WFMU's Beware of the Blog

prunella scales

Prunella Scales.  What more do I have to say?  The stage name alone offers up  a certain oddity and eccentricity that her physical appearance continues to suggest.  I fell in love with her portrayal of Sybil Fawlty, the off color and regal proprietress of the most ill-managed guest house in the history of England.  Her economy of manner, so precise and suggestive, was a wonderful foil to the physical stammerings and mishaps of Basil Fawlty.
     Sunday night I watched Prunella in a remarkably un-Sybil role in a new Masterpiece Mystery: Miss Marple.  The Jane Marple stories have a fair dose of stereotypes, quite purposely placed by Agatha Christie to illustrate her views on the universalness of evil.  Prunella Scales played a widow, Mrs Mackenzie, whose husband was purportedly killed by the rival family patriarch, many years ago.  Now in a sanatorium, Mrs. Mackenzie recounts how she had schooled her children in a nightly prayer to seek revenge on this robber baron, and pledge their filial devotion to this adult quest. 
     The first Miss Marple story was written in 1930 England, where conventional villages dotted the green landscape, city life offering a sharp contrast to these country ways.  A small town aging spinster was invisible and powerless, a stereotype that Agatha Christie used as an asset to the stealth-like powers that amateur sleuth Jane Marple possessed.  Like Hercule Poirot, her fantastically odd Belgian detective, Jane Marple was an outsider whose abilities to observe without seeming important gave almost philosophical weight to her crime solving puzzles.  Unlike legendary minds like Poirot or Sherlock Holmes who constantly remind you of their inner crime solving genius, Miss Marple does not proselytize from the book of Jane.   She offers up idiosyncratic stories from the day to day life of her local villagers in St Mary Mead as proof of the inevitability of wrong doing.  Decades before a shift in feminist sensibilities would demand scrutiny of the multiple unpaid roles that women perform, the zing of an old lady solving a dastardly crime before the local constable could fathom its' dark belly was quite the satisfying finale.  Agatha Christie would go on to write 12 Miss Marple novels, making her one of the most beloved detectives.

     Masterpiece Mystery is running four new productions of Miss Marple stories this summer.  And of course the many fabulous Joan Hickson versions are available on DVD.  Caution: there will be graphic scenes of knitting.

sweet emotion, the films of Claire Denis

I have this awful habit of gushing affection whenever I run into one of my heroes.  Worse, it's the sort of affection that strangers don't take kindly too.  It's not exactly a King of Comedy moment, but some of the looks it engenders suggest I need to rephrase my adoration.  I was at a Lincoln Center event for the films of Claire Denis when I bumped into the filmmaker in the hall outside of the bathroom.  I immediately blurted out " I love you,  errr... I mean I love your films."  She was gracious and warm in a rather un-French way.  Of course it made me love her more, errr... I mean her films.

     Last month the DVD for my favorite Denis film: "Nenette et Boni" was released.  From the opening shot, this film like all of her films, sucks you in to the hypnotic pace.  The soundtrack is an actor in this film as much as any of its cast and the cinematography compels you to participate, instead of allowing you to be a voyeur sitting in the dark.   Agnes Godard is her flawless cinematographer and the soundtrack is written by Tindersticks. 

     Claire Denis was born in Paris to parents who were living in Africa.  Her father was a French official in colonial Africa, constantly moving house every two years, more interested in being nomads than colonizers.  Her first film "Chocolat" in 1988 described that odd inbetween-ness that she felt growing up in a country that she knew was not her own, but never really knowing the birthplace that was on her passport.  All of her films float in a new France that is essentially a blend of ethnicities, most of which, in some way holding a tenuous tie to France's past.  Using some of the skills given to her by the accomplishments of the French New Wave, Clair Denis makes metaphors into stories that unfold in a language of gestures.  Her films defy the spoken word that was the stranglehold of the Nouvelle Vague.  Another fellow post new wave director, Andre Techine, also employs the loose narrative of inbetween-ness in many of his films.

By the way, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith was the most gracious of hosts to my unwarranted affections when I bumped into him on the streets of Soho in the early 90's.  He was palling around with Lenny Kravitz and a gaggle of babes with babies on their hips, but I just wanted to personally thank Aerosmith for standing up to the National Endowment for the Arts.  A show at the MIT List Visual Arts center had recently had $10,000 of NEA funding revoked due to a sexually graphic exhibit and Aerosmith stepped in to make up the difference.  Steven smiled one of those massive smiles and said "You're very welcome".  His lady friends weren't so agreeable.

grilled

Summer in my inner city neighborhood means lots of music streaming from neighbors' backyards, car windows and the nearby little league field. I don't mind the conflicting soundtracks, but the generic quality gets me down.  In proper WFMU fashion, I want something more rarefied than the generic salsa beat.  Yesterday I got it.  Sitting in my mini patch of shade, eating elotes and tacos that we bought up at the corner, I heard the sweet strains of an old Cuban rumba.  That intersection of good food and good sounds made me so very happy.

