Cafe Aman

Letting music carry you away

Of late, I have been reflecting on a story recently recounted by a new acquaintance. (Though the story was told publicly, I'll keep his/her identity anonymous for the time being, since I don't have explicit permission to identify the person involved. However, I just can't stop thinking about it.)

This person is a musician who struggled for a long time with an anxiety disorder. Because of this person's obvious love of music, friends and loved ones would often gift him/her with recordings. For quite a long time, however,  s/he would always put these gifts away without listening to them.

Why? Because the seemingly simple act of listening to music meant to surrender control of his/her emotions, and to entrust that extraordinary power to someone else, even if only temporarily.

Goodbye, Tom.

Very, very sad news this morning: Tom Terrell's battle with cancer ended at 5:05 AM today. His last days, I have heard, were peaceful and pain-free.

Tom was an incredible writer--I spent time just a couple of weeks ago re-reading and thoroughly enjoying his notes for the Miles Davis "On the Corner" boxed set. (An editor friend told me that despite all the turbulence of the last few weeks, Tom submitted a "best releases of 2007" list to him just a few days ago.) But even more than that, Tom was a wonderful friend with the strongest of hugs and the readiest of laughs. He will be deeply, deeply missed.

Funeral arrangements are being made for next Saturday, December 8th, in Washington, DC. A separate memorial service will be organized in NYC at a later date.

Tinariwen and Harry Partch

I went to see Tinariwen at the Highline Ballroom last night. Only four members of the band were there. Now, Tinariwen's membership has always been pretty fluid (on any given tour, it always seems like someone is absent due to some personal/familial circumstance or other). This time out, Ibrahim wasn't there, nor was Japonais (at least if my poor eyes & lack of height didn't do me wrong from the back of the hall), nor were the girls. In their combined absence, the sound of the band was completely different and even leaner than usual.

Still, a great time was clearly had by all, at least in the (utterly packed) audience. Their songs still get under your nails and into your system just as surely as the fine grit of the Sahara does, and those rhythms inspired by the camel's gait get a crowd going equally well in midtown as among the sloping sands of Essakane. And while I am unendingly grateful that the band no longer punctuates the end of each and every song with a cheery bellowing of "Welcome to the desert!"  the way they did on their first American tour (clearly, the one phrase in English that had been memorized), their demeanor this time around had a "Remind us how many more dates do we have to knock off again before we get to go home?" cast that I found slightly depressing. Maybe I just need to go see them in Tamashek territory again instead of out on the road. (Clearly, I'm looking for excuses to go back to Mali.) (Tinariwen photo credit: Thomas Dorn.)
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Later, on the way home on the train, I accidentally overheard a young guy across the way chatting about his current schedule. He was clearly a musician; and, while I was busy poring over my own reading, I heard talk of multiple rehearsals just to tune, and then something about East 47th St. And then it clicked: he must be playing Harry Partch's Delusion of the Fury at Japan Society next week.

Then, of course, the question became: do I say anything to him about looking forward to the performance, thereby (rightfully) risking his wrath for transgressing the invisible barricades of privacy--you know, the way we urbanites willfully ignore the goings-on of the people who are jammed up next to us on the street or on public transport as an integral part of the social compact? If I do say something, will he be happy to realize that the rather obscure thing that is important to him is also important to one total stranger out of many who happen to be occupying the same bit of space in the world at this moment? Or am I wrong, and he'll have no idea what I'm talking about, and he'll wonder why this crazy woman is talking to him? Or do I just go about my business as I probably just should?

Ever unable to keep my mouth closed, I resolved this (tiny, non-) dilemma by saying, "You must be playing the Partch" on my way off the train. Big and happily surprised smile in return, followed by "Why yes, I am! Are you planning to come?" Ten seconds of pleasant exchange, and certainly a nice way to end the evening. (Moral: Harry Partch brings strangers together.)