Loran's Dance and the Beastie Boys

You know that feeling when you really love a song, or an album, and it's so essential to your daily routine that it's like a soundtrack. One of those albums for me is Paul's Boutique by the Beastie Boys. I won't bore you, or myself, with the nostalgic details of my youth. I'd rather talk about the opening and closing of the album. The dark organ. The short nods of bass and guitar. The high hat.

I love that sound! And I sheepishly admit that for the longest time, until fairly recently, I assumed those instruments were played for the recording of that album. You can imagine my disappointment at learning that it was lifted from Idris Muhammad's Loran's Dance. I felt duped. I felt like I was a sucker for believing in something that wasn't real. Was I somehow complicit in a creative crime? Had they stolen the Mona Lisa's smile and placed it with sleight of hand on their own masterpiece?

At the end of the day, I reconciled myself to a couple of things that seem real to me. One is that I would never in a thousand years come across Loran's Dance without the Beastie Boys. They and their collaborators opened a door for me that I didn't even know existed. Another thought that seems real enough is that musicians are always grabbing sounds from one another as a part of creativity. They grab it and adapt it.

The part that doesn't sit well with me still is the financial component. I assume that Idris  didn't receive any compensation. That is wrong. But I look at my own music buying and listening habits over the years and my frugal choice to buy used LPs and CDs that weren't compensating musicians for their work. To what degree am I any less guilty for stealing? Not to mention the opaque world of musicians being compensated for plays on streaming services. All too often, musicians get the short end of the stick.

I still love Paul's Boutique but now I do so with my eyes and ears opened more widely.

This playlist of mostly jazz artists sampled by rap artists is pulled together with the help of the amazing WhoSampled. 

Drops of Water

For the first time in several years, I needed to write a short piece of fiction. This came together during the past few months. - jj

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Bits and pieces of Lego toys are on the floor in front of the two young boys and their dad. Instruction booklets are missing; they rely on their imaginations to guide them in constructing flying machines with cockeyed wings and short buildings with satellite dishes. In the middle of building a rocket-sled, the younger boy says, “Daddy, I miss Goldie. I want to see Goldie.”

“That’s impossible because she’s, you know, dead and everything,” says the older boy. The younger boy looks down and then to Dad.

“You can see Goldie,” Daddy says, a smile spreads across his face. “Do you remember where you can look to see her?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay, I can remind you. Like all plants and animals, Goldie was made with lots of water. All of that water helped her chase a ball, and bark and see. After she died, the water disappeared from her body, like it disappears from the puddles, evaporating to form clouds.

“The clouds will grow big and strong as the hot sun evaporates even more water. Before long the clouds will be enormous towers with electricity flashing and thunder rumbling, and the water will fall back to earth, like it is today, flow into the river and on into the lake.”

The younger boy considers this and chimes in. “Ducks are on the lake. Goldie loved ducks, so I know she likes that,” his spins a propeller. He asks for more. “What about us? I wonder if it will be the same for us.”

“It will be the same and different. Maybe we will follow the path of clouds, rain and lakes but we may find ourselves far away in the jungles of South America. We will be dropped there by clouds, drawn into the roots of a tree where we will flower. A fruit will come out of the flower and a monkey will eat us.”

The boy likes this immensely. He stands like a monkey and hops on to the couch.

“We will swing from vine to tree, chasing the other monkeys,” Daddy says.

The boy jumps on his big brother’s back.

“We’ll think monkey thoughts and play monkey games,” Daddy continues

The older brother spins and pins the smaller to the floor. “We play until a monkey predator eats us,” he says and pretends to bite the belly of the smaller boy.

“No-o-oh!” says the little one.

Dad pauses and continues. “Well if that’s the case, monkey will pass, but we will not. Water persists.  

“What about the predator?” the older boy asks.

“Oh, right. The predator’s hunger will take him on the prowl eating what she wants until the years devour her. Again we will evaporate and rise through the leaves, catching a breeze, taking us to the wind. What choice will we have? Little drops of water that can’t make up their mind as to where they go.”

“I don’t know where I want to go,” the younger boy says.

“You’re only 4, you aren’t supposed to know anything,” says the big brother.

“It’s okay not to know, sometimes I forget where I am and where I am going to. The wind will carry us out over the ocean and we will see the immensity of water, the infinite number of water drops filling the ocean, from the brontosaurus and the bumble bee, the cat and the bird, the turtle and fish. All the people from across the planet who fought wars for land, joined together where no one has any land.

“The ocean mixing and blending everything, with tides and waves, a taffy machine powered by the pull of the moon and the push of the wind  People will stand on the shore mesmerized by the crashing surf, and the mysterious truth about their connection and separation from all.”

The younger boy interrupts. “I like the feeling of going up and down, up and down that you get from playing in the waves all day. And then I feel it when I sit on the beach. Up and down even while I’m on the sand.”

“It’s all there at the shore giving you the feeling of rising and falling. The songbirds who eat the seeds from the grass and drink from the puddles, taking what they need and letting go of what they do not. The water rises up the palm tree to the coconuts that eventually fall to the beach. Filled with water, coconuts play at the shore rolling up and down the beach in the rhythm of the waves that are inhabited by those we know, those we do not know, and the many we never knew. Those who never left a footprint, rock drawing or a trash pile signature. The anonymous making the ocean all that it is.”

“When will Mommy be home?” the younger boy asks.

The older boy answers abruptly, “When she gets here.”

“Before lunchtime,” the dad says calmly.

The younger boy and dad continue.

“Will Mommy be with us too, in the ocean?”

“What is the answer?”

“I know, but I want you to say it.”

“Hmm. Will you whisper the answer in my ear?”

“Yes.”

Monger 1.1 Jazz Without Borders

All along I wanted Monger No. 1 to have an international flavor. Something like a U.N. Jazz Ensemble. The first edition didn't come close and it isn't there yet. But it's moving in the right direction.

My desire to go global is not dissatisfaction with the parochial but a curiosity about the distant. Astronomers search for distant galaxies. The NSA likes to poke through the phone calls of, well, everybody. I search for jazz that I like and put ones that are a good fit in the Monger 1 playlist. Everyone needs a hobby.

These additions come from Sweden, South Africa, France and Denmark. Finding them is almost easy. It does take time. Clues float through the river of Twitter. Carsten Lindholm appeared in the flow and led me into his music and other Scandinavian artists. Treasures can be found in the vast terrain of Spotify. That is where I found Henri Texier, Abdullah Ibrahim, Ulf Wakenius and others. The international jazz day website sponsored by the U.N. pointed me toward artists that were new to me. In the future, maybe the search will come to me.

Wikileaks may release secret government communiques with scintillating details about the jazz preferences of Angela Merkel. U.N. Peacekeepers may be joined by the jazz ensemble from the U.N., the Jazzkeepers, wearing their light blue berets, deployed to the strife-ridden hot spots around the world, bringing people together through music. Broadcast reporters would be at the scene, providing commentary about the situation on the ground as the rhythm section vamped.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, they will be called children of God.

Blessed are the jazz keepers, they will make music for all.