The Wily Filipino

Your New Favorite Song.

Okay, I lied. Once again, in a virtual tip of the hat to Copy, Right?, I present three tracks: the Ornette Coleman Quartet's "Peace Warriors" (here, the classic Coleman / Cherry / Haden / Higgins lineup), a different version also by Ornette Coleman and Prime Time (his "double quartet" with two guitarists, bassists and drummers each, both from the 1987 In All Languages album), and a cover by John Zorn (with two saxophonists and drummers) from the 1989 Spy vs Spy: The Music of Ornette Coleman album.

Prime Time was conceived as embodying the principle of "harmolodics," as Coleman's website explains:

Breaking out of the prison bars of rigid meters and conventional harmonic or structural expectations, harmolodic musicians improvise equally together in what Coleman calls compositional improvisation, while always keeping deeply in tune with the flow, direction and needs of their fellow players. In this process, harmony becomes melody becomes harmony. Ornette describes it as "Removing the caste system from sound." On a broader level, harmolodics equates with the freedom to be as you please, as long as you listen to others and work with them to develop your own individual harmony.

Which all makes, in an odd way, Zorn's version somewhat redundant; the Prime Time version already sounds more chaotic and stuffed, but in a coiled, controlled way, and is already sonically far removed from the almost staid original.

I've always been a fan of John Zorn, though my interest in him has been flagging in recent years. Content, it seems, to release variation upon variation of the Masada songbook -- great stuff, mind you, but repetitive enough to test his fans -- Zorn, in my opinion, just hasn't made music as exciting as he did back in the '80s and early '90s, back when he was the real bad boy of Downtown. Granted, The Gift (Zorn's take on exotica / surf music) and Taboo and Exile (and probably IAO) were, by most standards, outstanding, but pales in comparison to Zorn's groundbreaking work with Naked City, Painkiller, early Masada, and some of his game pieces.

The concept behind Spy vs Spy -- one of those albums in Zorn's early, more thrilling phase -- seems to have been to play Ornette's compositions LOUD and FAST and HARD; Zorn's version of "Peace Warriors" is typically intense and brutal, more literally thrash-jazz than, say, the Peter Brotzmann Octet's Machine Gun ever was. As Zorn writes in his liner notes (where he thanks Napalm Death and Blind Idiot God, after all): "Fucking hardcore rules." Crank up your speakers.

Hear it: Quartet (3.8 mb), Prime Time (3.4 mb), Zorn (1.9 mb).

Comments?

Quick Link.

Not much time to write or post anything -- I did get back from L.A. / Anaheim in one piece, but am still suffering from indigestion (more later, especially on Izzy at Disneyland) -- and Izzy and I are taking off in a couple of days for the Philippines. So you folks who visit for mp3s -- sorry, I won't have any downloads available for a little while.

Meanwhile, here's E. San Juan, Jr.'s riposte to Patricia Evangelista's prize-winning speech at the English Speaking Union's International Public Speaking Competition earlier this May.

Day 7.

That's right. Day 7.

After surviving on a part crackers-and-water diet for the rest of the week (with the occasional slip-up, e.g.. not heeding the "Avoid dairy products for 3 days after symptoms disappear" warning), I backslid, as it were, in a spectacular manner, by capping an all-day meeting by going out to a tapas restaurant with the Critical Filipino Studies Collective and assorted partners and friends (among others, Nerissa, Richard, Dylan, Lucy, Robyn, Rowena, Vernadette and Peter, including the special guests of the evening, the out-of-towners Martin and Rick). Rabbit stew! Grilled salmon strips! Parillada de mariscos! And lots of beer!

You can imagine the consequences that long, practically sleepless night. The next morning I watched Martin at brunch, eating his hotel breakfast while I ate saltines from a Tupperware container. And ate more crackers while at my friends' Keith and Margaret's daughter's birthday party later that day, watching the guests eat pizza from the Cheese Board.

Tomorrow we're driving down to Los Angeles. The crackers are already packed within easy reach. But I am steeling myself for gastrodisaster.

Comments?

Three Days; 100 Years.

Day 3 of my bout with food poisoning -- and to celebrate today's anniversary:

Prrprr.

Must be the bur.

Fff. Oo. Rrpr.

Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She's passed. Then and not till then. Tram. Kran, kran, kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Karaaaaaaa. Written. I have.

Pprrpffrrppfff.

Done.

Comments?

Ugh, and a Great Weekend.