Later in the day we grilled sardines and I thought, "Wow, it can't get any better than this."  But, I was so horribly wrong.  When we dabble in the musical arts or play Guitar Hero, we don't actually do damage when we sound nothing like Led Zeppelin.  But, how we go astray when we don't have the chops of Wylie Dufresne and we start gutting sardines.  How do they get out all those little bones?  I know when I eat the little canned sardines the bones are part of the package and I don't even feel them.  But these slightly larger bones felt like little pricker bushes.  I did a bit of research before we cleaned the fish and everybody was all about gutting the stomach and yanking out the innards, but nobody happened to mention these little pricker bushes.

At one of the free fabulous concerts that WFMU hosted last year I went across the street between bands and ate an amazing grilled sardine.  I can't remember the restaurant's name, but the food was gorgeous.  That fish experience has held up in my memory as one of my best food moments, like eating tapas for the first time in Madrid, or a street crepe in Paris.  So even though I was less than happy with my backyard grilled sardine experience #1, I will return to the battle.  One loss will not prevent me from resuming my quest.  And as long as my neighbor plays old Cuban rhumbas, I will continue to enjoy my backyard.

black to the future

This is a picture of the bathroom at the ICA in Philadelphia.  It's not my favorite image from my visit there this past weekend, it is the only picture I could take unnoticed.  I tried to slyly sneak some shots in the Sun Ra exhibit, but the damn bleep of my digital camera gave me away instantly.  It's an attractive bathroom, covered in wallpaper made up of vintage fashion ads.  And while you are visiting this luscious WC, do check out the Sun Ra show upstairs.  Last Sunday was the 85th birthday of Marshall Allen, leader of the Arkestra and May 22nd was the 95th anniversary of Sun Ra's arrival on Earth.

Sun Ra and his Arkestra lived In Germantown, on the edge of Philadelphia, for over 35 years, until his death in 1993.   When I heard that the ICA was planning a Sun Ra show, I assumed it would be based on images and album art from his Philadelphia days.  The title of the show, Pathways to Unknown Worlds: Sun Ra, El Saturn and Chicago's Afro-Futurist Underground 1954-58 tells a different story.

The show is lent from the collection of the Hyde Park Art Center, in Chicago, and shines a light on a formative time for Sun Ra. The preponderance of free spirited and radical philosophies embraced by black creative communities in post-war Chicago created the Sun Ra Arkestra we know today; an expression of musical experimentation, cosmic philosophies, and cultural reconfiguring.  Predating the punk DIY scene by decades Sun Ra formed his own record company, El Saturn records.  In addition to living communally in Philadelphia, Sun Ra and the Arkestra designed and printed many of their record covers and sold them at gigs.

The gallery's presentation of album covers and artwork is made more compelling by the screening of several films, photos, and collections of Sun Ra's unreleased music.  On July 1 the mighty Sun Ra Arkestra under the direction of Marshall Allen takes the stage.   July 15th a documentary made by British DJ Don Letts, Sun Ra: Brother from Another Planet will be shown.  July 8 John Szwed, Author of Space is the Place lectures.  Check out the ICA's website for more events.

and your little dog too

It's my favorite time of year.  Strangely shaped buds are pushing to the surface, pollen is covering every car like natural gold leaf and small town flea markets are filling up green fields with shiny, shiny objects, patiently waiting to be scooped up and given a new home.  Ahhhh, choo, spring!  Seeds are seductive in their flat decorative packs, but root balls are so much more animated in their bondage.  The ropes tied so tightly confirm that nature is untrainable and wild, hoping a good knot will subdue it's unleashable growth.  Not as ripped as Wolverine, but more powerful.
     Along with the smell of growing things, Spring allows us once again to search through other people's belongings with gusto.  I pretend to be on the lookout for binoculars, but actually enjoy the microscopic human analysis that a good estate sale can offer.  I dig in drawers to see how the elderly former owner categorized scarves that haven't been worn since the Tet offensive, but require devotional storage just in case.  Kitchens yield tools that are inexplicable in today's canned or store bought lifestyle, and basements harbor vast piles of mystery.  Drill bits the size of rolling pins stand next to rusted pesticide cans that suggest foul play.
     The dogs!  The dogs of country flea markets and spring estate sales are especially charming.  They too are bored with winter's forced anti-social behavior and are ever so happy to smell each new visitor.   Even though the sign says "No Dogs" the little scrappy ones slip by and dart through legs desperate for dropped doughnuts or hot dog bits from the previous nights demolition derby crowd.  By the time Fourth of July slinks in, we'll all be tired out and bored with the rummage sale routine.  All the good stuff will be taken, nothing to do but wait until the fall smells.

a spy i know

      My brother-in-law lives abroad, and he works for the US government.  We joke and say he's a spy, but we know he isn't much like James Bond or Jason Bourne.  If he is a spy, wow, the life of a spy is pretty flat out boring.  He is a regular old American, not one of those ex-pat types who actually relishes life abroad with all of its exotic flavor. So when he visits on this side of the pond, we frequently talk about the methods he employs to maintain the American life from afar.

