on anything else.
This is not to say that Top Chef doesn't indulge in creative editing. The show is as much concerned with creating heroes and villains as its cooking and non-cooking relatives. They just seem to do it so well. There hasn't been a show where I haven't found someone to dislike, sometimes someone to detest. In that first season there was Stephen. In the second season there was the smarmy Marcel. Season five had the know-it-all Stefan. There are the loveable losers: Miguel in the first season, Ron in season six, and of course, Fabio in season five. Then in the end when it comes to choosing a winner, it usually turns out to be one of the good guys, Hosea in season five, or one of the good gals, Stephanie, the first female winner in the fourth season. No question manipulation is the name of the game, but manipulation so adept who could wish away (with apologies to Samuel Johnson). The Next Food Network Star isn't in the same league.
And now we're in season seven. The chefs are in Washington DC. John, the strange man with the hair, was gone quickly. The outspoken Tracey was sent packing in the third episode. Stephen, the jokester, went last week with over cooked rice. The seemingly inept Amanda and the accident prone Alex are still around. There is a possible cheating scandal over some vanishing pea puree. The alpha males Kenny and Angelo are battling for top dog. Maybe we can't taste the tamales that beat out Kevin's attempt at Indian cuisine and Kelly's carpaccio and won thousand dollars for soon to be married Tiffany, but it sure feels like the right person won. And after all is said and done, isn't feelings what this is all about? Besides, I don't have the vaguest idea what carpaccio is and I couldn't tell a real curry from a fake on a bet.
I've been a fan of Top Chef ever since its first season in 2005 when Harold won out over Tiffani and the host was Katie Lee, and I've been following the show religiously as it is now in the middle of its seventh season. Occasionally I have dallied with other cooking reality shows, but never with the kind of devotion I have lavished on Top Chef. What is that cliché about first love?
Iron Chef America has glitz, but these are master chefs on parade. They would seem to have little on the line. They are more or less showing off. Hell's Kitchen is more about Gordon Ramsey's sadistic humiliation of contestants, than it is about cooking. Chopped and its mystery basket with anything from jelly beans to sardines has a kind of surreal appeal, but it since each episode is self contained, viewers are not likely to bond with individual contestants as they do when chefs are eliminated over a period of weeks. The Next Food Network Star solves that problem, but then the judges are as much concerned with a chef's star quality as they are with her cooking. Critiques of their on camera performance are as important in keeping contestants around as the taste of their food.
In a way you would think this should be a plus for the show. After all those of us watching at home, as none other than Top Chef host/judge Tom Colicchio pointed out in an interview on a Salon Magazine podcast awhile back , have no way of knowing how the food the chef's produce tastes. He was talking about the critical mail they often received complaining that the judges had made a mistake deciding which of the chefs should be sent to "pack their knives." At least when it comes to on camera personality, viewers have a reasonable basis on which to make a judgment. While this may well be true, I don't know that rationality has anything to do with the popularity of these shows. Moreover, it is clear that a reality show contestant's personalities are more likely to depend on selective editing than on anything else.
This is not to say that Top Chef doesn't indulge in creative editing. The show is as much concerned with creating heroes and villains as its cooking and non-cooking relatives. They just seem to do it so well. There hasn't been a show where I haven't found someone to dislike, sometimes someone to detest. In that first season there was Stephen. In the second season there was the smarmy Marcel. Season five had the know-it-all Stefan. There are the loveable losers: Miguel in the first season, Ron in season six, and of course, Fabio in season five. Then in the end when it comes to choosing a winner, it usually turns out to be one of the good guys, Hosea in season five, or one of the good gals, Stephanie, the first female winner in the fourth season. No question manipulation is the name of the game, but manipulation so adept who could wish away (with apologies to Samuel Johnson). The Next Food Network Star isn't in the same league.