Day 2 of my bout with food poisoning -- nothing like it to ruin an otherwise excellent weekend. The likely culprit:: the lechon-BBQ-palabok combo at one of the food booths at the Fiesta Filipina at the Civic Center -- unfortunately, I can't remember the name, but it was one of the restaurants on Mission. Because we -- my friends Jeff and Kumi and their daughter "Baby Maia," which is what Izzy calls her, and Izzy, fortunately escaped unscathed -- were there on the second day, and ate early at 11 a.m., I strongly suspect the food was cooked the day before and left out overnight and sitting in the hot sun.

At least I slept like a log last night -- none of the fevers and chills and nausea and lack of appetite of the day and night before. But I'm still not completely settled in other ways, which I won't go into here -- suffice it to say that I'm taking a big chance going to the office today. (But I did manage to drag myself out of bed yesterday to have lunch with my friend Cherie, whom I haven't seen in years -- unfortunately I started feeling dizzy before lunch ended, and had to run back home.)

Fiesta Filipina was a bit of a bust -- it's never as exciting somehow as the Yerba Buena celebration, or the ones that used to be held in Union Square. The usual booths were there: the banks, the remittance agencies, the video stores, the assisted-living condos, the spinal examinations, the funeral homes, and so on. But one difference that one begins to see more and more were those specifically for the second generation: the two hiphop radio stations, and tons of "Pinoy Pride" clothing booths.

In any case, there wasn't much for Izzy to do; she got a free balloon from State Farm but it slipped from its stroller moorings. The day before, however, we were at the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito (which I discovered, much to my surprise, was only 15 minutes away from where we lived), and Izzy had a grand time.

It wasn't because of the main exhibit, "Do You Know The Way To Sesame Street?," which (as I told Izzy) would be doubly exciting because there were two generations of Sesame Street viewers to enjoy it. (It premiered in the US about 13 months before I was born, but I don't think we had a TV in the Philippines until 1974 or so.) I'm not sure she particularly liked sitting in Big Bird's nest and sitting on the stoop of the 123 Sesame Street (yes, part of the set is recreated in the museum) though; the exhibit is really geared to the adult, with mini-biographies of the cast, a video of the pilot episode, clips of Paul Simon singing "Me and Julio down by the Schoolyard" with the kids (what!? No Stevie Wonder doing "Superstition?!"). I think she was also a little freaked out by this interactive section -- we had seen something like it already at the Children's Museum of Boston, with the Arthur cast -- where you sit in front of a screen and it projects you and Elmo (or Zoe, or the Count) on the monitor, talking to each other.

The highlight for Izzy, really, was the big gravel box outside, where she shoveled rocks into a Tonka dump truck. That and the Niman Ranch hotdog she had for lunch (she's been unable to digest hotdogs before -- she's deathly allergic to soy, and there might have been something in it -- so I was pleased to see that the cafe food, being in Marin County after all, was aggressively organic).

Your New Favorite Song.

I'm rambling today. Foreign-language versions of English-language pop songs are the best cover versions of all, I always thought -- until I stepped back and wondered whether it was some form of exoticization on my part. After all, some of the best pop song covers, at least in my mind, happen to have been performed by Japanese bands (for instance, the Pebbles, or Shonen Knife -- the latter's version of the Carpenters' "Top of the World" has to be the greatest cover version ever) and some of the charm, I guiltily confess, does come from their English pronunciation.

But foreign-language covers are a little more difficult to come by, and the real pleasure in them has to do precisely with the unintelligible: . I have a number of versions of "These Boots Are Made For Walking" (back when I was still in the exoticaring), and I have a wonderful breathy French version somewhere around here. I have Tagalog versions of Beatles songs, but unfortunately they're on vinyl. I also have CDs worth of covers of "Whole Lotta Love" and "Red Red Wine," and most are interesting (some are wonderfully horrific) in different ways.

And so, in a tip of the hat to Liza from copy, right?, here's probably the most "famous" foreign-language cover version of a relatively recent English pop song (too many qualifiers there): Faye Wong's "Dream Person." I like her version of the Cocteau Twins' "Evangeline" better, but everyone knows this one because it was prominently featured in Wong Kar-Wai's Chungking Express. I'll have to ask Madeline whether

Moong joong yun yut fun joong po gun
Jeep sup fun (joong) dik mun

is similar to

Oh, my life is changing everyday,
In every possible way.

I will always be fond of this version -- and not really the Cranberries original -- because of the memories it conjures up of the film. "If memory could be canned, I hope this one will never expire."

Hear it (5.1 mb).

Comments?

We Internalize Storylines.

While doing some surfing for yet another long-simmering project completely unrelated to the St. Louis one, I came across this report on outsourcing labor to the Philippines. The customer service / call center business is already well-known; the projection that the "aggregate growth rate" for this particular niche would grow by 50 percent to $864 (million?) doesn't look too farfetched at all.

The description of the Philippines' advantages over other Asian countries is rather interesting, though, as it could be read in funny ways:

In Asia, the country is in the best position to gain a large share of e-services contracts in view of the following reasons: affordable quality human resource; affinity to Western culture; strategic location; hospitable lifestyle and expanding infrastructure.

Or, if you will: low salaries, hostility to labor unions, a legacy of colonialism, and the desperation to do anything for cash.

But there I am grousing needlessly about what is apparently a genuine economic boom that actually doesn't stink of sweatshop-style exploitation, so I should be a little more positive. I do like the way the dry and rigorous economist language gives way to culturalist explanations of Filipinos' seemingly natural affinity for, in this case, the animation industry:

Demand for Filipino e-services in this area is also enormous in view of the inherent ingenuity, creativity and artistry of the Filipinos. Aside from their artistry, Filipino animators stand out from the rest of the world for their multi-cultural orientation that enables them to internalize storylines and concepts for better artwork and faster execution.

This isn't unfamiliar either: "inherent" cultural traits are also retroactively employed to "explain" Filipinos' supposed "aptitude" for nursing, housecleaning, singing, and so on -- only a shade removed, really, from physical, i.e., racist, characteristics employed in similar fashion, such as small hands (the better to assemble tiny computer chips with) or more flexible backs (the better to pick asparagus with).

Still, there's something quite resonant about that "multi-cultural orientation," one that could be construed a kind of strategic rag-picking engendered by the colonial experience. And that part about internalizing storylines! It's almost... poetic.

Comments?

Odds and Ends, 2.

Hard at work the rest of the day, trying to write a long-simmering article; the morning was mostly spent with Izzy on the last day of her swimming lessons.

The new clip-on sunglasses I bought last week makes me see things: circular sun dapples on the rear windows of cars, ghostly venetian-blind stripes on windows.

This has been going around for a while now: it smells bogus, but I like the idea of the Pope gearing up for battle against the Antichrist.

And here's something of an antidote to the disgusting Reagan hagiography, from the Philippine Daily Inquirer:

The billions of pesos stolen; the thousands of people dead and maimed; the lives crushed and wasted; the ideals ground in the dust: all these are factors in the delicate democracy we are still so hard pressed to sustain. Ronald Wilson Reagan turned a blind eye to all these sufferings. As he rests in peace, this country must remember its uneasiness will long outlive the man. That he is a great man by American standards only goes to show how different American ideals can be from what should be our own.

Comments?

Odds and Ends.

Some housekeeping here: I've changed the permissions on the bulletin board to "public," which means that anyone can post without having to register. (It's a bit of drag to register, I know.) Hopefully this will generate some comments -- if you like what I write, or you like what I upload (or hate them), let me know! I'll keep the forum public, anyhow, until I get hit by spam...

The season finale of The Sopranos was just about perfect -- one of the funniest episodes in a while, and simultaneously the one that ratcheted up the moral dilemmas for "General" Tony. Plus the season ends the way it begins, with a big black bear lumbering through the woods to the Soprano house.

Madeline and I got to go out and see a movie -- the first time this year! -- so we saw Alfonso Cuaron's Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Kept waiting for Y tu Mama Tambien-like erotic tension between Harry, Hermione and Ron, but was disappointed. =) But all in all, it was the best of the three films so far: darker, more lushly photographed, more tightly plotted.

One of the cool things about Amazon.com, which I just discovered a couple of minutes ago, is that typing your name in the search box also gives you your citations -- a great tool for any struggling academic wanting to beef up his retention and tenure files!

Speaking of Amazon.com: thank goodness for those Pinays, "not dedicated to the quagmires of feminism!"

And what a bad year for music so far: Coxsone Dodd, Jose Maceda, Elvin Jones, Steve Lacy, Robert Quine...

Comments?

Your New Favorite Song.

I'd like to think of the blare of feedback from the Beatles's "I Feel Fine" as a starting point, but it only shows how ahistorical I am. The relatively short history of music recording featured musicians and engineers that progressively obsessed over fidelity of reproduction, who only later learned to embrace the imperfect. Or, as the title of the eLpH vs Coil album put it, Worship The Glitch: the point being to incorporate those "imperfections" -- or, to flout the fidelity to the real -- and enfold them into the musical text itself.