     If one computerized business has changed the lives of Americans everywhere, my brother-in-law the not so official spy claims, it is Amazon. Since there aren't many books published in English on other continents this ranks high on the 21st century improvement scale.  I countered with a lobby for Netflix.  Short of living atop the now defunct original NYC Kim's video, my life would have never been so filled with a broader collection of idiosyncratic and international film viewings. I know in the eyes of a pure cinephile I am seeing them in a compromised version, but I - unlike Angela Lansbury - do not have a personal stage and cinema in my house. (I heard this little tidbit from my husband who back in the day saw a hardcore show in her old house in Montclair.)

several nights at a museum

Art museums have extremely finicky hours, always closed on the one day you are visiting a city far away.  Starting today and running until April 26th the Newark Museum will give you no excuse as to why you can't visit:  they are open 100 hours straight in honor of their 100th birthday.  Admission to this great museum is free and activities are a plenty.  There is a midnight flashlight tour of the Ballantine House, laser light shows and overnight films, dinosaur day, live music, early morning yoga and morning prayers at the Tibetan altar.

The Newark Museum is a gem that sometimes gets lost in the shadow of New York's mega museums.  They have one of the largest collections of Tibetan art outside of Tibet, and since the 1930's have had a gorgeous consecrated Tibetan Buddhist altar, most recently renovated in the 1990's by a monk who worked on it for months, offering visitors the chance to observe his daily progress.  The museum began in 1909 with an assortment of Japanese artworks, and later grew to included the Ballantine House, former home of a Ballantine Brewery heir.  Like many small museums they have a  collection of individual interests determined by idiosyncratic curators and local donors.  For me, that is what makes a visit here so special. 

Ox is the egg man

There is obsession and there is obsession.  Of course, many of us in the music netherworld understand the sorcery that beguiles a person to spend far too many waking hours searching for that elusive 7" or a mono version of a song that you fear you'll never see, but hoping with every flip of the record pile that you are wrong.  That dedication, some say, fuels economies, creates magazines and sparks many long nights of conversation.  But the kind of obsession that revolves around flavor and food can be a lonely outing.  It is culturally acceptable to wait for hours for a table at Momofuku noodle bar, but am I odd to order deviled truffle eggs for an appetizer and for dessert?

The Easter Bunny visited many a kitchen table this weekend past and left thousands of cartons of hard boiled eggs strewn in his/her hoppity path.  If you need an inspiration for what to do with these sulfured sirens take heed and follow the ancient winds of picnics and family gatherings since time began: the deviled egg.  My favorite Jersey City restaurant, Ox, offered us their fabulous Deviled Egg Tartufato recipe.  They are so very modern and use the flavor that has transformed eggs into an addictive delicacy: truffles.

If the Easter Bunny did not recently pepper your world with colored eggs, or you'd rather leave it to the professionals, stop by Ox and order a couple of rounds for yourself.  You'll soon be searching for words to kindly explain a flavor obsession.

Ox Deviled Eggs Tartufato

1 Dozen   Large Eggs

1/2 Cup    Mayonnaise

1/4 Cup    Dijon Mustard

               White Truffle Oil

                Black Truffle Peelings

                Salt/Pepper

                White Vinegar

1.  Place the eggs in a sauce pot and cover them with water.  Add a table spoon or two of white vinegar.  Bring the water to a boil, cover the eggs and drop the heat to a simmer for 11 minutes.

2.  Strain the water from the pot and shake the eggs vigorously; cracking the shells.  Put cold water in the pot and move to the refrigerator for 20 minutes.  Peel the eggs and cut them in half.  Remove the yolks and transfer to a food processor. 

3.  Add the mayo and mustard and mix until smooth.  If you need more mayo for a smoother texture, feel free- it's all good.  Season to taste with the salt, pepper and truffle oil.

