Sequence

I'm glad I walked through Richard Serra's Sequence before seeing it from above. I'd been in similar installations in places that run together in my memory. I entered thinking it would be a short little corridor, flanked by the two massive pieces of iron that are the only materials in this sculpture. But the path on the interior was somehow longer than the outside appeared. I was stuck in a TARDIS of rust and birdshit that reached twenty feet in the air and stole my voice without an echo. I started to get nervous as I passed what I thought was the same set of footprints on one of the angled walls. The curves seemed to double back and repeat. Finally I saw the rest of the world again.

I don't know if this was just a moment of natural selection about to take place, penalizing me for my inability to accurately estimate distances, or if Serra somehow managed to distort space with his two pieces of metal. I do know that I was changed while inside. Not monumentally, but I came out different than I entered. And it feels stupid to say that after something so simple. It's not even a situation in which something can be beautiful in its simplicity, like a crystal or a seashell. The metal is almost aggressively ugly. But while inside, I realized there were gossamer strands that marked wide concentric circles in the curves of the metal. Some imperfection in the ore, I suppose. It was so insignificant a detail but strangely touching.

Serra's piece is different because so seldom does an artifice of its size and magnitude ever have so little of a purpose. This kind of scope is usually reserved for buildings or structures. Serra's is pointless. But you still give it the power to direct you and guide you, like you would a bridge or tunnel. Since you enter with no goal, you emerge without one either. But for some reason, you're not satisfied by that anymore. Sequence is abstract in such a way that it leaves the viewer abstract. And I still don't know how to feel about that.

Life in the Red Stick

I've been conditioned from birth to hate Baton Rouge. It's a steaming concrete mass; a Northern city weirdly imposing itself on our state; a big city of small-minded yahoos doing their best to undermine everything we Cajuns and Creoles set out to do. It's fitting (and upsettingly so) that it's home to our Capitol Building, the tallest in the U.S., and home of some of the most corrupt and/or incompetent politicians in the nation. My father refers to it as Huey Long's stone phallus. It's the first thing you see of the city when approaching from the West, and it stands as a monument to the hubristic, greedy, self-centered desires that have fueled Louisiana politicians since time immemorial. Despite the affinity for nature and distrust of corporations that's within every Louisianan, our politicians routinely vote against our interests and whore out our beautiful country to oil and natural gas companies.

This is why “View of Exxon Refinery” by Richard Misrach hits home. It's from a viewing area on the Capitol looking out across the city, with the Mississippi River constituting the foreground and the smokestacks of the eponymous refinery making up the background. A significant portion of the image is given to the viewing area itself, a narrow gray walkway fairly high up with an unoccupied viewfinder. It points out directly perpendicular to the camera, focused on the cancerous scar of the refinery in the distance. A small but distinctly legible sign reads “For Distant Viewing” in all capital letters on the device. Smog gradually blends in with the low nimbus clouds hanging ominously above the city.

The photograph captures the bleakness of Baton Rouge, the hopelessness. Our politicians don't even look at what's happening to the land they represent. They can't see the aggressive and wanton destruction at the hands of the same companies that destroyed our coast in the oil spill. Considerations of the environment still have the looming ugly concrete of the Capitol thrust unnaturally into them, like the photograph. Everything comes back to the economic impact, or more likely, the chances of reelection for the congresspeople. Misrach's picture does what photography should do: Force us to face the gross unpleasant truth of a situation that everybody would just prefer to ignore.

Monster Mash

There's a monster behind you, below you, above you, around you. It's a monster that looks too close to human. It's a monster with emotion, with intent. It's a monster that gives birth to the beauty around you. It's a monster made to haunt you. It's a monster made by you.

This is the world of Lauren Youngsmith's Monster Month series, a set of eight beautiful ink and acrylic drawings currently on display at [gallery name]. There are two pieces corresponding with each season, color-coded, though there's no intention of sequencing. Each drawing can stand alone, as Youngsmith's wonderful use of a light acrylic wash combined with the ink cross-hatching gives each piece its own movement. The eye is drawn to the large chimeric monsters that take up most of the painting and is led from them to the humans that are unknowingly haunted by the beasts.

The monsters are fascinating. They live on the line between cartoonish and ghoulish. Each feels scary but clearly the work of someone interested in comics. Youngsmith isn't trying to scare the viewer. The monsters are involved almost banally with their humans' lives. One's drool causes a personal downpour for an umbrella'd man. Another holds up mistletoe above two oblivious lovers on a frozen lake. Their actions are for the most part not insidious. It's the emotion they have that's startling, an emotion remarkably subtle for a pen-and-ink drawing. The monsters exist only to perform some function in a human's life, but they go unnoticed and they have no motivation. We've created a world of monsters that go out of their way to craft the mundane realities of our world but are incapable of becoming aware of that.

Youngsmith's comic book sensibility only enhances how enjoyable and weirdly profound the series is. It makes me wonder if I'd want to live in the world she depicts. And then I wonder if I already do.  

art responses

Richard Serra

Sequence reminded me of life and the rust reminded me of home.

In the selectively echoing corridors formed by the whale-sized, reinforced steel slopes and caves, my footsteps became my greatest fear.  I heard them twice and three times and then they echoed silently, whispers by the time they met my ears.  Sequence was discordant, yet balanced, yet chaotic.  I couldn’t keep a straight line because of the angular structure that was both solid and fluid, causing me to veer off or place all my weight on one leg.

There’s something about rust and steel that indicate a sad past.  Rust happens when purity meets time and becomes imperfection.  The straight walls of a figure eight sequence invert and exhale and create imperfect sharp moments among passive aggressive smoothness.

I don’t know exactly what Serra was saying when he made Sequence but I think it was sad and chaotic and perfect.

Robert Misrach

Cantor’s lush green lawn reflects on the photograph’s plastic covering.  In the photograph the skies are gray, and the skies are gray, and clouds come from the west but I don’t know what they’ll rain on this graveyard.

When Katrina hit, there were formerly buried corpses floating with the freshly drowned.  In Louisiana, they try to bury their dead above ground to avoid that during the flooding.  Me Me Murphy lays beside her husband James, a WWII vet.  Their flower vases are comparatively empty, lifeless as the graveyard next to steaming refineries and chemical processes.  In front of their memorials grass peeks through the sidewalk, grown, overgrown, overwrought, unsung.  Jesus stands crucified among smokestacks, nailed by the iron that builds them.

The pipes that line the graveyard border barbed fences, to keep the dead out.  In the foreground a spigot shouts water from a cracked steel pipe, yet around it the grass is yellow and crispy.  The older tombs show lime and calcification, but the sedans parked on the other side of the fence are strong and shiny and clean.