And now we're in season seven. The chefs are in Washington DC. John, the strange man with the hair, was gone quickly. The outspoken Tracey was sent packing in the third episode. Stephen, the jokester, went last week with over cooked rice. The seemingly inept Amanda and the accident prone Alex are still around. There is a possible cheating scandal over some vanishing pea puree. The alpha males Kenny and Angelo are battling for top dog. Maybe we can't taste the tamales that beat out Kevin's attempt at Indian cuisine and Kelly's carpaccio and won thousand dollars for soon to be married Tiffany, but it sure feels like the right person won. And after all is said and done, isn't feelings what this is all about? Besides, I don't have the vaguest idea what carpaccio is and I couldn't tell a real curry from a fake on a bet.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Elephant Keeper Reviewed
This article was first published at Blogcritics
Christopher Nicholson's new historical novel, The Elephant Keeper, is set in England in the second half of the eighteenth century. It begins in 1773 when, Tom Page, the keeper of the title, is asked by the current owner of the elephant and his employer to write a history of his association with the animal including an explanation of his own capability to communicate with it. Unsure of his abilities with the pen, Tom demurs for awhile, makes a couple of false starts and is finally encouraged to tell the story in his own way without worrying about literary niceties. With that he goes back to his beginnings and his first acquaintance with the elephant and her brother when they arrive in England and are purchased by the wealthy merchant he works for as a groom. The novel follows Tom's experiences working with at least one of the elephants for a number of different owners, as he devotes his life to her care. Their relationship is less one of animal and trainer than it is of friends. In a very real sense, this is the love story of a man and an elephant.
Nicholson's depiction of eighteenth century England is spot on. Class differences are clearly marked. Servants and villagers are subject to the whims of the upper classes. Benevolent aristocrats may treat them well, but all the wealthy are not benevolent. Rural life for the lower classes tended to be insulated. Cities were dirty and crime infested. Sickness and disease were constant worries, and medical treatment was more than likely to be simple quackery. Rich landowners were enthralled with a new craze for romantic landscaping, eschewing the formal gardens of earlier periods in favor of a wilder scenic vista including things like a hermit's cottage equipped with its own hermit, a man-made lake, an obelisk. For those with a scientific bent there might be a collection of extraordinary flora and fauna. British ships were bringing new undreamed of exotica back from their journeys: everything from monkeys to bananas; though they never were able to bring back one of the mermaids so often seen by sailors. Superstition was rampant.
Not quite a picaresque novel of the kind written during the period, the novel is more a collection of incidents in the lives of Tom and the female elephant he calls Jennie, than it is a coherently plotted story. Although one might well see Tom and Jennie as a post modern commentary on the more traditional combination of the picaresque hero and his companion, Don Quixote and Sancho Pannza. Indeed, in some respect this may not be that much of a stretch. The somewhat controversial ending of the book where a modern author appears in a research facility surveying the remains of elephants that died in captivity in England reads much like something you would expect to see in modern meta-fiction. Undoubtedly there is something in the novel's inconclusive conclusion that will remind readers of John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman.
Moreover, the novel raises an interesting aesthetic question about the relationship between truth and fiction. At the start, Tom Page is constantly concerned with providing some kind of objective truth in his writing, but he can only begin to write when he is assured that he need only deal with what he determines to be the truth. He must learn the value of subjective truth, a value that was becoming more and more prevalent in the period in which the novel is set. Add to this the idea that often you can get at truth more effectively through falsehood—a thesis set forward by a painter commissioned to paint a portrait of Jennie, when Tom complains that the painting is a purposeful misrepresentation, and later repeated by the owner of a menagerie creating tall tales about his animals. This paradoxical view of the nature of truth becomes a staple of the next century's aesthetics.
Indeed, Tom's own narrative gradually seems to move away from any attempt at objective truth in favor of a more subjective reality. Early in his writing, when he is credited with being able to speak to the elephant, he is quick to deny it, and explain her training. As the years go on, he begins to speak to Jennie and Jennie answers. Not only does she answer, but she comforts him when he is troubled, philosophizes about life in captivity and its parallel to the human condition. More and more as the novel progresses, she becomes the voice of wisdom. While certainly, Tom is putting his own thoughts and feelings into the mouth of the elephant, the power of those feelings is emphasized dramatically.
The Elephant's Keeper is the story of one man's devotion to the creature he loves, his refusal to listen to the complaint that she's "only an elephant." It is not a case of merely attributing human characteristics to animals. The world of The Elephant Keeper is one where as often as nor men behave like beasts, and animals behave with honor. It is a story of a man who comes to see that there is little to distinguish between man and beast: "I feel a kinship with these creatures. We inhabit the same world; we breathe the same air, beneath the same sky. . . . Why do philosophers always look for differences instead of likenesses?" References throughout to the fourth book of Gulliver's Travels are not without relevance. This is a story that may well get you too talking to elephants, or horses if no elephants are handy.