4.  Chop the truffle peelings very fine and mix with drop of olive oil.  Season to taste.

5.  Fill the eggs with the yolk mixture and top with the truffle mix.  If you have one, a pastry bag with a large tip gives a nice shaped look to the yolk. You can top the eggs with chive or parsley if you really want to impress or you can just dig in.

man foreground, woman behind

I don't want to fall into that trap.  You know the one where because we are seeing a film, or listening to music 40 years after it was made it doesn't seem to be all that shocking.  As a teenager I walked out on Godard's "Breathless", the very first time I went to a midnight movie. Of course, I am horrified at that juvenile snafu, but I didn't know any better.  I had to be taught to understand French Cinema in all of it's oddities. Yet, I have been watching "Who are you Polly Magoo?"  for over a week now: rewinding, fast forwarding and I still don't have a clue what to say about it.  Cinematography wise it's a gas.  Fab angles, odd shots of crowds and high places in Paris, the fashion world has never looked more extra terrestrial.  But these stylized images are so part of our almost mainstream now it's hard to be as shocked as we might have been had we sat in the audience on opening night of William Klein's 1966 film.  Criticizing the Parisian fashion world at the birth of its youth market is an easy hit.  Models always look silly  when we see them from behind the camera, vamping and sashaying to and fro.  Magazines and still photography seem to create a peace that separates the action from the outcome and allows the observer to fetishize, belittle or worship as we please. 

William Klein was a fantastic photographer before he shot this film, with heavy credits in the fashion industry.  He knew firsthand the insanity of the magazine hierarchy and its' willing subjects. Because this film was made as the French New Wave was winding down, that influence feels hearty and obvious.  After all, Klein was an American, at the height of anti-American feelings in France.  One couldn't just waltz in and not make a big nod without trench coats flapping or ballet flats mussed up.  Klein interjects humor and absurdity that frees his influences from their New Wave forefathers and offers up an early Woody Allen quality that suggests we are all in on the joke, we just don't know where we heard it first.

My only complaint about "Qui Etes-Vous Polly Magoo?" is that the story we are being sold, about how vapid the fashion industry is, especially its models, is such a duplicitous tale.  While we mock them, we also worship, and look to them for strength of good style character. The women in his film are seen as robots to visual reward, yet the male viewers enjoy those efforts.  It's hard to be sympathetic to the poor male lead who frets about Polly's vacuousness while he day dreams about her fashioned false front.  As seen through the eyes of a male film maker this recurring tale will always be resolved with 'man in foreground, woman behind'. 

good for what ales you

 I can't remember a two week period lately that has had more action packed moments.  WFMU fund-raising is not for the weak of heart.  Begging and pleading is serious business, necessitating hearty fare for all involved.  DJ's, phone slaves, listeners: don't take on this job if you are hungry.  But so many of us are hungry of heart these days; hungry for a sense of solvency, and a respite from the nonstop talk of doom that is forecast in the dailies. 
Unfortunately, I don't hail from a line of people who treasure the intricacies of food.  But I do hail from stock who worked hard and long, and knew what foods would sustain and warm in spite of a cold stone floor or damp ship.  Seeing as today is the day for 'wearing of the green' I figured i would come clean about my Irish past and pass on a recipe I feel is more in keeping with the enjoyment of the day, rather than the making yourself sick from drinking part of the holiday that gives Ireland a bad name.  Oats were once considered a weed, and they grow best in cool moist climates, which is why they fit so well into the Irish diet. I use this cookie recipe annually during the fund-raising marathon to sustain and arm volunteers, MC's and office staff.   It's never too early in the morning to begin eating oatmeal chocolate chip nut cookies.

I Couldn't Fit Anything Else in This Oatmeal, Chocolate Chip, Fruit, Nut Cookie

1 1/2 cups rolled oats

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar

1 egg

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup all purpose flour

1/2 cup almond meal (or ground almonds)

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup coconut

1/2 cup semi sweet chocolate chips

1/2 cup raisins

1/2 cup slivered almonds or chopped pecans

 Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Place 1 1/4 cups of the oats in food processor, and process until fine, 1 minute.  Beat the butter with both sugars in large bowl with an electric mixer until smooth.  Beat in the egg and vanilla.  In another bowl, combine the processed oats with the flour, ground almonds, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Slowly add to the butter mixture.  Stir in the remaining 1/4 cup rolled oats, chocolate, coconut, raisins and nuts.  Drop the dough by spoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets, bake until golden, about 10-12 minutes.  Cool slightly before removing.  Makes about 40 cookies, depending on the size of your spoon.

i'm burnin' up

There are movies that, 40 years after they were made, look even more fantastic in comparison to the swill that passes for contemporary cinema.  There are movies that are truly eerie in the prophesies they seem to ooze out of every prescient frame; as if they were made to tell the future.  And then there are those rare movies that were truly ahead of their day and are now even more so.  Fahrenheit 451 is one of those movies.  Based on the Ray Bradbury book of the same name, Francois Truffaut's only film in English is a jewel. 