Taft, Louisiana.  Cancer alley.

rework pipe, flooding, gray skies images

Youngsmith

I’m glad I’m going to get to talk to this girl before I fully decide to write about how I think her art is a reflection of herself.  The first word I wrote down was ‘IDENTITY’, which felts and feels cliché but was a striking sensation throughout her exhibit.  There’s something deeply personal about collecting your sketchbook into an animated film exhibition.  There’s also an inherently deep and personal connection to your art when you’re an Asian-American female at this school and you’re drawing ‘Super Geisha’, ‘Robot Ghost’, ‘Robogirl’ and the piece I focused on – ‘Hoarder’.  Her identity and personality as a woman, an Asian woman and a Stanford student seemed to be in forefront for her as an artist and us as its consumer.

‘Hoarder’ depicts a hunch-backed girl carrying an exorbitant load on her back and backpack.  The load is dipped in a pink haze that drips onto the subject herself and covers all the items, rendering one dimensional the various objects that this girl carried: a squid, cup noodles, a XOX hat, an apple, a flask from Colorado and a crown on top of it all.  These items that were once vibrant and individual are turned into pink sludge with a healthy dose of this translucent paint.  Her own colors are washed out and dull.

It’s an easier piece to guess at and ‘carrying something on your back’ isn’t too much of a metaphor for us thick students to draw from this piece.  Things that may have once may have made the subject happy are no longer happy things, just weights to hold her back.  She has already dropped a paper crane, a symbol of her culture, while carrying these other, apparently more important objects.

The Index: House of Balloons

The Index

House of Balloons, The Weeknd

Critics who were really excited that we were going to review 'Lemme Smang It' because it was playing in this author's room (ironically): 2

Reviews of 'Lemme Smang It' I will do: 0

Critics: 8 (record high)

Percentage of critics under the influence: 62.5 (record low)

Percentage of readers who will get the pun in the previous statistic on a first read: 10

Percentage of readers who will hate me for making that pun: 90

Critics arriving directly from a birthday party in a freshman dorm that featured a male stripper: 2

Number of this author's friends photographed in compromising positions with said stripper: 2

Critics who knew that stuff like that happened in Stanford freshman dorms: 0

Approximate volume of Pad Thai eaten by the critic who claimed last week that smoking didn't make her hungrier, in cubic inches: 50

This critic literally just walked into my room to ask for candy, while high: no statistic necessary

Revised percentage of critics under the influence: 87.5 (no longer a record low)

Time spent recording conversations before actually beginning the review, in minutes: 11.5

Percent of 'High for This' listened to in complete silence and, as requested by critics, darkness: 72

Year that this album was released: 2011

Time between release of The Weeknd’s first tracks and his first live performance, in months: 8

Kangaroo Jack references made during this review: 2

Rank of Drake on blogger Ghostface Killah's 'Softest Rappers in the Game': 1, 2 and 3

Critics who think Drake rapping about arguing with his mom justifies above ranking: 4

Percentage of Index reviews that have featured conversations about Drake: 100

Critics who have smoked with a kid named Kush: 3

Critics who have fallen asleep to the first few tracks of 'House of Balloons' only to be violently woken up by 'Glass Table Girls': 1

Rank of 'The Morning on this author's iTunes Most Played: 4

Critics who called 5-Sure to confirm her golf cart in the middle of this review while sprawled on this author's couch: 1

Critics who accused this author of disliking Spanish people because of this author's dislike of Pitbull: 1

Number of borrowed bikes that a critic has totaled in the past two months: 3

Acronyms related to Stanford's Program in Writing and Rhetoric mentioned within a twelve second span during ‘The Party / The After Party’: 4

Minutes spent discussion the Loyola (Los Angeles) Cubs: 6

Number of critics who request we catch the visionary music video for 'The Knowing' instead of just listen: 3

Number of sizes this author's heart grew with that request: 2

Length of 'The Knowing' music video, in minutes: 8

Words spoken during its entirety: 0

Levels at which this video can be interpreted, according to a monologing critic: 3

Skeptical looks exchanged at this extensive assertion: 7

Time spent discussing the differences in landscape and fauna between Los Angeles, Dallas, Boston, Miami and the Bay Area, in minutes: 8

Ronlyn Domingue

Ronlyn Domingue is an accomplished author and essayist from Louisiana. Her debut novel, The Mercy of Thin Air, has been translated into ten languages. Her most recent novel is The Mapmaker's War, and its sequel The Chronicle of Secret Riven will be published next year. Her work has appeared in The Beautiful Anthology, The New England Review, the Independent, The Nervous Breakdown, and Salon.com, among other places. Stanford Arts Review talked to her about aspiration, inspiration, and orientation. 

SAR: At what moment did you know you would be a writer? Not wanted to or could be but would be.

RD: I had a terrific third grade teacher who realized I needed more than our regular classroom instruction. She gave me time every week, with another student, to build my vocabulary and work on reading well above grade level. Some of the activities involved writing, too. I have a distinct memory of sitting at my little desk with the book I was writing—a mystery called Ghost Mountain—and having a deep sense I would be a writer. I don’t think that’s typical for eight year olds.

SAR: Was writing always a part of your life? And has it always been fiction?
RD: I lost touch with the dreamy aspirations of being a novelist in my late teens. I majored in journalism as a practical decision. I figured I could earn a living that way. But I never did work as a reporter, instead using my skills working for a consulting firm, a nonprofit, and university research office. Rarely did I do any creative writing in those years. I thought, what are the chances of getting published, much less earning a living as a fiction writer? But around the age of 28, I felt compelled to write fiction again. Go ahead--look up Saturn return for an astrological explanation. At 30, I returned to school to get a Master’s of Fine Arts degree in creative writing, and my first novel published when I was 36.

A few years ago, I started writing nonfiction essays. A friend of mine connected me with The Nervous Breakdown, an online literary magazine, and they were looking for contributors at the time. I was exhausted by the project I was working on. The essays gave me an escape in a way. It was more satisfying too, a finished piece in a matter of hours, days, or weeks, instead of the long slog through a novel. I discovered I like writing nonfiction. It’s easier than fiction, frankly. A friend of mine says that’s because you’re working with known material. I know all too well fiction requires forced intimacy with the unknown.

SAR: Do you think you read differently because you're a writer?
RD: Absolutely. It’s more difficult to get lost in a book the way I did when I was younger, although when that happens, it’s like a gift. Evan S. Connell, Jr.’s essay collection A Long Desire was the last book I read which gave me a great escape.

Before I entered graduate school, I started to train myself to read as a writer. I diagrammed stories and novels to see how they were structured. Then once I was in the MFA program, the training became more focused. Workshops and forms of fiction classes changed the way I approach any text now. I try to be observant rather than critical. Other books and stories are good teachers. I’m a published writer, but I’m still a student on some level, working on my craft.

