Stuff in the Air That Came Out of Speakers Today #71: “Miami Marisa”

D has managed to get a few co-workers fascinated by Marisa Monte, and the mixdisc duplicates as closely as possible a transcendent concert we heard in, yes, Miami, 2006.

MIAMI MARISA

2006

  1. Infinito Particular
  2. Universo ah meu redor
  3. Carnivalia
  4. Vilarejo
  5. Passe em Casa
  6. Meu carnario
  7. Satisfeito
  8. Acontecou
  9. Ao Meu Redor
  10. Eu Nao Sou Da Sua Rua
  11. Pra ser sincero
  12. Danca da Solidao
  13. Segue o Seco
  14. Pernambucbucoliamo
  15. Carnalismo
  16. Vai saber?
  17. Ate parece
  18. Tema de Amor
  19. Maria de Verdade
  20. Alta Noite
  21. Na ova Embora
  22. Ja Sei Namorar

My Up-Out-Down-Side-In Contribution To Poetry Month

Yes, I think one of them is crazy. The other one is evil.

These appear in a (I believe 1920s) promo-thingy (for sewing needles) from The A.W. Miles Co., Livingston Montana (A.W. was my grandfather).

The constant drip of water wears away the hardest stone.

The constant gnaw of Towser masticates the toughest bone.

The constant cooling lover carries off the blushing maid.

And the store that makes the prices, is the store that gets the trade.

[Ahem] A. W. died 20 years before I was born. The poem inside the folder:

Remember the strike — the great coal strike

Were you caught with an empty bin?

And did you shiver and did you shake

And shake and shiver within?

 

Did you or your little ones catch a cold,

And the Doctor’s bills run high?

To-morrow may be a day too late —

TO-DAY is the day to buy

THE A.W. MILES CO.,

Agents Rocky Fork Coal

 

 

The Air Is Still And The Light Is Cool #29

Little Feat, Waiting for Columbus (Rhino reissue, 2002, two-CD set).

I’ve been crazy about this record for more than 40 years now. If you need some scoop on the band, this does a fine job. I’m going to throw in a couple of personal notes.

A colleague in the poetry-writing program at the University of Montana became a fan of my musical smarts after I turned him on to Little Feat and once described our august teacher, the masterful Richard Hugo, as “A Fat Man in the Bathtub with the blues,” which I still think is Surrealist perfect.

My utmost agonies over rock deaths began with Janis and Jimi and ended with Cobain. Right in the middle was the horrid demise of Lowell George. I admit I was shocked at how sloppy and incoherent his solo album was — he sounded like fried brains on a plate. And he’d become a gruesome-balloon version of his once-sexy self.

I was working in a record store when the news of his death came over the radio. A rock-singer gal who also worked there (and would later die of a smack OD herself) told me a story about a backstage encounter she had with George. A groupie came scampering up to him and said “I got what you wanted, Lowell,” then presented a double-handful of mixed pills, pills and more pills. She dumped them into George’s hands and he — GLOMPH — snarfed them all down at once. As Eve Babitz has observed, Keith Richards survived because he didn’t mix his drugs.

For bonus  credits (and no fair doing online research) can some youngsta tell me the joke and significance buried in Neon Park’s cover illustration (Gawd, seems the most talented people associated with this band were cursed). Also met a premature, albeit not self-caused, death.

 

A History of Me (Bystander) and the Boston Marathon (For the Record)

Living in Cambridge during the late ’70s, I didn’t “get” the Marathon. It was for Bostonians and I didn’t feel like one. It also had obsessive quirks that reminded me of the repulsive inverse-pride for the Red Sox not winning a World Series. (It HAD to be considered one of the major sports events in the Universe. HAD to be, asshole.) And it was quite a hike to get over to Beacon Street from where I was. Eventually, I made the pilgrimage, but didn’t pay attention to timing and so just saw a torrent of ho-hum runners.

Later, I made the same journey with D and it was notably more fun. She was able to point out offbeat Boston-zone manners and mores. But, most years, if you lived in Cambridge, the Marathon was something you could avoid.

That was not possible after we relocated to Brookline. Beacon Street is our main thoroughfare and it’s about a 10-minute walk from our place to where the runners turn on to Beacon. Learned to leave the car in the garage on Patriots’ Day and if the weather was nice, a little stroll along the course with the fans and the fast-moving parade of ectomorphs was a contact high. Whiffs of party atmosphere. Got to take a childhood-friend house guest from MT along one time and that was about my favorite romp.

Then the bombing happened. I turned on the TV to the most mind-erasing moments since I flicked the switch and saw the second tower go down on 9/11.

The Marathon has never been the same for us. More rigid. More sense of being watched every second. Little puffs of danger floating in the air. I have walked down to the event maybe once since the catastrophe. When it’s kinda yuck weather like today, even the TV stays off. I don’t “get” the Marathon, in a completely different way.