perfidy

I have (tentatively, with reservations), enabled comments on my three most recent posts (counting this one), after deleting the auto-spammed entry from the one bot that seems to have figured out the Ministry post-numbering scheme in advance.

Have at it.

[wik] Well... that didn't work. Never mind!

While reading an otherwise provocative and lively discussion by a group of film critics (2004: The Year in Movies) which manages to cover all the ground between loving and hating Dogville, Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Passion of The Christ and dismissing all three as forgettable failed experiments, I came across the following phrase, written by Scott Foundas of the L.A. Weekly:

As early as Sundance in January, there was Jehane Noujaim's Control Room, an extraordinary survey of the current propaganda wars (ultimately, the ones that really matter)...

It is unfortunate that Foundas chose the word "ultimate" in arguing that wars of words and ideas matter in the end more than wars of killing. He is using it in a poetic sense to lend heft to his assertion that propaganda "really matter[s]." Unfortunately for him, "ultimate" means the last, the end, the thing which cannot be overcome.

I have argued in this forum repeatedly that the US armed forces can do no greater good for themselves, the USA, and (he said, from his seat of white male imperial privelige,) the world than to work as hard as possible on winning the 'hearts and minds' battles in the wars they are fighting. The "propaganda wars" Foundas refers to include these and more. The 'hearts and minds' efforts are incredibly important, because after the killing winds down and nations get back to doing what it is nations do when they are not busy tearing themselves into pieces, it would be really nice if we were not hated as a matter of policy as the Great Satan Above All Satans. In the short run winning the hearts and minds battle-- or at least trying to do better on that front than breaking even-- can only help. In the long run it can ensure that the sun does not soon set on the American Century (1919-?).

But as truly important as they are, in war, hearts and minds are not the "ultimate" thing in a war.

Ultimately, "propaganda" only matters when someone is left alive to see it.

Mocean Worker: Enter The MoWo (2004: Hyena Records)

Once upon a time, I went to hear a DJ called Mocean Worker (rhymes with “ocean”) spin at one of the many tiny drink-and-DJ clubs that dot the lower Manhattan landscape. I had already developed a powerful aversion to club music, since in New York you can’t buy a shirt, eat a meal, or even walk down the sidewalk without the insistent BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM of this season’s hot sub-sub-subvariety invading your space. Needless to say, I was present that night out of obligation (I worked for his label at the time (and he’s a great guy)), not because I was eager to drop $7 a drink to hear yet another so-called DJ spinning yet another set of big-beat bore.

The evening started predictably enough, with Mocean Worker interlacing house music of the not-offensive variety with his own Moog-thickened creations. Then things got weird. Some very interesting non-dance tracks poked through the haze of 808 beats, and I’m quite certain the theme from “Banana Splits” got worked in somehow. The intrusions left some people fairly nonplussed, since it is in fact rather jarring to jump directly from Dzihan and Kamien to, say, “The Dukes of Hazzard,” but for my part I left convinced this Mocean Worker guy was a genius, though perhaps a genius handcuffed by the conventions of the dance genre.

Mocean Worker is Adam Dorn, the son of veteran producer Joel Dorn who produced Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” as well as innumerable worthy albums for Atlantic and others, notably The Allman Brothers, David “Fathead” Newman, Dr. John, Charles Mingus, Bette Midler, and Lou Rawls. Adam, himself a producer and jazz bassist was raised in the studio, soaking up the music being made around him and-- it would seem-- taking it all right in.

Dorn is in a uniquely lucky position in a couple respects. He is a graduate of Boston’s Berklee College of Music, an institution that is well known for producing superhuman musicians who can play anything at the drop of a hat. Moreover, he and his father ran the now-defunct labels 32 Jazz and Label M, which were dedicated to reissuing the best lost classics that Joel Dorn produced over the years, mostly jazz- and funk-inflected albums that could be licensed for a song from the original labels. (If you ever find any releases from these labels in used bins-- do not pass them up.) This excellent and diverse catalog under family control gives Dorn the rare ability to use a vast number of samples for very little money. It also doesn’t hurt that his current label, Hyena, is also a Joel Dorn project.
Dorn’s first two albums as Mocean Worker, 1998’s Home Movies From The Brain Forest (Conscience) and 1999’s Mixed Emotional Features (Palm Pictures) have been unfairly dubbed drum-and-bass. Though dark and complex, even then his meticulously produced tracks and use of jazz samples suggested greater depths to his ambitions-- what drum-and-bass producer would build a track solely out of Ellington, Strayhorn and Basie samples, as Dorn did on Mixed Emotional Features’ “Counts, Dukes, and Strays? Whatever else you might say about them, Dorn’s first two albums pointed to a promising career as a maker of interesting and intelligent dance albums.