SAR: Do you feel like readers should read your book in a certain way, or do you want them to have unique experiences?
RD: Every reader comes at a book with his or her life experiences which shape the way he or she perceives. It’s unrealistic to expect anyone to see my work in the same way I do. I hope, of course, there’s some affinity between my work and a reader, that she connects with the main themes or deeper meanings. And readers bring another dimension to a story. When I receive notes from readers or visit with book clubs, I’m often shown layers I didn’t know were in my work, even meanings I missed. I love that. It’s an engagement with someone else’s perception and creativity.

SAR:  You play a lot with person and perspective. Is this how the stories present themselves to you, or is that an authorial touch?
RD: The stories dictate the way they will be told. A book spends years in a research and incubation phase before I actually start writing, and I know the point of view once do begin. I also have a good sense of the structure as a whole.

My debut novel The Mercy of Thin Air is in first person, just as Razi, the narrator, wanted it. The story takes place primarily in 1920s New Orleans and Louisiana at the end of the 20th century. It’s a love story, and it’s not, and it’s a ghost story, and it’s not. Razi drowns in an accident in 1929, but she remains behind, although she wouldn’t call herself a ghost. Her narrative crosses through time—her past, her years between life and whatever comes next, and the present. I didn’t make a conscious decision about this—a craft one—but all scenes from the past are written in present tense and those in the present are in past tense. It suits the story because Razi has never been able to let go of her past, so it exists as her present as well.

My recent novel The Mapmaker’s War is about an exiled mapmaker who must come to terms with the home and family she was forced to leave behind. It’s written as a fictional autobiography and a legend…think Margaret Atwood meets Beowulf. With this one, I had to honor what the narrator insisted upon but rationalize it on level of craft. This book is written in second person. Why, considering the perfectly good options of first or third? The primary reason is Aoife [pronounced ee-fah] required it to be that way. I’m being literal here. Once the writing began, after years of thought and waiting, she was insistent about how the story would be told. For me as a writer, characters have their own minds and wills, and it’s best if I respect both. But, as I came to realize in terms of craft, the point of view works for this particular story. She’s speaking to herself, writing to herself. Most people have the experience of talking to themselves in second person. “You did ____.” “You are _____.” “You should _____.” Aoife takes herself beyond confession—which is the effect of first person’s I—and enters a place of inquiry and reflection.

SAR: Does your inspiration come mainly from literature, or other forms of art, or people you know, or the world around you, or...?
RD: This is always a tough question. The first short story I published was sparked by a little boy I saw walking alone to school every day. I never met him or learned anything about his life, but his presence triggered something for me. The Mercy of Thin Air has a vestigial tie to a comment I made to an annoying co-worker decades ago, which was, “If you don’t stop bugging me, when I die, I’m going to come back and poltergeist you.” But when I started to work on that project, the novel took on a life of its own, nothing I could force. As for The Mapmaker’s War and its forthcoming sequel, well, I still can’t explain in a rational, lucid way how those books came into being. The mystery of the creative process has a dark side. I often say I don’t get to choose my novels; they choose me. Perhaps that’s more of an act of possession than inspiration.

SAR: Lastly, what do you view as either your job or your goal as an author?
RD: I hope when people read my work, they’re prompted to question the world around them and reflect on their own beliefs and assumptions. The experience might deepen some people’s opinions or present opportunities to change. Either way, I think that’s valuable.

Mick LaSalle: I'm 5'7"

According to review aggregator RottenTomatoes.com, film critic Mick LaSalle has written an impressive 2304 reviews for the San Francisco Chronicle.  He says shenanigans – “ I've been doing this since 1985.  I have to be way beyond 3000 now.”

Stanford Arts Review: How'd you get into film and film criticism?

Mick LaSalle: When I was in graduate school, one of my best friends became editor of the school newspaper, so I started writing for the paper -- not just movie reviews, but a lot of different things, really just for fun.  But the articles were good so friends encouraged me to send them out to newspapers, asking for a job -- there was just something about them that appealed to people -- and so the San Francisco Chronicle ended up hiring me out of grad school.

I should probably add that I didn't listen to my friends for a full year.  It took a year after I left grad school to send the clips out, and that's when I got hired.

SAR: What's been the biggest help to you in your career? 

ML: Probably, to be honest, the combination of being smart but being born into a harsh social milieu.  The combination makes for a certain lack of pretension in expression.  It forces you to be direct, because you don't want to be a phony.

The other big help is that I’m 5'7" and not 6 feet.  Tall guys usually can't write.  Very short guys have problems too.  But men between 5'6 and 5'8" make the best writers, generally, because we live in the world of men, but we also inhabit the world of women since we're as tall as tall women.  You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.  Or I’m not completely.

SAR: Why do people trust your opinion about movies?

ML: For that, you'd have to ask them.  I'm not even sure if they do trust.  It may just be that I keep them amused.

SAR: According to Rotten Tomatoes, you've written over 2300 reviews.  Do you still get excited to see movies?  If so, how?  If not, do you think that this may impact the way you review a film?

ML: Rotten Tomatoes is way, way behind on that.  I've been doing this since 1985.  I have to be way beyond 3000 now.

It's not a matter of being excited to see movies.  I'm just as excited to see some movies, and just as unexcited to see most movies, as I was when I was 20 years old.  The job is a writing job.  It's about being excited about your own writing.  Willie Nelson said that a singer has to be in love with his own voice.  I think a writer is the same way.  If you're not in love with your own voice, you'll get burned out.

SAR: Based on your books and background in this field, you seem to be well versed as a film scholar in addition to having an eye for criticism.  Can you talk a little bit about how being familiar with film history and theory impacts the way you approach the current film environment?

ML: I try to think in terms of what will last and how things fit into the grand scheme.  It's very hard to predict the future, probably impossible most of the time.  But if you know the kinds of things that last, you can make an intelligent guess.  For example, when Before Sunrise was released in 1995, I predicted on the day it was released that the movie would become a classic.  I was able to do that because I knew that all the things in it were things that people many years later would completely understand – and everything that would date about it would simply make everything more poignant.

At the same time, I’m not going to the movies trying to be in a scholarly mode.  The thinking part comes later.  When I’m watching a movie, I’m watching it like anybody else.

SAR: You've written a book about contemporary French female film stars and I’ve noticed that you've given high praise to a number of recent French films.  Where did you interest in French cinema come from, and what type of things are they (or other foreign film industries) doing right that Hollywood could learn from?

ML: My first book was about pre-code Hollywood actresses – a golden age for women in film.  By accident, I started noticing that French cinema is in the midst of a golden age for women right now, so I thought I should write about it.  In a way, my interest in French cinema just came from my interest in early thirties American cinema; I knew what movies could be and then I saw that being realized in the present in France.  What they're doing right is that they're making movies about human beings – and movies tailored to great women stars.