Made in 1967, Truffaut's first color film uses the neutral landscape of European winter to great advantage.  The red of the fire truck, stripped down to a rocket ship-like shape, awakens the gray streets as it speeds to a call.  Sharply dressed firefighters stand guard on the trucks' edge, long leather gauntlets punctuating the red.  These firefighters are not on their way to put out a fire, but instead to start one. This futuristic society fears books, and the imaginary worlds they have to offer.  The government has banned them, and when found they are publicly burned. A great display of how the best science fiction adeptly casts past and present horrors into future hybrids, and then lets the viewer decipher the moralistic tale. 

Viewing this film 40 years after it was made, many of its side plots take on a fresh caution. One night after work, Montag, the protagonist firefighter, sits by as his wife "interacts" with a large screen TV.  The television asks her to be an actor from the comfort of her living room.  Montag points out the ridiculousness of the televised responses, and suggests it's not real.  Isn't this a freaky parallel with our society's love affair with viewer participation a la American Idol and inter-active comments?  And even though the film's sets are 60's mid-century mod fabulous, the oversize screen looks no better on their walls than our behemoths look today.

I won't spoil the film's  ending, but I will say that it is slightly different than the book, a little more beautiful, and possibly more hopeful.  I suppose rather than fear our government banning books, we have to fear the marketplace threatening the continued production and protection of books.  Used and Independent book stores keep alive varied versions of books, giving us a window into the graphics and interests of another era.  As these smaller stores lose out to the internet and chain stores, we will lose much of the diversity of the written word.  In New Jersey, desperate politicians are looking to cut spending by shrinking money to libraries.  Fahrenheit 451 was written when Bradbury was a struggling newbie, and we have the public library system to thank for the typewriter rental that allowed Bradbury to get that manuscript to print.  There are those that prefer the elan of a coffee shop for today's writing room, but guard your free libraries or they won't be there when you need them. 

sita sings the blues

     Sita is singing the blues because her man done her wrong.  We all know the feeling.  One day you’re flying high, completing an independent animated feature you’ve been working on tirelessly for years, writing and animating every frame yourself, and then the next moment your award-winning film is in copyright lock-down over fees for music written more than 60 years ago.  Well that isn’t exactly Sita’s problem, but that is the dilemma of animator Nina Paley with her fantastic new feature film, Sita Sings the Blues.
     Layering several versions of the Hindu Sanskrit epic of Ramayana, Paley offers us a gorgeous visual collage of contemporary and ancient imagery centering on the girl done wrong.  Sita is the wife of Rama, the avatar of Vishnu, whose virtue is challenged after she is kidnapped by an enemy of Rama’s.  After rescuing Sita, Rama questions her purity.  She passes a trial by fire, but is sent packing when Rama’s subjects can not respect his decision to allow her to return to his royal household.  Annette Hanshaw is the silent film star and singer whose music provides one of the charming narratives of Sita Sings the Blues.  Her bluesy torch songs add a 1920's twist to the Sita chapter of the Ramayana.  A third layer to Sita's predicament in the movie is the telling of filmmaker Paley's autobiographical tale.  Paley was quite suddenly dumped via email by her husband, while he was working in India - a part of India very close to the area that the Ramayarna legend took place - so a natural collision of the stories blossomed. 

      The lock-down copyright part of this saga is a little more difficult to explain.  Due to an arbitrary and labyrinthine net of copyright protection in this country, music rights are prohibitively expensive, and as a result sometimes impossible to secure.  All the years of woman-hours animating and developing this film were not as costly as the opening price that the Annette Hanshaw songs demanded.  Continued negotiations have somewhat lowered the costs, but the bargaining continues.  Similar to the RIAA's hostile takeover of the the music industry and its royalty formulas, US copyright laws are built to protect a few select individuals, and these are not the creative playas, if you get my drift. Until this issue is settled, Sita Sings the Blues is without a distribution contract.

     Citing the Creative Commons argument, many people are advocating to enlarge the platform for copyright use.  Nina Paley is taking these issues to the streets, gathering attention to her copyright nightmare and pushing for changes to be made to the laws.  Sita Sings the Blues will be shown this Wednesday Feb 4th, at 92Y in Tribeca, 200 Hudson street, 8PM, with the filmmaker present.  WNET in the NYC area will also broadcast Sita Sings the Blues on March 7, 2009, on channel 13.

mush a boom

When the temperature falls well below freezing my definition of comfort food includes lots of deep down warmth.  Just opening the fridge this week has made me re-think why I was originally standing in front of this monstrous cavity of cold air.  For the second time in this blustery run of arctic weather I have solved the comfort food dinner craving with a gorgeous mushroom risotto.   Roasted beet risotto is a staple in our house, so changing the risotto menu wasn't the most natural jump.  But a beautiful selection of mushrooms at the market changed all that.  I love cremini mushrooms, but feel free to use your favorite.  Jaime Oliver's first Naked Chef cookbook was my intro to this recipe but I improvised easily from that foundation.