Which is what made his third album, 2000’s Aural and Hearty, (Palm Pictures) so puzzling. Abandoning the subtlety he had previously displayed, Dorn let his goofy side run wild on big, obvious house-inflected sounds. Although a couple tracks stood out, the album was mostly a series of unsuccessful genre experiments. My best guess at the time was that Dorn was chafing at the limitations of dance and was trying to-- as the opening bit on Aural and Hearty had it-- “Lighten Up, Francis.” A little while later, when I heard Dorn spin in that New York bar, it became clear that that Dorn not only found orthodox dance music limiting, but boring as well.

It has taken four records for Mocean Worker to figure out how to make Mocean Worker, that slap-happy goodtime asshole who drops “The Banana Splits” in the middle of an acid-house set, play nice with Mocean Worker, devotee of profoundly beautiful, achingly soulful electronic dance music.

On the new Enter the MoWo (2004, Hyena) everything finally comes together. This time Dorn moves smoothly from strength to strength, hopping genres from hot jazz to ambient with total assurance. MoWo features wall to wall funky beats, chewy basslines (sampled and otherwise), dense, aurally complete productions, and guest performances from an all-star cast including Bill Frisell, Donald Byrd, David “Fathead” Newman, and Sex Mob members Briggan Krauss and Steve Bernstein. In equal measures goofy, funky, deep, and beautiful, this is the first truly complete Mocean Worker album.

It has been a while since I have heard such a fun record. Music geeks like me can get off on tracks like “Shamma Lamma Ding Dong,” where Dorn pits a sampled flute performance from the late Rahsaan Roland Kirk against the very alive flute of Franck Gauthier of the French group Rinôçérôse. But non-jazz heads who don’t (or don’t care to) get the joke, can simply enjoy the infectious beat, laid back feel, and punchy interplay between flautists. This kind of lighthearted invention is all over the record. “Right Now” marries a Hot Club of Paris style swing trumpet lead to a percolating electric piano groove. On a few cuts, like the spooky “Only The Shadow Knows” and “Move,” Dorn updates the spy-music genre with sly samples and chewy basslines. The energetic workouts are balanced by beautiful atmospheric pieces, notably Shivaree singer Ambrosia Parsley’s beautiful vocals on the stark “I’ll Take the Woods,” and “Blackbird,” which updates a Nina Simone vocal outtake from 1986 with muted electronic accompaniments.

Not everything works perfectly. In particular, two of the least structured tracks-- “Salted Fatback” featuring a wasted and perfunctory performance by guitar legend Bill Frisell, and the chill-out room cut “Float”—go on for several minutes too long. But, at a lean twelve tracks in 49 minutes, any weak spots are past before you can get tired of them hanging around.

Dance music is a ghetto and jazz is on perpetual life support. Nevertheless, Enter The Mowo is a meaty, beaty, big and bouncy reinvention of the two, without any of the precious fustiness of the long-dead acid jazz movement or the forced cheer of Guru’s Jazzamatazz records. Nice work, Adam. But how you gonna top yourself next time?

www.moceanworker.com
www.hyenarecords.com

For a good idea of where Dorn is coming from at the moment with this Mocean Worker thing, I urge you to check out the affable, goofy [url= video to “Chick A Boom Boom Boom” see if you can figure out what’s up with the gorilla suit.

Also posted to blogcritics.org. Visit blogcritics for all your media and news punditry needs.

[wik] GeekLethal writes via email,

J, This no comments business is irritating, if necessary. Just read your review of Mocean Worker. Never heard of him. Very helpful for you to include a glimpse at his CV. And anything with nods to both Bill Frisell (who I am just beginning to explore) and Roland Kirk (who I will never presume to understand) on the same record must be worthwhile.

Saw Bill Frisell on a show one morning, I believe he was solo and with a trio. Anyway, they spoke to him at some length. The guy would ask fairlyspecific and intelligent questions, and Bill would respond to all of them in a rolling semi-whisper something like this:

"Well, it's really about....communication is what it's about...because... sometimes it's about...[inaudible]...then that's why the trio [inaudible]...but it's always difficult...to reach everybody...sometimes I just have to communicate with music because I can't with words."

Hey, no shit? Well, good for the rest of us I say, Bill.

Late last spring, Boston Globe editor Martin Baron ran a page 1 pic that purported to show American soldiers caught in the act of raping Iraqi girls. It pissed off alot of people, not the least of whom were citizens confused about why such a graphic photo was in the paper at all, let alone the front page. It was also cause for kookier elements of the state government to parade around with the pics, decrying the acts, the American military, yanqui imperialists, whitey, and The Man.

Only problem was that the pics were fake. Not only were they not pictures of a heinous act, the men in question were not soldiers. It was all staged by...ahem...models, in costumes, and posted on a porn site for kinkos who dig rape scenes.

The story of the real source of the pics came from the semi-strange World Net Daily, and after a brief round of blaming the messenger, the Globe sort of apologised for printing graphic pics but not for running fake ones, or for smearing American soldiery.

In recognition of this deed, and characteristic of what befalls such men in this part of the world, Baron is being rewarded. He's been named George Beveridge Editor of the Year by the National Press Foundation. Among the criteria for the award is imagination. He certainly demonstrated his imagination with that little photo caper: at first, by imagining he had the scoop of the year; and later for his fantastic powers of denial, suggesting a robust imagination indeed.