SAR: Any reviews that you did early in your career that you disagree with in hindsight or on a second look?

ML: Oh, sure.  Nothing springs to mind, but I run into that occasionally.  It doesn't bother me, I just think that's what I thought then, and this is what I think now.

SAR: What's your favorite film of 2013?  Of all time?

ML: The best of 2013 hasn't happened yet.  I liked Disconnect and At Any Price so far.

My all-time list always changes.  I'm pretty fond of Queen Christina and Gold Diggers of 1933, though.

SAR: Who is an underrated modern actor?

ML: Dennis Quaid.  People think he's overacting when he's actually being brilliant and weird.

SAR: Overrated?

ML: Overrated?  I'm not sure anybody is overrated.  Nobody comes to mind.  Oh – Johnny Depp.  He thinks he's a character actor, but he's not that good at it, and not funny.

SAR: Who are young or up-and-coming actors and directors that are doing exciting, new or really high quality work?

ML: Anais Demoustier, Lea Seydoux -- the French ones come to mind first, but there are plenty of others in the US.  The Duplasses I guess have arrived, but they're pretty amazing.  Greta Gerwig is really good and interesting.

SAR: I read a piece you wrote about interviewing actors and talking about how constructed and groomed their lives seem to be, and that the key to a good interview is getting them 'off message'.  Can you talk a little bit about some actors that you've gotten 'off message' or any memorably candid interactions you've had?

ML: I'm not a good interviewer and never get them off message.  The good thing is when I’m actually interested in the message -- like when I’m writing a book and want to know about their work.  In newspapers, the goal is to get them to say something else, something different, which is understandable, but then it becomes like a contest -- and it's one they're bound to win, because all they do is deflect questions.

SAR: What's the biggest challenge for you when doing a review/critique?

ML: Not being boring.

Mick’s thoughts are published regularly in the San Francisco Chronicle and online at his Chronicle Blog (link: http://blog.sfgate.com/mlasalle/).  Follow him on Twitter @MickLaSalle and check out (almost) all his reviews on Rotten Tomatoes (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/critic/mick-lasalle/)

^these links will be embedded when I post them.  I will also embed links to the actors and films he mentions.

Probably unintentionally deep and poetic shit I've been told in conversations this year:

Probably unintentionally deep and poetic shit I've been told in conversations this year:

1. Do things because you care about the people you're doing them for.  Sounds like something you'd see on Pinterest and think about deeply until you click 'next'.  Not to say I'm on Pinterest.  Ah.  Let's move on.

2. Do you ever realize that you haven't breathed in a while, and then you feel like you're about to die because you need air?  This was actually meant literally, but then I thought about it metaphorically, and my mind started to slowly unravel and my friend asked if I was okay.

3. tippity tippity tap. the hooves went clack clack clack.  End scene.  A friend's facebook status.  On three medical doses.

4. How inspiring can something unattainable be?  Talking with a friend about Rhodes Scholars and how much better they are than us.

5. Wit is the epitaph of an emotion.  Okay, Nietzsche said this.  But a professor told me this after I kept saying witty shit in my writing.  Come on, bro.

6. Keep your guard up.  Stay angry.  Tim Riggins said this to a baby in season four of Friday Night Lights.  Words to live by.

The Index: NOW That's What I Call Music Volume 14 (links to be added later)

The Index

Now That's What I Call Music 14, Various Artists

Year that this album came out: 2003

Number of critics: 7

Percentage of critics under the influence: 85.7

Percentage of critics, mercifully, that have heard of this album: 100

Time it took for the first critic to leave, in minutes: 3.25

Critics excited to watch a Youtube Playlist of the album, since this author doesn't have the album: 5

Haters: 2

Percentage of haters who change their mind after seeing that the first video is Beyonce's 'Crazy in Love': 100

Album sales, in millions, of Beyonce's album Dangerously in Love that  features 'Crazy in Love': 11

Age difference, in years, between this author and Beyonce when she dropped that song: 0

Time this author takes to reevaluate his life and the progress he has made thus far, in seconds: 36

Critics who recognized Justin Timberlake on back up vocals on The Black Eyed Peas'  'Where is the Love?': 0

Price for a gallon of unleaded gas in the music video, in dollars: 1.85

Critics who quickly googled Mya after watching her 'My Love is Like...Wo' video: 4

Time it took for second critic to leave, in minutes: 15:43

Critics surprised that he left during a video that launched this author into puberty: 5

Main characters of HBO's 'The Wire' who appeared as the love interest in the 'Never Leave You (Uh Oh)' video: 1

Peak positions on Billboard charts of 'Get Busy' by Sean Paul and 'No Letting Go' by Wayne Wonder, that both use the exact same beat: 1, 11

Critics who recognized Busta Rhymes and Fabolous, respectively,  alongside Lumidee on the remix: 1, 2

Time spent discussing and explaining what a 'key' is in music, in minutes: 8

Number of critics who believe that if you haven't finished your wish before 11:12, your wish doesn't count: 2

Number of critics who thought 'Shake Ya Tailfeather' was in the Will Smith film, 'Shark Tale': 1

Number of times 'Shake Ya Tailfeather' appeared in said film: 0

Time into R. Kelly's 'Thoia Thoing' that a critic realizes he is having an allergic reaction to kiwi he was eating, in minutes: 1.7

Critics who believe that 16 year old Bow Wow was a more respectable than 16 year old Justin Bieber: 4

Ratio of Bieber to Bow Wow album sales: 3:1

Time, in minutes, since last allergy-related comment that it takes reacting critic to ask for a benadryl or an epi-pen: 6

Percentage of critics who agree that Justin Timberlake is really good looking in the 'Senorita' video: 100

Critics who think it would be hilarious if the allergy-suffering critic ended up looking like Will Smith in Hitch: 4

Time, in minutes, that this critic misses from the review to attend to his wounds: 25

Critics who reply in the affirmative when a critic asks if anyone has eye drops: 3

Critics whose first song she recognizes  is '(There's Gotta  Be) More To Life' by Stacie Orrico: 1

Time, in seconds, it takes this author to realize he's being set up for an Ice and then grab his own to Ice Block said ice: 7

Time, in seconds, it takes for Ice-blocked critic to chug both sweet malt liquors: 18, impressively

Octaves dropped by female voices while singing verses of 'Stacy's Mom': 2

Critics who claims they watched this incredibly sexual video with her parents: 1

Percentage of critics who didn't know 'Late Registration' last week that sing every word to 'Girls and Boys' by Good Charlotte: 100

Percentage of same critics who squealed at Liz Phair's 'Why Can't I?': 100

Critics who believe that Nickelback should only be played at loud volumes: 1

Number of judgmental looks said critic receives: 4

How many doors down: 3

Critics who believe the lead singer of 3 Doors Down looks like Theon Greyjoy from Game of Thrones: 4

Critics who ask to nip the Game of Thrones discussion in the bud: 1

Critics who gang up on a particularly sassy critic to put her in her place: 5

Critics who believe that they don't get hungry when they smoke, they just "like the idea of food more": 1

Approximate daily servings  of saturated fat consumed in chocolate form during review: 6

Number of kiwis that will be served at the next review: 0

Jazz as a Second Language: Coolness

Jazz in the early '50s was on the eve of its maturity. It had, of course, been through many developments and innovations previously. Swing was its childhood, bebop formed its turbulent adolescence. But now jazz was faced with the task of recognizing itself qua jazz, not as simply another musical genre. Before, there was not much thought as to the direction it should take besides as reactions, either to other genres or to others' perceptions of it. After bebop died down, artists took the opportunity to define jazz as jazz musicians, for jazz musicians. And thus was born coolness.