Christopher Nicholson's new historical novel, The Elephant Keeper, is set in England in the second half of the eighteenth century. It begins in 1773 when, Tom Page, the keeper of the title, is asked by the current owner of the elephant and his employer to write a history of his association with the animal including an explanation of his own capability to communicate with it. Unsure of his abilities with the pen, Tom demurs for awhile, makes a couple of false starts and is finally encouraged to tell the story in his own way without worrying about literary niceties. With that he goes back to his beginnings and his first acquaintance with the elephant and her brother when they arrive in England and are purchased by the wealthy merchant he works for as a groom. The novel follows Tom's experiences working with at least one of the elephants for a number of different owners, as he devotes his life to her care. Their relationship is less one of animal and trainer than it is of friends. In a very real sense, this is the love story of a man and an elephant.
Nicholson's depiction of eighteenth century England is spot on. Class differences are clearly marked. Servants and villagers are subject to the whims of the upper classes. Benevolent aristocrats may treat them well, but all the wealthy are not benevolent. Rural life for the lower classes tended to be insulated. Cities were dirty and crime infested. Sickness and disease were constant worries, and medical treatment was more than likely to be simple quackery. Rich landowners were enthralled with a new craze for romantic landscaping, eschewing the formal gardens of earlier periods in favor of a wilder scenic vista including things like a hermit's cottage equipped with its own hermit, a man-made lake, an obelisk. For those with a scientific bent there might be a collection of extraordinary flora and fauna. British ships were bringing new undreamed of exotica back from their journeys: everything from monkeys to bananas; though they never were able to bring back one of the mermaids so often seen by sailors. Superstition was rampant.
Not quite a picaresque novel of the kind written during the period, the novel is more a collection of incidents in the lives of Tom and the female elephant he calls Jennie, than it is a coherently plotted story. Although one might well see Tom and Jennie as a post modern commentary on the more traditional combination of the picaresque hero and his companion, Don Quixote and Sancho Pannza. Indeed, in some respect this may not be that much of a stretch. The somewhat controversial ending of the book where a modern author appears in a research facility surveying the remains of elephants that died in captivity in England reads much like something you would expect to see in modern meta-fiction. Undoubtedly there is something in the novel's inconclusive conclusion that will remind readers of John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman.
Moreover, the novel raises an interesting aesthetic question about the relationship between truth and fiction. At the start, Tom Page is constantly concerned with providing some kind of objective truth in his writing, but he can only begin to write when he is assured that he need only deal with what he determines to be the truth. He must learn the value of subjective truth, a value that was becoming more and more prevalent in the period in which the novel is set. Add to this the idea that often you can get at truth more effectively through falsehood—a thesis set forward by a painter commissioned to paint a portrait of Jennie, when Tom complains that the painting is a purposeful misrepresentation, and later repeated by the owner of a menagerie creating tall tales about his animals. This paradoxical view of the nature of truth becomes a staple of the next century's aesthetics.
Indeed, Tom's own narrative gradually seems to move away from any attempt at objective truth in favor of a more subjective reality. Early in his writing, when he is credited with being able to speak to the elephant, he is quick to deny it, and explain her training. As the years go on, he begins to speak to Jennie and Jennie answers. Not only does she answer, but she comforts him when he is troubled, philosophizes about life in captivity and its parallel to the human condition. More and more as the novel progresses, she becomes the voice of wisdom. While certainly, Tom is putting his own thoughts and feelings into the mouth of the elephant, the power of those feelings is emphasized dramatically.
The Elephant's Keeper is the story of one man's devotion to the creature he loves, his refusal to listen to the complaint that she's "only an elephant." It is not a case of merely attributing human characteristics to animals. The world of The Elephant Keeper is one where as often as nor men behave like beasts, and animals behave with honor. It is a story of a man who comes to see that there is little to distinguish between man and beast: "I feel a kinship with these creatures. We inhabit the same world; we breathe the same air, beneath the same sky. . . . Why do philosophers always look for differences instead of likenesses?" References throughout to the fourth book of Gulliver's Travels are not without relevance. This is a story that may well get you too talking to elephants, or horses if no elephants are handy.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Elephant Keeper by Christopher NicholsonMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Historical novel set in the 18th century is essentially a love story between a man and an elephant.