Mushroom risotto

1 quart chicken or vegetable stock
10 oz fresh cremini (or your fave) mushrooms
14 oz Arborio rice
4 TBL olive oil
4 finely chopped shallots
a few stalks of celery or ½ bulb of fennel, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
½ cup dry white vermouth or dry white wine
5 TBL butter
3 ½ oz freshly grated parmesan
1 large handful of flat parsley, chopped
1 handful of thyme, chopped
1 pinch of pimenton (Spanish smoked paprika)
1 squeeze of a fresh lemon
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Clean and dry the mushrooms.  Slice them thinly, or tear in half, depending on the type you have chosen.  In a medium hot large (cast iron) pan heat 2 TBL of olive oil, and 2 chopped shallots.  Let soften than add the mushrooms and thyme.  Cook for about a minute, tossing, then add 1 chopped garlic clove, and a pinch of salt; until they are nicely tender and tasty.  Add some parsley, a hefty pinch of pimenton, a squeeze of lemon and a little black pepper.  Toss again and taste.  Empty the mushrooms into a bowl and set aside.

Pour the stock into a separate pot and set on low heat.  Wipe out cast iron pan but do not wash.  Heat remaining 2 TBL olive oil, 2 chopped shallots, celery or fennel, and a pinch of salt.  Cook these veggies for about 3 minutes then add garlic. After about two minutes, once the vegetables have softened, add the rice.  Turn up the heat and slowly stir, as the rice becomes coated with the oil.  Keep the rice moving.  If it starts to color or stick, turn down the heat.  After 2-3 minutes it will start to turn translucent, and maybe crackle.  At this point add the vermouth or wine, stirring continuously. 

Once the vermouth has been soaked up add a ladle or two of stock.  Lower the heat to medium high, but don’t boil the rice in the stock.  It needs to absorb, not burn off.  Next, add mushrooms.  Set a timer for 2 minutes and add a ladle or two of stock every two minutes, stirring as you add the stock, but then leave it to cook until the timer rings again.  I have found this method easier, and it prevents the rice from becoming tough.  Don't let the rice dry out, add enough stock each time to keep it just shy of drying out and sticking.

After about 15 minutes, taste the rice.  Is it cooked?  Add a pinch of salt and continue cooking until the rice is soft with a slight bite.  Check seasoning.  When rice is done remove from heat, add butter and most of the Parmesan cheese.  Gently stir.  Serve with more sprinkled cheese and chopped parsley.

like flies on sherbet

It's kind of startling to discover how something can be so breathtaking and so influential, that you can't point to a time when this force wasn't felt in your life.  I know many of us felt that TANG granulated soft drink was going to be that moment for us, but alas, it wasn't meant to be. 

I just came back from the William Eggleston retrospective at the Whitney museum and I am still agog with that feeling.  His photos seem so effortless, but that's because we have been looking at his influence in the photo world ever since he touched down in the 1960's.  Coming of age in an era that wasn't engulfed with constant technological innovation, Eggleston made his mark through his viewpoint, a much harder innovation to identify.  He shot in black and white at the outset of his relationship with the camera and then switched to color when color was yet to be cool. Following the trail of American vernacular that Faulkner had trod so surely before him, Eggleston presents us with who we are, without the blinding glare of the American Dream.  His reality surrounds us in a loving embrace of old and torn, new and shiny: what we are whether we like it or not.

Eggleston was born in Memphis. It's the same Memphis that gave us Big Star.  The original cover of Radio City is wrapped with his 1973 photo "The Red Ceiling".  Another photo of a waving bunch of dolls astride a big old Caddy welcomes us to Alex Chilton's Like Flies on Sherbet.  David Byrne invited Eggleston to chronicle the making of his film True Stories.  There seems to be a natural kinship between the construction of his photos and the unmasking that some music offers.

Eggleston's 1973 film Stranded in Canton is also on view in the Whitney's galleries. A rambling mix of late night jams, shot in friends houses and on the street, it feels like an odd night relaxing with William.  Two documentaries centering on William Eggleston and his photography: William Eggleston in the Real World, and By the Ways: A Journey with William Eggleston are available through Netflix.  The exhibit closes January 25th, 2009.

I am big. It's the bank accounts that got small

All around us year-end lists are summing up our collective experiences in an orderly fashion, reminding us of the things we missed or challenging us to change our minds about what we didn't.  The last dark day of December is not radically different from the new gray light of January 1st.  We wear the same clothing, eat the same out of season foods and continue to seek out places to put the holiday gifts that have recently entered our lives.   