The one jazz album that can be found in the collections of any music listener regardless of taste is Miles Davis' Kind of Blue. It's gone quadruple platinum, more than any other jazz album by far. It's seen as jazz in its quintessence. But why? What did it do?

Kind of Blue is very complicated from a theory perspective. Understanding all of the innovations that Davis makes in his compositions requires years of playing jazz to recognize. This is only part of why the album has attained legendary status, though. And to the casual listener it's ultimately less interesting.

The first and most famous track on Kind of Blue is “So What,” a beautiful, beautiful song. And a statement. Though bebop had died about a decade before, jazz was still very complex and inaccessible. Musicians focused on difficult harmonies and frenetic melodies as a way of generating interest. To those not in the know, it could be seen as simply musical masturbation. Of course there are bigger reasons for this: black musicians wanted a music that couldn't be co-opted by whites as easy entertainment, musicians were driven by a drive to totally master their craft, the music recreated tonalities that were farther away from 'traditional' Western harmonies. But to Miles Davis, this was all getting musicians separated from the music. “So What” is slow, easy, natural. Harmonies are uncomplicated. Melodies are uncomplicated. Rhythms are uncomplicated. The barriers to musical enjoyment have been removed.

Miles is reminding us that music is music, is mood, is expression. Jazz should be a way for the artist to actualize what's in himself through art, possibly the most noble pursuit. The medium of music allows the listener to connect to that and be moved by the actualization, achieving a different form of actualization for themselves. The secret to this is freedom and improvisation. Kind of Blue was famously recorded all in one or two takes, by musicians who only had access to the music on the day of the recording. The chords are simple enough that they could solo with barely any thought to anything but what they were doing. Each note is an expression of note only that moment in time, but the years of musical experience they brought to the table.

And it works. Listen to the album. Each instrument stays remarkably consistent, because each performer doesn't go beyond their own selves for inspiration. Miles on trumpet is rough around the edges, simple, melodic, never becoming too complicated, trying to make each note fit like a Russian nesting doll with the others. Cannonball Adderley on alto is engaged in his agon with Charlie Parker, frenetic, effusive, building tension and release through impassioned statements.

John Coltrane on tenor is in his “sheets of sound” phase, inundating the listener with ideas and moods that sweep by too fast to be fully encountered, using a Pollock-like bigness to hint at the ideas lying past the music. Bill Evans on piano is subdued, gentle, helping; he knows his role is like caulk filling in empty spaces. (Wynton Kelly plays piano on “Freddie Freeloader,” delivering the bluesy tinge needed to ground the song with its history).

Paul Chambers is deceptive: though he's the bassist and soft by nature, his assertions are bold and his solos aren't afraid to make declarations. And Jimmy Cobb on drums is similarly cunning. His additions are often too small to be noticed, only garnering attention on fourth or fifth listens.

Kind of Blue was a different kind of album. Miles had a thesis: Jazz only needs itself to be itself. Complicated harmonies and forms are only crutches. Sometimes what an artist needs is a freshly-gessoed canvas to paint on and someone to see the final product. Listen to it and try to think about the person behind each instrument. If you can get a grasp of their any kind of humanity on the other end of the speakers, the music has done its job.

Nabokov Visits the Axe and Palm

Axe and Palm, light of my late-nights, fire of my bowels. My sin, my meal plan dollars. Axe and Palm: the tongue making me take a trip of three steps down Lomita to TAP, at two a.m., while tipsy. Axe. And. Palm.

It was Axe, plain Axe, in the morning, as some make their haggard coffee runs in sweatsuits. It was Old Union while studying. It was TAP when texting. But in my eyes it was always Axe and Palm.

Did it have a precursor? It did, indeed he did. There might have been no Axe and Palm at all had I not loved, as a high-schooler, a certain initial burger joint. In a campus by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Andrew Luck was drafted as my age was then. You can always count on a hungry man for a fancy prose style.

Ladies and gentlemen of Residence and Dining, exhibit number one is what the gourmands, the misinformed, simple, frail-stomached gourmands, craved. Look at this tangle of carbs.

Jazz As A Second Language: Jazz as Woman

A classic metaphor that cool jazz cats will give for understanding jazz is that it should be thought of as a woman¹, with all the nuances that implies. This is rather reductionist of course, but there's a wide field of jazz that could fall under this umbrella. Perhaps the song that most beautifully exemplifies this is the Clifford Brown arrangement of “Delilah,” originally composed by Victor Young² for the Cecil B. DeMille movie “Samson and Delilah.” Brown's version is the first track on his eponymous 1955 album with the Clifford Brown and Max Roach Quintet. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpILJTxT1_s) The song does what jazz does when it's at its truest: “Delilah” simultaneously encapsulates its immediate context, makes bold rejections of traditions to establish its pertinence, and resonates a feeling that's requisite to the human experience. It also swings like somebody told it it couldn't.

Clifford Brown is, like Lee Morgan, one of the sadder stories in jazz. A prodigious trumpet player, he got his start in the early fifties with the blessings of Fats Navarro and Dizzy Gillespie, the defining trumpeters of '40s bebop. He had not only extreme technical virtuosity³ but a sensitivity that came out especially on ballads. Jazz at the time was moving from the more obtuse, inaccessible style of bebop to what would become known as hard bop. This genre incorporated the difficult harmonies of bebop but with more of an emphasis on the roots and the identity of jazz, incorporating gospel and blues influences. The height of Brown's artistic achievement came with the quintet he co-led with drummer Max Roach, where he wrote many songs that would go on to become standards and honed his unique sound. He always focused on his music, abstaining from heroin and alcohol, which had caused the ruination of many of his forbears. This made his sudden death in a car accident in 1956 all the more tragic. He was 25 years old and had only been recording for four years⁴.