View all my reviews >>
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Music (I wouldn't call it a) Review: F. a Leo Roberto Cipelli
Article first published as Touched by Leo Ferre, My Search to Learn More About Roberto Cipelli on Blogcritics.
There is nothing like a pleasant surprise.
The other day, tucked in with a review copy of Matt Herskowitz's Jerusalem Trilogy that came in the mail, was another CD. It was a collection of songs in tribute to French composer and singer, Leo Ferre (there a couple of accent marks necessary over the 'e' in Leo and the last 'e' in Ferre, but word processing ignoramus that I am, have no idea how to get them there---so use your imagination); a composer I must admit I have never heard of. It was the work of a group of jazz musicians led by pianist Roberto Cipelli. I had never heard of Cipelli. I had never heard of any of the other musicians on the album. Moreover the album notes were no help; they were all in French or Italian , and although I had taken two years of college French back in the dim dark days beyond recall, it was only a word or two of the text that I could make out. When I checked to see who it was that was playing the beautiful trumpet solo on track five all I could find was someone playing the tromba. It's not French. Trumpet? Perhaps, but I don't have an Italian dictionary handy.
There was a publicity release with the CD, but it was after all a publicity release, not exactly unbiased reporting. I check the internet, first for Leo Ferre. The Wikipedia entry announces that it has "multiple issues." Wikipedia isn't the best of sources even without "multiple issues." I try the official Leo Ferre site. It's in French. I can't get the Google translator to work. I try a biography site in English. It has a paragraph of about a hundred words. He was born in Monaco in 1916. He was very important in the French song world, equated with the likes of Jacques Brel (at last, someone I've heard of). He was "involved in" anarchism. He died in 1993. He is, the entry concludes, "a great composer and writer of French songs." I give up. The publicity release has more information, although some of it seems to have been taken from the same site I was just surfing. It does add some information about his idea to set the work of some of the great poets to music, although I'm not quite clear about why this is so startlingly original. After all, the idea of setting great poetry to music is not exactly new.
I check the internet for Roberto Cipelli. Again there isn't much. What is there is in Italian, for the most part. He has a web site. The Leo Ferre album is featured. There are some pictures. He seems to have been born in Cremona; it looks like in 1958. That's about all I can get from the web page. He does have a Facebook page. He likes Alice Adams Tucker. I, of course, am not familiar with Alice Adams Tucker, although I'm willing to learn. So, it's back to the publicity release. In this case however there is not much information about the artist. Most of the release talks about the project and the individual tracks, which is fine, fine that is if you want the record label's take on its product.
Anyway, while I'm searching for information, I'm listening to the CD, and damned, if I don't like it. I import it to my iPod. I listen again. I like it again. Indeed, the more I listen, the better I like it. I don't know Roberto Cipelli, but he can swing when he wants to and do just as well with sensitive melodic melancholy. There is some really fine trumpet work by Paolo Fresu. He plays with a clarity of phrasing that is as sweet as anyone around. Their duet on "Colloque sentimental" is a masterly blend of mood and technique, ending with the horn holding a long note while the piano glides over. "Vingt ans" showcases the two musicians in an up tempo mode. Attillio Zanchi plays double bass and Philippe Garcia is on the drums.
There are vocals in French and Italian by Cipelli and Gianmaria Testa. Both have arresting voices in the gravelly straight ahead tradition of the French song stylists. They whisper of passion. Though there are lyrics printed for all the vocals, they are all in French and Italian. I have no idea what they're singing, but somehow it doesn't matter. Although I don't mean to suggest that I would turn my nose up at some nice English translation, if it had been kindly provided.
Not all of the songs are by Ferre. There is an Italian song, "Lontano, Lontano" by Luigi Tenco. "Free Poetique" is a chaotic piece by Cipelli which he feels capture's Ferre's poetic spirit in music. Cesase Pavese's poem, Il Blues dei Bluess is set to the music of "Saint-Germain-Des-Pres." There is even a poem of Paul Verlaine scattered through the tracks of the disc. The album is not intended as a collection of new arrangements of Ferre's work, rather it is, according to Cipelli, his attempt "to revisit it in his own personal way." Whether he succeeds in capturing the spirit of Ferre, I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is this. He has succeeded in producing a haunting album of music that almost transcends the need for meaning.
There is nothing like a pleasant surprise.
