Different or Similar?

Some books or artworks shock you out of your normal state of thinking by shedding light on a culture or a time period that has (or had) a completely different value to your own or a completely different approach to some aspect of human existence. Works like this expand your understanding of the potential for human variety, and it’s not always pretty. Other books or artworks awe you by revealing a part of humanity that is fundamental to people in all time periods and in all places. When I first read The Symposium, for example, I remember being absolutely delighted to learn that even two and a half millennia ago people shared my love of getting together with friends specifically for the purpose of downing wine and having a heated discussion. As we learn about other people and other cultures, it’s natural to the human mind, I believe, to categorize every new aspect of their lives in this dualistic fashion: does this demonstrate human variety or human affinity? Is this different to me or is it the same as me?

A while back I read a book called The True History of the Conquest of New Spain by a guy named Bernal Diaz del Castillo, and it’s a really good example of the first type. He was a soldier on Cortez´s expeditions into Central America in the 16th century, and the book is his first-hand account of how a few hundred Europeans, with horses and guns, swept through the heart of the Aztec Empire and brutally conquered an entire civilization. The story is told in a somewhat simplistic way; Diaz was a soldier by trade, not a writer. Despite the book’s stylistic clumsiness, however, it´s an amazing read. The constant action, along with the intrigues between the various tribal factions that the Spaniards fought against or formed alliances with, keeps you turning the pages in anticipation. At the same time, however, it’s deeply disturbing to anyone with a modern respect for the diversity of world cultures and for humanity in general.

A major impression from the book that has stayed with me is that there were facets of Aztec culture that are truly incomprehensible to post-Renaissance Westerners, and Diaz’s descriptions definitely focus more on the differences, rather than the similarities, between Aztec and European cultures. How could human sacrifice possibly be a common and acceptable practice, for example? How could they splatter the walls of their temples with blood and hang decapitated human heads around their cities? Diaz goes into grotesque detail about the things he witnessed. These people obviously thought about life in some very different ways than we do. (I’m sure they had drinking parties, though.)

I recently saw a highly entertaining example of the latter type of work, the kind that awes you by revealing something universal and fundamentally human. It’s a short documentary called Tag by a fellow named Chad Calease, who I had the opportunity to meet and hang out with this spring. The film pieces together interviews with individuals (literally from all over the world) talking about different forms of the game tag that they played when they were kids. As I listened to these people’s stories and heard their reflections on the game in its varying styles, I definitely felt a sense of wonder. The film makes you stop and consider a childhood game (one that we probably all played at some point) from an adult perspective, and in recognizing its deeper, psychological implications, you feel a serious connection with humanity. It’s pretty cool, and it’s definitely worth the time… you can stream it right here at Chad’s website: http://thinfilms.net/.

Recording in London (Part 4)

I've been working in schools for years, and I generally wake up not long after the sun, even when I'm on vacation. It's not just from habit, though... there's surely something genetic about it. My dad, who's an early-riser, loves to reccount how when I was a child he'd often open his eyes in the morning and find my face staring at him from about six inches away, with my eyes wide open, just waiting for some company. The early morning cartoons would only keep me entertained for so long.
Brian and I live on nearly opposite schedules. He's a true night-owl, more from insomnia, he says, than any preference for the dark hours. A pattern was established pretty early on in my stay, and we worked with it over the next eight days or so. We'd stay up all night, usually until about sunrise (I was adjusting to his schedule, obviously). I'd eventually throw in the towel, and Brian would stay up for a few hours by himself, drinking wine and playing the mandolin, skyping with his girlfriend in Argentina, or taking care of business stuff on the computer.
I'd try to sleep as late as I could, usually wake up before noon, then lay in bed listening to The Odyssey on my Creative Zen and praying I would crash out for a few more hours. Regardless of whether I did or not, there would be some serious time to kill before Brian was up and ready to start recording. I'd usually head into the neigborhood to buy some groceries, sometimes cook something up and sometimes grab myself a curry lunch special on Brick Lane, which was right around the corner from his place. Then I'd just play guitar in the living room and wait. It was a wonderfully comfortable and spacious room, a bit surreal with a hundred-year-old piano and a dried-up Christmas tree that Brian and Thea had decided to keep into the spring for some reason.





It worked out well, 'cause I liked having a few hours of practice before recording. My hands were so warmed up by the time I sat in front of the microphones that I could usually bang out my guitar parts in just a few takes, sometimes just one or two. It saved us a lot of frustration... there's nothing more disheartening than doing twenty takes in a row and not being able to land one that's perfect, totally buzz and error-free. It makes you feel incompetent. Nowadays, it's easy to edit out any errors, but I'm a purist; I like knowing that the song is as real and unsynthetic as possible.
Anyway, Brian would get up in the afternoon, deal with chores and business stuff for a few hours, then we'd shut ourselves into the studio somewhere between 5-8pm. We'd work until we lost the inspiration, usually between 2-4am. Then we'd go upstairs, crack some wine, and Brian would cook while I played him songs that didn't make my final cut for the sessions. Brian is no amateur in the kitchen, btw; he's a serious culinary artist, no joke. Two of the standouts during my stay were braised duck burritos & crawfish soup with coconut milk and mango. We'd eat, drink and talk till I couldn't hack it anymore, then I'd leave him sitting there to occupy his sleepless dawn however he could.





In total during my stay we recorded thirteen of my tunes. It took one day to do the microphone trials for my voice, as I wrote earlier on, one day to do the microphone trials for my guitar, and about three to actually record all my guitar parts. I was in London for ten days, so the rest of the time was for vocals and for bringing in other musicians.