Clifford Brown & Max Roach was a highly anticipated debut, and the title track didn't disappoint. It starts off, as so many great songs do, with a cool double bass lick from George Morrow. The lick is syncopated, meaning it has a lot of notes that don't fall on the beat. This gives it the feeling of falling into the start of each measure; a kind of Oriental vibe. The piano enters, still not establishing whether the song is major or minor, slipping around the keyboard. The drums' presence is announced with a rising cymbal roll, a fairly classical ornamentation on a straightahead jazz song. The hi-hat enters on the second and fourth beats, which serves as the metronomic pulse of basically every jazz song. Small hits on the toms add to the Oriental feeling. Harold Land enters with a sax ostinato, or repeating figure, that finally asserts that the key is minor. His syncopated rhythm locks in with the bass pattern, driving the beat forward from measure to measure. Underneath, the piano plays subtle dissonances that help round out the sound. This whole intro section is beautiful and establishes many key elements of the song: its tonality, its unswung but very tight and driving rhythm, and its basic consonance.

Then Brownie enters. His rhythm is metric but doesn't quite fit in with the straightness of the rest of the band⁵. The ascending three notes are less triumphant than sneaky; his normally powerful tone is subdued, and the notes elide except for some brief staccato notes. At the end of the phrase, there's an assertion where the rhythm section briefly stops and the saxophone joins to play the melody. This falls down with a brief trumpet trill that adds to the foreign feeling. The end of the phrase should bring resolution, but instead offers only dissonance. The song is in AABA structure, meaning the first phrase is played twice, followed by a bridge, followed by a recapitulation of the first phrase. The bridge is marked by a sudden change in the texture: the drums open up, the bass starts walking, and the saxophone ostinato stops so Land can take the melody, a fairly meek attempt at a resistance to the first phrase. The change during the bridge is fairly common for jazz songs, creating tension and interest for the listener.

I like to hear the song as being from Delilah's perspective, but clearly performed by a man seeking to emulate this. The mood is shifty, elusive, conniving, foreign; it conceals a pent-up energy that feels like it's waiting for the right time to burst forth. It's a saucepan of boiling water with a lid on it. There's a perpetual feeling of suspense. There are small releases at the end of each phrase that devolve into simmering anticipation. It's especially interesting to contrast this with John Coltrane's version from late in his life at a performance in Copenhagen⁶. Trane's take seems to be from the point of view of Samson, struggling impotently and belatedly against the woman who had castrated him. It's full of rage that can never be actualized. Clifford's version is more sophisticated in a sense that it is able to portray an emotion that is meant to be regarded by the listener as an Other, not as a personal connection. The song is very deliberately contained and regulated, releasing its passion like a steam valve, toying with the listener.

Land dives in first, delivering a moving and melodic solo every turn of which is in my memory. It's fairly easy to follow; simply let his melody take you through. He uses many small motifs that recur, and maintains a consistent attitude throughout. Small embellishments like single-note crescendos. Moments of tension find their release and he pauses to end sentences, but the pace never feels slow. Listen also to Richie Powell comping behind him. Most of what he plays are block chords, or multiple notes played at the same time. He doesn't interfere by playing anything too melodic that will distract, rather he seeks to fill out the chordal backdrop that Land will play over. In moments where Land backs off, Powell steps in to keep the pace going. Roach and Morrow also make deliberate choices that drive the beat. Morrow consistently plays on the front of the note. He plays on every note, but just slightly ahead, ensuring the song's movement.

Then, Brownie's solo. A masterpiece of rise and fall, tension and release. An interesting part of this song is its straight-eighth notes. Instead of swinging and being able to fall back into the groove, the eighth note is almost forced. Hear how he builds up and leads to releases that don't come, or are misleading when they do. He switches to high, abrupt notes as the rhythm section builds behind him, a wail almost. I love his cracked notes. They instantly bring a sharp passion that's all the more striking against the calm unhurriedness of the piano. There's no wrong way to listen to his solo. Let yourself be picked up and tossed around by his machinations.

Powell's solo starts by augmenting an idea that Clifford hints at near the end of his solo. This kind of referencing is pretty darn cool when it works, adding a flair of narrative to the song. The solo is nice and bluesy, adding a bit of calm after Brown's wail. The next section is what's known as “trading fours,” where in members of the band will take turns playing quick four-measure solos, after which the drummer will solo for four bars. This leads into Roach's solo. Drum solos are uncomplicated. We've been drumming since we could move our hands, and the way you connect to a drum solo should be (and is) ingrained in you.

Then back to the intro, a calm after the storm, and the head out. “Delilah” is deceptively unambitious. The song is simple but the arrangement lends itself to such beauty and expression of emotion. It almost requires it. This song could almost be background music, were it not for the aura of menace that lurks around it. Delilah becomes a figure for us, the figure of jazz, delineated by cigarette smoke and dim lighting. She's a temptress, untameable, as she has to be to be of any interest. Brown breathes life into her and makes her bite. Jazz always does.

1Jazz has always been, despite the numerous incredible female jazz musicians, a boys' club. The reasons for this can't be satisfactorily explained in the space of a column, and they seem to be more extensive than the reasons that most popular music is male-dominated. This isn't a good nor bad thing; like most things, it just is.

2Whose version can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3YAUUjASjQ. Fairly typical for a movie of this period, this iteration of the tune Young discovered lacks the beauty to be found in his other classics (“Stella by Starlight,” “I Don't Stand A Ghost of a Chance With You,” “When I Fall in Love,” “My Foolish Heart”). It's fortunate Brownie came around to find the specialness of the song.

3In his case, this means he was equally facile at producing very high and low notes, he was able to play quickly, he could articulate (meaning shape) notes of any duration or pitch, and he could think through chord changes quick enough that his solos could be expressive without sounding bogged down by the structure of the song.

4This was captured in one of the greatest threnodies in music, Benny Golson's “I Remember Clifford.” I fell in love with the piece at an early age, and performing it leaves me physically drained.

5If you're curious, this is because he's playing quarter-note triplets. This is a simple concept that becomes complicated in practice. Essentially, a triplet is where three notes of equal length are played in the space of two. When played over regular quarter notes, this produces a polyrhythmic effect that sounds a little alien to Western musical ears. This type of rhythm is featured throughout the melody.