The other day, tucked in with a review copy of Matt Herskowitz's Jerusalem Trilogy that came in the mail, was another CD. It was a collection of songs in tribute to French composer and singer, Leo Ferre (there a couple of accent marks necessary over the 'e' in Leo and the last 'e' in Ferre, but word processing ignoramus that I am, have no idea how to get them there---so use your imagination); a composer I must admit I have never heard of. It was the work of a group of jazz musicians led by pianist Roberto Cipelli. I had never heard of Cipelli. I had never heard of any of the other musicians on the album. Moreover the album notes were no help; they were all in French or Italian , and although I had taken two years of college French back in the dim dark days beyond recall, it was only a word or two of the text that I could make out. When I checked to see who it was that was playing the beautiful trumpet solo on track five all I could find was someone playing the tromba. It's not French. Trumpet? Perhaps, but I don't have an Italian dictionary handy.
There was a publicity release with the CD, but it was after all a publicity release, not exactly unbiased reporting. I check the internet, first for Leo Ferre. The Wikipedia entry announces that it has "multiple issues." Wikipedia isn't the best of sources even without "multiple issues." I try the official Leo Ferre site. It's in French. I can't get the Google translator to work. I try a biography site in English. It has a paragraph of about a hundred words. He was born in Monaco in 1916. He was very important in the French song world, equated with the likes of Jacques Brel (at last, someone I've heard of). He was "involved in" anarchism. He died in 1993. He is, the entry concludes, "a great composer and writer of French songs." I give up. The publicity release has more information, although some of it seems to have been taken from the same site I was just surfing. It does add some information about his idea to set the work of some of the great poets to music, although I'm not quite clear about why this is so startlingly original. After all, the idea of setting great poetry to music is not exactly new.
I check the internet for Roberto Cipelli. Again there isn't much. What is there is in Italian, for the most part. He has a web site. The Leo Ferre album is featured. There are some pictures. He seems to have been born in Cremona; it looks like in 1958. That's about all I can get from the web page. He does have a Facebook page. He likes Alice Adams Tucker. I, of course, am not familiar with Alice Adams Tucker, although I'm willing to learn. So, it's back to the publicity release. In this case however there is not much information about the artist. Most of the release talks about the project and the individual tracks, which is fine, fine that is if you want the record label's take on its product.
Anyway, while I'm searching for information, I'm listening to the CD, and damned, if I don't like it. I import it to my iPod. I listen again. I like it again. Indeed, the more I listen, the better I like it. I don't know Roberto Cipelli, but he can swing when he wants to and do just as well with sensitive melodic melancholy. There is some really fine trumpet work by Paolo Fresu. He plays with a clarity of phrasing that is as sweet as anyone around. Their duet on "Colloque sentimental" is a masterly blend of mood and technique, ending with the horn holding a long note while the piano glides over. "Vingt ans" showcases the two musicians in an up tempo mode. Attillio Zanchi plays double bass and Philippe Garcia is on the drums.
There are vocals in French and Italian by Cipelli and Gianmaria Testa. Both have arresting voices in the gravelly straight ahead tradition of the French song stylists. They whisper of passion. Though there are lyrics printed for all the vocals, they are all in French and Italian. I have no idea what they're singing, but somehow it doesn't matter. Although I don't mean to suggest that I would turn my nose up at some nice English translation, if it had been kindly provided.
Not all of the songs are by Ferre. There is an Italian song, "Lontano, Lontano" by Luigi Tenco. "Free Poetique" is a chaotic piece by Cipelli which he feels capture's Ferre's poetic spirit in music. Cesase Pavese's poem, Il Blues dei Bluess is set to the music of "Saint-Germain-Des-Pres." There is even a poem of Paul Verlaine scattered through the tracks of the disc. The album is not intended as a collection of new arrangements of Ferre's work, rather it is, according to Cipelli, his attempt "to revisit it in his own personal way." Whether he succeeds in capturing the spirit of Ferre, I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is this. He has succeeded in producing a haunting album of music that almost transcends the need for meaning.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave EggersMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Self conscious, almost post modern attempt to deal with the loss of both parents, the obligation to care for a younger brother, and make one's way in the world. In a sense, Eggers reminds me, as far as technical games with form are concerned, of a poor man's David Foster Wallace.
View all my reviews >>
Monday, July 12, 2010
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