     I've been thinking a lot about Billy Wilder's 1950 film Sunset Boulevard lately.  Gloria Swanson plays an aging silent film star who is trying to craft a comeback.  A young and near destitute screenwriter stumbles into her life and she takes him under her wing; dressing him, housing him, and hoping for his love in return.

   The butler (played by Erich Von Stroheim) is her former silent film director.  In his devotion he attempts to construct an artificial reality that shields her from the success of talkies and the end of the silent era.  Our heroine can't see she is outmoded and lives that fantasy even as it self-destructs.  Some of her most famous lines ("I am big. Its the pictures that got small") ring with a freaky simultaneity as we end two thousand and great with an odd paradigm shift.  The themes of obfuscation and denial, obsolescence and confusion: the similarities between this film and our present economic meanderings are staggering.

     Fast forward 58 years and we, a nation of spenders, are running out of petty cash.  This year something very different was added to the year end mix that hasn't been fully digested.  What do we do about a lack of money?  Not just a 'I get paid next Friday' lack of funds, but a 'hmmmm, perhaps we need to fully re-evaluate our lifestyle' kind of lack.  For decades, December has been a make or break profit month for American retail.  Some businesses make up to one third of their yearly figures in this holiday shopping period.  But now that the whole idea of job security, an evergreen stock market, and safe savings has been re-fashioned, do we make a quick return to the Waltons era of hand made dolls and slingshots on the first night of Hannukah?

     When I was a child the number of presents under the Christmas tree was always nearly half the height of the tree.  My parents spent heavily on a credit card that they mistakenly empowered with the task of soothing emotional scars from their difficult childhoods.  Christmas became a symbol of giving that signified how much you loved.  Perhaps many children who grew up with post World War II and Baby Boomer parents received the present of excess to make up for loss.  But now it is the excess that has created the loss.  The loss of meaning except for a price tag, has created a culture of shopping as a hobby, shopping as a past time, shopping to show how much you shop!

is it the end of the year time for a list already?

I am never ready for this time of year.   It always comes rumbling in demanding to know what I saw, heard, ate, and when. 

1. Sheep.  They are still the animal I most want roaming around in my backyard, and since I live in the city, they can not.  Note to self:  ask Santa for a farm...

2. 4 Women No Cry v/a Monika.  I want to run away and join the Monika circus.  Everything I hear from this label is fabulous and everyone I have met is adorable.  (Barbara Morgenstern just came out to record a live show which will air soon, and you will see what I mean).  How can so much goodness emit from one label?

3. Live shows: Brightblack Morning Light with Fursaxa at Le Poisson Rouge. A huge and fabulous show where both bands floated above the stage.  Truly.  And of course, Lights with Teeth Mountain at Issue Project Room in September.  I felt like royalty!  It was a magically wonderful and intimate nite.  The highlight of the summer was truly the WFMU Lincoln Center bash where The Ex with Getatchew Mekurya, Either/Orchestra with Mahmoud Ahmed and Alemayehu Eshete  charmed everyone in attendance. (Dan Bodah devotes an entire show to Ethiopian music here)

4. Giorgio Morandi at the Metropolitan Museum.  Subtle, gorgeous moments like this come as infrequently as Venus and Jupiter snuggling up to the moon.

5. Low down & slow oozing of electrified honey: Maxine Funke Lace.  A beautiful release on Alistair Galbraith's label.  Vetiver Thing of the Past: covering all their favorite musicians, obscure and commonplace. Donovan Quinn October Lanterns: dark and warm.

6. Jean-Michel Gondry: Be Kind Rewind.  I love his filmmaking and the sentiment in this movie is just so infectious.

7. Tove Jansson: The Summer Book; A Winter Book.  More Finnish magic that still burns bright many years after she wrote them.

8. TV royally sucks.  Except for shining moments like Flight of the Conchords and Cranford.

9. All the musicians and labels that make listening to music so fantastic!

10. Our very own WFMU listeners, as usual, you rock. Let's hope for lots of Peace in the New Year.

More DJ's 2008 top ten lists can be found here.

Bare Trees

The bare trees are already showing their strength of form against a bleak sky.  If the weather holds, tonight at  dusk these silhouettes will be spotlighted by a rare celestial co-mingling.  Jupiter, Venus and the crescent moon will pose huddled together in the southwest sky, far enough away from the sun that we can see their grouping with the naked eye.  If you miss it tonight your next chance will be in 2052.

Silhouettes resurface every winter; when the harsh mid-winter glare doesn't leave us much nuance, or in some parts of the world where little light shines on details.  To a modern day art lover the making of cut out silhouettes, once a popular 18th century home spun activity, suggest Kara Walker's piercing work.