As all the world should by now know, I am a huge Cleveland Browns fan. Since I live in New England I typically get to view with my own peepers approximately 1.035 Browns games per year, factoring in occasional highlights on ESPN. Consequently, when I was home in Ohia for the holidays, I took the opportunity to view the Miami-Cleveland matchup slated for the day after Christmas, although neither team is, erm... any good.

Wow. What a stinker.

The game was so bad that by the end of the 3rd quarter with the score tied 7-7, the Cleveland home announcers were wishing aloud for someone to please score now, to end the misery before overtime was necessary. Fumbles, missed calls, stumbling, and penalty after penalty after stupid-ass penalty combined to make the Browns and Dolphins-- all highly trained professionals, all well paid to play their best at all times-- look as ragged and lost as a division III-C junior varsity high school football game, say the Garrettsville, OH (pop. 2200) G-Men versus the Mogadore, OH (pop 3800) Wildcats. Passes clanged to the ground uncaught. Running plays misfired. Offensive and defensive lines tangled into an unruly mess devoid of plan, strategy, or sense. The middle part of the field became muddy; you could have put a putting green inside the 20-yard lines.

I only mention all this because this stinker of a game resulted in a "what-what-WHAT?!?" play that I will forever treasure as the greatest display of bad football I have ever witnessed. It happened with about 10 minutes to go in the third quarter, and went a little something like this:

1-10-CLV 40 (10:12) 12-L.McCown pass intended for 86-D.Northcutt INTERCEPTED by 20-A.Freeman at MIA 20. 20-A.Freeman to MIA 21 for 1 yard. FUMBLES, recovered by MIA-23-P.Surtain at MIA 18. 23-P.Surtain to MIA 26 for 8 yards. Lateral to 29-S.Madison to MIA 30 for 4 yards. FUMBLES, RECOVERED by CLV-67-M.Fowler at MIA 34. 67-M.Fowler to MIA 34 for no gain (20-A.Freeman).

That's a pass thrown by Cleveland rookie QB Luke McCown (who?!?) intercepted by Miami, then fumbled, then recovered by Miami, then a crazy-ass lateral pass just before tackle, followed by another Miami fumble, recovered by Cleveland's center-- not a running back, not a receiver, for a fricking Cleveland first down.

This post brought to you by Howard, Howard, Howard, and Fine.

A California Catholic school has angered some students' parents by choosing to accept for enrollment two boys who are the adopted sons of a gay couple. The angry parents "demanded that St. John the Baptist School in Costa Mesa accept only families that pledge to abide by Catholic teachings," and vet applicants accordingly. The school's leaders point out that if that were done to the desired extent, "then children whose parents divorced, used birth control or married outside the church would also have to be banned."

The angry parents, evidently forgetting that as Catholics they don't have a whole lot of lay authority, intend to appeal their case all the way to the Pope, under the thesis that the ancient and inscrutable Vatican heirarchy operates just like an episode of "Law and Order."

These gay men, as the argument goes, are doing a horrible horrible thing in wanting to give their children a Catholic education and to raise them in the Catholic tradition. After all, what gay person would ever love God? Sez one angry parent, "the boys are being used as pawns by these men to further their agenda." Guh? While I can understand the outrage to a certain degree, since the Catholic church stands foursquare against homosexuality, I cannot quite get my head around the idea that Catholics would turn away the children of homosexuals. I thought only one sin got passed down through generations.

[wik] Edited 1/4/04 for moral and grammatical clarity.

As in a parting with the flesh. Strip away the Christian/assumption connotations and one is left with the impetus for the single most popular New Year's resolution: leaving about five pounds behind so we can fit into our good pants again. With that most Amurrican of obsessions in mind, I propose a new definition for "carnival."

Carnival- USA colloq., v(i): American for "gee, I really need to get rid of this gut."

Feh. Love your fat, I say! Revel in it! Treasure your five extra pounds of winter fat as a glutinous reward for untrammeled gluttony, your birthright as a member of the class that can afford too eat too much. You belong to the select few, that minute fraction of humanity who are at risk of dying from having too much to eat. Take a minute, look at your new girth, and fricking love it.

Then go check out the new Carnival of the Recipes for some quick and easy ways to further enhance your lardass endowment.

Did you eat your sauerkraut on New Year's Day (or your black-eyed peas, if that's your bag)? Why do foods that make you fart also bring good luck? If that's really the case, I should by rights be the luckiest man alive. (Well... now that I think about it, I am. I love you, honey.)

In regard to today's news story about the Savannah, Georgia resident who awoke from a cocaine and alcohol induced slumber in his trailer to find that his two erstwhile female companions of the previous evening had stuck cooking tongs in his ass, I have one question:

Just what the hell were they looking for up there?

Merry Christmas

...and a happy new year!

When he wasn't looking, I snapped this picture of my son John:

Hopefully, when the giant space robots take over, my quisling son will have enough pull to keep me out of the camps. Click for a closeup: