A first attempt at multimedia reporting, via the Pulitzer Center’s Untold Stories website. Finally got published. Have a listen! I like this guy’s style, but I wish someone would sponsor him for some better recording equipment. Any volunteers out there?
music
Zaki Ibrahim: Play this at your chill house party
In explaining why it’s OK that Israel is devastating Gaza, the pundits keep telling us we should imagine what it would be like to have Canada shooting rockets at us, and what we would do about it.
It’s a pained and unconvincing analogy, but I’m going to exploit it here.
Because while the Canucks may not actually be planning on bombarding us any time soon, Americans should definitely watch out for sound bombs being lobbed from north of the border. For the second time in a couple of months, a Canadian artist is playing a major role in the daily soundtrack of my life. Continue reading
Music Break: “They Love K’naan in the Slums and in the Native Reservations”
I can’t wait until January. That’s when Somali-Canadian artist K’naan’s new album, Troubadour, drops. I haven’t been so excited by an album since Outkast came out with Aquemini in 1998. And this one is better.
I first saw K’naan in early September at Le Poisson Rouge in the village, and I’ve been hooked since. At that show, Mos Def appeared in the crowd at one point, and got on stage to perform this number with K’naan.
When Mos Def endorses something in the music world, you should probably pay attention. That night, K’naan had all of us not only paying attention but also singing along with the anthems he unleashed.
The other day, I finally had the chance to get a sneak preview of Troubador at the house of a friend who had a hook-up. I was blown away. It’s a soulful, rousing, thought-provoking, witty and moving hour of classic joints. Dare I say it? OK, I will: Grammy 2010. If K’naan gets the kind of publicity he deserves, this will be a game-changing album, in a time when everyone is going back to the one-off single model on iTunes.
To understand the significance of K’naan’s music, you need to know a bit about his life story. Born in 1978, he grew up in Somalia and left on the last commercial flight out of Mogadishu in 1991, before the civil war descended into total chaos. In much of his music, he talks about the deaths of friends, violence and deprivation that characterized his youth. During that time, he listened to American rap music, memorizing lyrics before he knew what they meant. He’s been pursuing that passion ever since arriving in North America.
The pain and beauty of K’naan’s homeland resonate in all his music. In some songs, he samples old Ethiopian melodies, drops hip hop beats on them, weaves anti-violence rhymes through them, and links them with addictive, heart-tugging choruses. In the song “Somalia” — from which the title of this blog post comes — he sings:
What you know about the pirates terrorize the ocean?
To never know a single day without a big commotion
It can’t be healthy just to live with such a steep emotion
And when I try to sleep, I see coffins closin’
(You can download that song for free on K’naan’s MySpace page)
K’naan obviously listens to a lot of music. His flow most closely resembles Eminem’s. But elsewhere, like when he says I take inspiration from the most heinous of situations/Creatin’ medication from my own tribulations on “Take a Minute”, he sounds just like 2Pac. And when he speaks at the end of the same song, he sounds like Mos Def: “Nothin’ is perfect man, that’s what the world is, all I know is, I’m enjoying today. Cuz it ain’t every day that you get to give.” Elsewhere, he sounds like John Lennon: I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.
His subject matter is a long, refreshing drink of water in the desert of still-bling-obsessed, violence-celebrating mainstream rap. K’naan talks about family, the virtues of generosity, the immigrant experience, the scars of war and — in one of the best songs, “Fifteen Minutes Away” — the simple pleasure of a wire transfer back home. He can afford to laugh at gangster-posturing American rappers because, he sings, he has lived a ghetto harder than anything they can talk about. The song “Strugglin'” from his excellent first album, The Dusty Foot Philosopher, showcases classic K’naan content, and his fusion of folk melodies with Hip Hop:
In the most moving song of all (and there are many on Troubador), a tune called “People Like Me,” K’naan sings a verse that I wish would come to define a new era in Hip Hop. In the first verse, a first-person poem reminiscent of Eminem’s “Stan”, but with more of an advocacy angle, K’naan takes on the voice of a soldier in Iraq. I made my friend let me write down the whole verse, and I’ll leave you with that:
Is it fair to say that I am stressing out?
I’m stationed in Iraq and they won’t let me out
My homie said I was stupid for even joining
My counselor said my decision was “disappointing”
Oh she had good slates (?) at state colleges
And with my good grades it wouldn’t have been a problem
But they don’t understand just the power of significance
More than brilliance and certainly more than dividends
And if you ask me now, Would I repeat it?
Would I fight in a war I don’t believe in?
Well the answer is, it’s not me where the cancer is
They’ve been doin’ this before Jesus of Nazareth
And after all this time it is still deadly hazardous
And Bush isn’t really bein’ all that inaccurate
When he says we winnin’ the war, ‘cuz it’s staggerin’
But that’s ‘cuz we’re killin’ everybody that we see
And most of us soldiers we can barely fall asleep
And time and time again, I’m feelin’ incompetent
‘Cuz my woman back home, we constantly arguin’
And I must be crazy, ‘cuz all I’m obsessin’ with
Is her MySpace and Facebook, and who’s commentin’
Swear to God if she’s cheatin’ I’m doin her ass in!
I could tell with one look
And it came to me, soundin’ somethin’ like a song hook:
[Hook]
Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
And open doors to hurting people like me…
Music Break: Buika Has a Voice Like Smoke and Honey
I’m a fiend for good music by interesting people. I like artists who have a compelling life story that has shaped what they do.