6http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4KgqBOk9eU

The Index: Late Registration

The Index

Late Registration, Kanye West

Number of critics: 4

Percentage of critics under the influence: 100

Percentage of critics that had heard of D'Angelo during last week's review of 'Voodoo', which spurred me to choose a more mainstream album: 50

Years ago that 'Late Registration' came out: 7.5

Minutes into discussion before we hear Bernie Mac's (RIP) voice on the intro: 6

Time into the first song, 'Heard 'Em Say', that it takes a critic to say "this sounds like Kanye!", in seconds: 5

Time after that exclamation that she asks, "Wait, is this Kanye?", in seconds: 2

Position on the Billboard charts at which this album debuted: 1

Number of worldwide sales to date, in millions: 3.5

Grammy nominations and awards garnered by this album: 8, 3

Posters of Kanye West on the wall of the room where the review is taking place: 7

Percentage of critics who have never heard of the album: 50

Percentage of above critics from Kanye's hometown of Chicago, Illinois': 50

Jaws dropped after learning of last two facts: 2

Entire verses of 'Gold Digger' rapped word for word by an unexpected critic: 3

Times that the quietest critic has heard the unedited version of 'Golddigger': 0

Number o f critics who could identify Paul Wall and GLC on 'Drive Slow': 0

Years since Common, featured on 'My Way Home', has put out anything good: 6

Critics who could identify The Game as the rapper on the hook of 'Crack Music': 0

Words uttered by critics during the song's fiery spoken word outro, performed by Malik Yusef: 0

Critics deeply insulted after another  critic wishes we could have been in college in 2005 so that Kanye instead of Macklemore would have come to campus: 1

Time that goes by before she pushes the issue and claims that  Macklemore is one of the best rappers out right now, in minutes: 7

Position, out of 23, that a critic realizes he is on his fraternity's pledge point leaderboard: 23, lamentably

Number of critics' dogs named after Brandi, featured on 'Bring Me Down': 1

Critics who recognized the anxious, dissonant Etta James sample on 'Addiction': 2

Acknowledging chuckles after Jay-Z's line, "I'm not a businessman, I'm a business, man!": 5

Time spent discussing marketability vs talent and the emerging hip hop meritocracy, in minutes: 9

Times a new 'critic' says "guys" after bursting into the room: 13

Number of critics who immediately question the sobriety of said critic, correctly: 3

Times said critic follows her series of "guys" with the word "listen": 6

Time elapsed before another reviewer says more than a sentence  in the midst of her important story, in minutes: 5.5

Number of kick boxing moves she demonstrates while telling said story: 4

Time after new reviewers entrance that I realize the focus has been lost from Kanye West's album, in minutes: 20

Tracks left unreviewed: 4

Number of those tracks that are my favorite song of all time: 1

HW through Thursday, May 9th, plus upcoming due dates

Thursday, May 2nd:  discuss "Dr. Don," put up a new column post.  

Tuesday, May 7th:  Chloe's second visit.  Bring your podcast "script," or as much as you can plan out.  Come with your plans for logistics--time, place, equipment--how you will go about interviewing/conversion, how you will introduce your podcast, questions, etc.  Aim for 1-3 min podcast.  

Thursday, May 9th.  Column post, unconventional review/blog post.  

Looking ahead:  Visit by Isaac Fitzgerald on 5/16.  

2nd interview due Tuesday, 5/21.  (I moved this back one class period from what I stated in class).

Term project due Thursday, May 30th.

REVISION: In Hindsight, a Collaboration

In Hindsight, a Collaboration:

Timbaland and Timberlake Share the Spotlight on The 20/20 Experience

In a review of Gangstarr's The Ownerz, Rolling Stone Magazine said that rapper Guru could rhyme from a technical manual and still sound hot over DJ Premier's production.  Justin Timberlake tests this theory in The 20/20 Experience -- the complex, funky production from a reinvigorated Timbaland headlines the album, overshadowing Timberlake’s musically delicious but lyrically immature vocals.

20/20 is undersold as simply a Justin Timberlake album.  It's a Timbaland/Timberlake collaboration, with Timbaland pushing the boundaries of a pop producer.  Timbaland has kept a relatively low profile since his string of hits in the mid-2000s that spawned 11 number one singles in '06 and '07 alone, many for Timberlake himself.  20/20 signifies Timbaland's reemergence as an elite hit maker and his maturation as a producer.

Timbaland is given free reign to color the eight minute opuses that pepper the album with his dynamic and layered production.  He displays a remarkable creative range that is well-adjusted to the trends in indie pop and hip hop.  'Don't Hold the Wall', 'Let The Groove In' and 'Tunnel Vision' all hearken back to his classic style that had me calling radio stations to request 'Promiscuous Girl' and 'Sexy Back' in middle school -- driving, danceable rhythms with a vaguely ethnic sounding drum backing.  Elements of 'Mirrors' feel like a happier, sexier 'Cry Me A River', while others expertly drop out to bass and piano tremolos.  It's club music, Timbaland’s forte.

Even out of his comfort zone, Timbaland excels.  He brings Flying Lotus-style ambient trip hop into the fold, highlighted most notably in 'Strawberry Bubblegum' and its flowing synths.  His deep bass kicks move in and out of a sparing drum kit in the second half of this track, smooth organs melting beneath Timberlake's vocals.  'Blue Ocean Floor' could have been a love child of James Blake and the xx's turn tables, or taken straight from the playbook of LA electro hip hop producer Nosaj Thing. 

In addition to this mood hop and his club tracks, Timbaland experiments fairly successfully with neo-soul.  'That Girl', 'Suit and Tie' and 'Pusher Love Girl' pushed his pop niche towards R&B, disco and even swing.  They're brass heavy, with bright horn highlights and funky bass undertones.  They kick with a retro style that first made me peg them as just a cheap nod to the past, until you realize that Timbaland may be churning out soul music better than the real thing.  Search his solo album, Shock Value, and these types of track are nowhere to be found.  But Timbo's work these days is the real deal and, with the help of a fantastic studio band, his production and songwriting bring 20/20 to life.

Don't get me wrong -- Justin Timberlake has pipes.  His vocal arrangements are strong and I will rarely get tired of a well-intentioned falsetto that can live up to the hype.  Timberlake’s register allows him to handle his falsetto expertly, one of his trademarks, and distinguishes him from other falsettos, like fellow blue-eyed soul crooner Robin Thicke.  His harmonies and riffs on ‘Mirrors’ are thoroughly enjoyable and nuanced –the stripped down beat beginning at 3:42 to the bass drop at 4:34 was the most vocally interesting and layered segment of the album.  His voice will occasionally settle into an awkward, lusty, mid-range rap-singing, reminiscent of past N Sync habits that are, in my opinion, mundane.  Fortunately, these instances are significantly less frequent than they had been on his previous release, FutureSex/LoveSounds.

Timberlake's lyrics, unfortunately, cannot match the top-notch musicality of the album.  While his voice is fantastic and Timbaland is at the forefront of trends in pop production, Timberlake is not on the same level lyrically as the premier R&B songwriters of the time.  In a year where Frank Ocean and Miguel dropped poetic manifestos, 20/20 just isn't close.  Lines like, "So thick, now I know why they call it a fatty," probably won’t cut it in the current cerebral and complex R&B environment.  He clunks his way through a number of clichés -- comparing a girl's love to drugs in 'Pusher Love Girl', loving someone "from the other side of the tracks" in 'That Girl'.  It's been done before, and he doesn't bring anything new to the table.  A number of the tracks could have been found their way into the liner notes of his first solo effort, Justified, with simple rhymes and up front, straight-forward intentions.  It's not painful, but it pales in comparison to the high bar set by Timberlake's recent R&B peers.