I was reminded of Kara's imagery last month when I visited the Zimmerli art museum In New Brunswick, NJ for a Francisco Goya print show.  The show includes 80 etchings from the 1799 series Los Caprichos.  Mocking the selfish insanities of humankind, Goya shows the upper and lower classes in all their foolish and stupid meddlings; transforming human ugliness into gorgeous and commanding compositions.  Some of his images are alive with a fresh sense of absurdity, unintentionally referencing the recent presidential election season.  Goya's use of negative space and figural arrangement prompted me to think of several of Walker's pieces, that similarly skewer human follies.  This show closes Dec 14.  I would highly recommend it.

train I ride

We all know that President-elect Obama has an awfully huge job ahead of him in the next few months.  I suggest he brainstorm with Burt Lancaster's character from the 1964 film "The Train" for a few tips.  In Hollywood-land Lancaster plays a French train engineer by day and Resistance hero by night. In MacGyver-like fashion he manages to halt a Nazi-led train of French artwork hightailing it for the border.  In the moments leading up to D-Day, the real French resistance was a well-oiled machine plotting details as minute as how much draining of oil would be needed to cause a Nazi train to stall just as it rolled onto a soon to be blown up bridge.  Director John Frankenheimer mines the wealth of Nazi stereotypes for full glory, creating bad guys who kill in the interest of leaving Nazi "good-will" in their wake.  Of course, pre-CGI FX films compel you to shout along at the characters as they stumble and fall into plot twist after le plot twist.

I am bringing up this film because of an e-mail I received the day after the victorious Obama election.  A pro-democracy organization urged me to stay vigilant after Obama's victory as even now someone, somewhere was plotting our downfall.  Drat!  Not one 24 hour period had passed and already the Hollywood-like bad guys were crawling out from under their nearby rocks.  I wondered if, similar to the very young witch Tiffany in Terry Pratchett's  The Wee Free Men, I was hopping through hallucinogenic bad dreams, except all of mine were semi-germinating from the plots of early 1960's John Frankenheimer movies?

Follow along with my theory:

1. Manchurian Candidate nightmare. Been there, done that.  Phew, we made it through the election with nothing horrible happening. 

2. Seven Days in May, where perhaps a maniacal never say-die Ted Stevens, in a last ditch effort to be forgiven by the Republican Party, attempts a coup on the Obama White House lawn.  Ted's excuse: he took a wrong turn while big game hunting from a helicopter.

3. Seconds with Pat Robertson as the ailing oldie who mentally inhabits the young body of Jenna Bush, in an attempt to gain the 2012 Republican Nomination.

4. Hopefully these dreams end with Grand Prix and I jet off to race car camp. Now that the price of gas is shrinking it's the only American thing left to do...

Yma Sumac RIP

To me there are few recording artists who ooze 'WFMU' as much as Yma Sumac.  Yma's 5 octave range could outscreech the loveliest tropical bird or simulate a rumble from the depths of a subway tunnel.  Her 1950 release "Voice of the Xtabay" seduced Eisenhower America as she rose to popularity, strewing tiki huts and Andean flavor in her wake.  Yma was born Zoila Augusta Emperatriz Chavarri del Castillo on September 13, 1922 in Peru.  Depending on what part of the Sumac legend you want to believe, she was the sixth child of an Indian mother and an Indian/Spanish father, who raised her as a Quechuan. Her performance career blossomed in regional festivals, before  moving to the big city of Lima.  In 1942, through her work with a performance and dance collective there, she met and married Moises Vivanco, the leader of the Compania.  Four years later, Vivanco and Sumac moved with a cousin to New York, to perform as a three piece. By 1950, they were welcomed in NYC nightclubs, playing on radio and television, and a constant presence on the Borscht Belt circuit in the Catskills.

While putting her exotic stamp on the lounge music scene of the 1950's, Yma Sumac's outrageous history seemed fabricated to some fans, who in turn fabricated an equally odd rumor that suggested she was born Amy Camus, a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn, NY. ('yma sumac' backwards...)  Hollywood called, and most notably she starred opposite Charlton Heston in 1954's "Secret of the Incas".  Heston was a man who knew a little about fabricating himself. He played a Mexican in Orson Welles' film "Touch of Evil",  and then later would fabricate himself as a human in his high profile role as head of the NRA. 

As the lounge decade turned over to peace, love, and rock and roll, Yma made one last recording in 1971.  She gradually performed less frequently, and retired to the glamor of Hollywood, where she died this weekend at the age of 86.

papa's got a brand new bag

Ron English, the sassy artist who designed the infamous WFMU lunch box, has raised the bar in DIY Obama signage with his 'Abraham Obama', recently seen gracing the garage door at 58 Gallery in Jersey City.  English took this Obama image to the Denver Democratic convention and has made smaller versions for sale in gallery shows, but none look so grand as this lovely autumnal toned gesture, nestled in between fall foliage and tightly parked cars.