So I was immediately captivated when I heard the smoky voice of Buika on PRI’s The World: Global Hit the other day. Buika is a Spanish singer whose family was refugees from Equatorial Guinea. She grew up singing in hotels in Mallorca after her father abandoned the family. Listen to the compelling podcast about her journey from being a Tina Turner impersonator to a nominee for a Latin Grammy the other night.
And check out a song or two as well.
(And btw, this is the first installation in a recurring feature about my neverending quest for great music.)
This Is How You Get Got
So apparently pirates now have spokespeople, and it turns out they’re pretty damn articulate.
This Times article made me think of the Mos Def song “Got”. I.e., this is what happens when you sail an “estimated $30 million worth of heavy weaponry” down the coast of one of the most beleaguered, ungoverned countries in the world. It gets gaffled.
Was the arms deal really part of a secret shipment to southern Sudan? Hopefully, we’ll find out.
Learning to Live New York
I was walking home about 11pm on 123rd Street near St. Nicholas. I passed the little jazz bar on the corner. It was about half full, and a live band’s melodies murmured out. People were having drinks and talking; the night was cool.
A spontaneous smile grew on my face, even though I wasn’t a part of the scene, and couldn’t be, because I had to hurry home and read for class.
For me, that’s learning to live New York City: appreciating and being aware of everything that is going on around you, without feeling you are missing out.
It’s impossible to partake in everything this city has to offer. So I try to savor the aroma of its little blossoms even if I can’t possibly pick them all.
NYC: It’s a Family Affair
Dear New Yorkers: You’re lookin’ good.
Since I came back to NYC, it’s been about 75 degrees every day with light humidity and clear skies. Everyone looks in particularly good health. The trees are riotously green, though starting to look a little on the wilted side, it being the end of the summer and all. Compared to Beirut, things feel quiet, and smooth-running.
I went down to a park on a pier near Chelsea piers today, sunbathed and people-watched. (That’s the view above, thanks to Llima, who licensed her work on Creativecommons.org; I neglected to take a picture.) I put on my headphones and listened to Sly and the Family Stone sing “It’s a Family Affair” as three New York kids to my left argued over whether the very real grass was fake or not.
And I have to say, with me and NYC, it is now a family affair. Thanks for having me back, city.
Isaac Hayes and Mahmoud Darwish
It’s a cruel year when we have to mourn Bo Diddley, Isaac Hayes and Mahmoud Darwish, three personages that are so big it is hard for me to think of them as dead. All these guys were revolutionaries in their own ways.
Isaac Hayes passed on Sunday, and I will not repeat the incredible details of his life here, since you can read them yourself in this very good Washington Post obit.
Hayes’ 1974 song “Hung Up On My Baby” has probably my favorite guitar lick of all time (OK, with the possible exception of some Ali Farka Toure stuff, but I consider any comparisons with him unfair). It’s the one sampled in the Geto Boys’ “Mind Playing Tricks On Me,” and it’s completely haunting and unforgettable.
The song also has the second best guitar lick ever, which 2nd II None sampled in their early 90s hit, “If You Want It,” which was one of my favorite songs when I was about 12. Little did I know how much better the original was.
Mahmoud Darwish was, of course, a Palestinian poet — the Palestinian poet, really. His death on Saturday is a big loss not just because of his artistic genius but also because he was a voice of compassion, reason and nuance in a conflict and region rife with extremes. I feel lucky I got to see him read in person in Damascus in 2005. Here’s a decent LA Times obit (read it now because the link will probably only work for a while).
I’ll fill for them the parting glass, and I hope you’ll do the same.
Midnight Oud to Beirut
It is getting quite hot here – it’s been close to 100 for the last few days, and combined with the humidity it can be stifling.
When I arrived in Beirut, I had a fantasy of sleeping with the floor-to-ceiling glass doors open onto the balcony, with curtains billowing and the dawn pouring in above the rooftops, probably accompanied by Cesaria Evora singing “Sodade”. But I discovered on my second night here that if you leave the door open, a mosquito is liable to single-handedly ruin your life, biting your face and droning ever more lowly as its gut fills with your blood over the course of a long, sleepless night. So to sleep, I close the door of my fourth-floor room and turn on the AC. (And if I don’t use the AC, I wake up in about a half hour drenched in sweat.)
The other evening was a very warm one, and just as I was dozing off the power went out, and with it, the AC.
In the ensuing quiet, I heard a strange sound. It was a haunting melody played on strings, so faint I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination or not. I got up and opened the doors, walked out onto the balcony and peered into the night, listening.
It was there, coming from the street below, where it was very dark because the electricity was out: the tremulous, smooth notes of an oud. The music filled the street for a few minutes and then stopped, and I saw the oud float up on the hands of a group of men sitting in front of a sandwich shop. It flashed in the ambient light like a gem, luminous, perfect and lusciously full-bodied, as more hands received it to put it in a car.
In the streets of Beirut, you rarely hear anything but the screech of tires and of horns and Arabic pop music blasting from fancy cars that, in their luxury, are incongruous with the pot-holed, rules-free roads. You see half-finished construction projects and garish ads for beauty products, cigarettes, alcohol and soft drinks. Haze obscures the mountains.
So hearing this oud – that most authentic of Arabic instruments, whose sound is the cry of longing – lovingly played in the silence of the midnight was like listening to a secret whispered about the real soul of Lebanon.
Beneath all of the scar tissue, it seemed to say, beneath the plastic consumerism and the chaos and the violence, somewhere in the tired soil of this land the seeds of its essence lie quietly in wait for the chance to grow again. There are still fingers that play those ancient, gentle Lebanese chords, though you may need to have a power outage in the middle of the night just to hear a few bars.
It is a theme on which I will expand in my next post, about my visit to one of Lebanon’s last stands of cedars.