Get the album.  It’s a pleasure to listen to and Rolling Stone’s hypothesis -- that pedestrian lyrical content can be overlooked in the presence of high quality production -- is proven correct.  Timbaland will undoubtedly begin fielding diverse musical opportunites following this all-star performance.  Justin Timberlake’s limitations, however, may have been revealed.  Take a creative writing class, JT; it could serve you well on your next project.

Jazz as a Second Language

“Talking about jazz is like singing about architecture,” -Apocryphal, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise

Jazz is the music we made when we first climbed out of the primordial sludge and needed something to say. Jazz is Whitman's barbaric yawp, Ginsberg's howl, and what Plato was most afraid of. Jazz is not background music, despite what coffeehouses and elevators try to convince you. Jazz is the name for when you become human through music. It's imminent and it's intimate and it's ineffable.

But jazz has had bad attorneys in the courtroom of public opinion lately. My personal quest is to try to expose people to the heart of jazzness, because everybody already loves it whether or not they're aware. And this means correcting the notion that liking jazz means having a copy of “Take Five” on your iPod or hanging a poster of Miles Davis on your wall or having any association with Michael Buble. Fuck Michael Buble. That belongs in another column, though.

Obviously, this has to be experienced though. Listen to this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yf1Eo-6sDIE
And that means really listening. Attention must be paid. Give the music the respect it deserves, and it will respect you too.

This tune (jazz musicians say 'tune' more than normal people, and 'ditty' too, embarrassingly enough) is by the unparalleled trumpet player Lee Morgan, whose biography deserves more than this gloss. He, like other trumpet greats Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, and Clifford Brown, got his start as a teenager, recording as a solo artist for Blue Note Records, one of the most venerated labels in jazz. He worked with John Coltrane and Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers and was an integral part of several albums that changed the face of jazz in the '60s. He was the first trumpet player I loved. His heroin addiction forced him to take a break right at the pinnacle of his career.

He returned with Sidewinder, the record this song comes from. The groovy, bluesy coolness rocketed the song to the top of the charts and caused Blue Note to adopt this style basically through the present day. He continued to make amazing records until February 19, 1972, when he was just 33. His wife called his name while he was on stage getting ready to perform. When he turned to her, she shot him, then began crying out, “Baby, what have I done?” He bled to death because the ambulances were reluctant to go to the rough neighborhood the club was in. Jazz is, if nothing else, a series of tragedies.

I chose this song because many people of our generation say “the beat” is what matters most to them in a song. The first thing you hear on this track is Bob Cranshaw's bass. There's no better feeling than experiencing the sound of a fat double bass played through quality speakers. The bass ostinato (a repeating rhythmic or melodic figure) stays fairly constant throughout the song, which is fairly rare. Usually in jazz the bass will “walk,” or outline chords by playing one note on every beat. The effect of the figured bass is to establish a groove, along with masterfully laid-back drummer Billy Higgins. Higgins' cymbal is somewhere in between straight eighth notes and swung, which is where the second note of each beat is delayed. This is called playing “in the cracks.” If you can listen to this, combined with Barry Harris' bluesy syncopated (off-beat) chords, without moving a little, I don't know if I can help you.

The rhythm section plays through the form once to set the mood for the piece. Let yourself dig in and feel yourself in their groove. Listen to how each instrument fits perfectly in the spaces left by the other musicians. The bass note on the fourth beat of every measure is a major seventh, even though the key has a flatted (meaning lowered a half-step, also called dominant) seventh. This gives a sense of anticipation, whether or not you're aware.

(An idiosyncrasy of jazz is that, even without knowing all of the music theory that goes into it, your musical sense is affected strongly by very small changes. Learning the theory doesn't make you more susceptible to this, it just makes you more aware of what's happening to you. It's like taking literary criticism classes to learn why you like a book.)

The basic progression, or series of chords, is almost a blues. The uniqueness of the song, and what gives it its title, is the piano's shifting chords. Each measure starts one half-step below the key, then rises up to it. The ear still knows what key the song is in, but the moment of uncertainty leaves the song slippery and perpetually driving forward. At the end of this intro, there's a pause. Remember that pause.

The trumpet and sax (played by the wonderful Joe Henderson) enter and play the head, which is the basic melody of a song which serves to outline the chords that the musicians will solo over. Each repetition of the progression is called a chorus, and each chorus will follow the same progression. The basic structure of a song is head, solos by each musician, then a recapitulation of the head. While the soloists are doing their thing, the rhythm section will comp, or accompany, them, by suggesting the chords as well as by reacting in real time to the improvisations of the soloist. This is hard to do.

The melody is similarly driving, never really giving a moment's rest. The pause at the end is now home to one cool-ass bluesy lick that should make you squinch up your nose and go “Ooooh!” At the end of the head, Lee Morgan's solo begins. He's one of the true masters of soulful playing. His solo includes many snippets of the melody, which helps make it more cohesive. Listen to how he bends and growls some of his notes. The uncomfortable bit of dissonance is what it's all about. If you're paying attention, there's a lot of tension in the music. Without it, what's the point? He uses a lot of motifs, or repeating figures, with minor variations to subvert the listener and keep you on your toes. You should be shaking your head and shimmying your shoulders a bit. His sound has got a tinge of suffering in it, but in a way that reassures that it's all cool cuz he's got his axe and he's really blowin', man, this shit's cookin'. When he starts his third chorus he goes into a flurry of B-flats with accents on the beat. This raises the crap out of some tension. His resolution isn't quite convincing, so he has to go back into it and lead us out with explorations through the range of the scale that doesn't really ever solve the problem. He backs out, leaving us forced to seek resolution in other places we won't find it. C'est la vie.

Henderson's solo follows. While his blues work isn't as immediately accessible as Morgan's, he's got fun moments where you can feel the reediness of his tenor being used to its full bluesy potential. The repeated figures are common and an easy musical moment to latch onto for beginners. These licks are what drives a lot of blues based music and speak to us on a primal level. There's something about the immediacy of an insisted repeated melodic figure that makes us feel the performer's passion in a really clear way. Harris's solo uses the same principle, playing on old blues tropes.

Then bass solo, then head out. Jazz is tough to get into, I'll be the first to admit it. But once you make the attempt to understand jazz qua jazz, you've made the first step towards being able to experience one of the most truly religious endeavors of human existence. Is it worth it? If you have to ask, you'll never know.