Vinyl was of course an imperfect medium in and of itself; the first DJs who included the snap and crackle of scratchy records in their samples were well aware of this. Both Grandmaster Flash and Christian Marclay took that imprecision further, deforming and disrupting the original intention and meaning of the records by scratching, looping and weaving the musical passages into entirely different contexts. Since then, "glitch house," "electroglitch" and its other monikers have spawned entire CD-R spindles worth of music.

(On another parallel plane, folks like John Cage and the "composers" of Surrealist musics before him welcomed the aleatory, and the possibility of including the "imperfect" and dissonant as well.)

The advent of the digital compact disc changed all that; quibbles about the coldness of the sound aside, the CD was as close to perfect fidelity as possible. Its vaunted indestructability was such that sales people would step on a disc and play them for prospective customers; the high prices -- sadly, even now -- made the dreaded skip sound even worse. (It's easier for your ears to fill in the spaces between vinyl pops, or to treat tape hiss as background noise, but for a skipping CD you have little choice but to skip to the next track.)

This is why Oval's 1995 94diskont album still remains a landmark. The centerpiece of the album, the almost 30-minute "Do While," is a gorgeous epic of skipping discs, with clicks and loops mutating and shifting as if underwater, producing an unearthly warmth from digital coldness, generating an unsettled, unsteady peace out of machine chaos. It simply blew my mind the first time I heard it. (The track below is a shorter version entitled "Do While (Command X)" -- it's not really "command," because it's the symbol for the Apple key, but I couldn't reproduce it.)

Hear it (6.98 mb).

Comments?

Five Answers.

1. In the early '80s, Tetchie Agbayani created a furor when she posed nude for Playboy. The layout was composed of photos of her on a beach accompanied by the usual hokey captions -- but these captions were not written in English. In which language were they written?

My original question was going to be "Is Tetchie Agbayani an innie or an outie?" but I thought that a trivia question about her belly-button was kind of too detailed. (For the record, she was an outie.) The captions -- probably alluding to wild motorcycle rides, how she likes pleasing her man, and the usual silly stuff -- were written in German; Agbayani had posed for the German edition of Playboy. I don't remember the exact text of the captions; I can't read German, and besides, I wasn't exactly looking at the captions. =)

2. What animal is depicted on a Jack and Jill Chiz Curls package?

It was a cow, whose smiling face can be seen on the blue-green package, grinning as the artificial cheese coats your fingers yellow.

3. Six people were killed here in January 1970; seventeen years later, in January 1987, thirteen people also lost their lives in the same location. What place is being referred to?

Ferdinand Marcos and Cory Aquino may be different presidents, but the murder of students and farmers at Mendiola Bridge haunts both their regimes.

4. What did the cast members of Palibhasa Lalaki do at the end of every episode?

The cast had a water/flour/powder/softdrink fight at the end of each episode, much like the pie-in-the-face ending of T.O.D.A.S. A former classmate of mine in college, who had an inexplicable crush on Cynthia Patag, would always wait until the credits in the hope that Cynthia would get really wet.

5. For what store did Rod Navarro and two dwarves make TV advertisements?

The chain store was 680 Home Appliances. The poor vertically-challenged couple had to film a scene in a big 680 box, remember? Awful, awful.

Two people -- "arnolds" and "paddybgil" -- got 4 out of 5.

Comments?

Eileen Tabios's "Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole."

Eileen Tabios's Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole is an endless swoon. Reading it puts you in a state of suspension -- to misquote her, "an emotion you will welcome as a discovery." Like a flag torn from its moorings, borne aloft, knowing no nation, just the wind, her poetry is the essence of sensual drift and travel.

But I'm wrong, of course: the central image, after all, is the empty flagpole, or rather, what remains: traces of languorous Manhattan afternoons, the lingering of strangers in cafes and deserts, the cinders of urban longing and belonging.

But these conjured scenarios of wisp and wander conceal a steely interior: "For she has trained men to kneel and she is replete." It's romantic in the extravagant sense of the word, and the reader's obligation is to surrender. Let go, she whispers in your ear. Let go.

[Actual conversation with airport baggage inspector the other day:

Inspector: [looking at cover] What is that?
Me: I think it's a close-up of a plant.
[Pause.]
Inspector: [looking puzzled] And what does the title mean?
Me: [thinking fast] Not sure. [Pause, then adding lamely:] It's a book of poetry.
Inspector: Ah, that's why.]