Star Wars: The Musical

If you’re a Gen-Xer, I can bet you love Star Wars. It was our Harry Potter–our morality tale of good versus evil, our way of relating with kids on the playground and finding common ground in unfamiliar situations like sleepovers and summer camp. Empire Strikes Back was probably the first movie I ever remember seeing. My dad took me; I was four years old. By the time Return of the Jedi came out in 1983, I was bona fide fan. My brother, cousins, and I saw that movie at least three times in the theater. We had the action figures, the Millenium Falcon, the Ewok village, the comic books, the bed sheets, the posters, the awesome t-shirts with the iron-on decals, and of course, the soundtrack. Last night, for the first five minutes of Star Wars in Concert at Conseco Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, I was transported back to that thrilling time of Star Wars wonder and mania.

The “Star Wars Main Theme,” as performed by the Royal Symphony Orchestra can still invoke magic and emotion, albeit slightly bittersweet when mixed with childhood memories. It was lovely to see Gen-X parents with their young kids last night, both generations enjoying the drama of John Williams’ beloved score. Without John Williams, George Lucas would probably be some guy who directed a decent movie. The marriage of music and film in Star Wars is sublime and still powerful–to hear it performed live is a rare treat.

Anthony Daniels (C-3PO) narrates

Anthony Daniels, the voice of C-3PO, narrated the two-hour event, which features a large screen behind the orchestra where scenes from all six films are projected in tandem with the music. Daniels’ background in live theater is evident. He’s corny but believable. The man obviously loves being a part of this event. Though it did run long, and the pieces featuring the prequels are considerably more boring, Star Wars in Concert ended on a high note—a reprise of Dark Vadar’s Imperial March. In the words of George W. Bush, it’s quite obvious Lord Vadar “hates freedom”….just listen to the music.

CGI Friday’s

Roland Emmerich’s disaster flick 2012 is a traumatic experience. The earth surface cracks; hot lava explodes into the air; merciless tidal waves flood entire cities; the North and South Poles reverse; the earth’s crust shifts as the core bubbles. It’s fire and brimstone, people! Now, as I lounge in front of the fireplace in the quiet, rural town of Staunton, Virginia, the wall clock ticking peacefully in the background, I can imagine the waters of the Atlantic ocean hurtling over the Blue Ridge mountains in the distance into our fair valley washing me away in an instant. According to the Mayans, this exact scenario will occur in two years. Nowhere is safe. Not Virginia. Not even Wisconsin. There’s nothing we can do but repent and meet our maker. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m storing up my lethal dose of morphine now.

How is all this death and destruction depicted on the silver screen? CGI, of course. I may be old-fashioned, but, to me, computer generated images are cartoon-like and unrealistic. Watching a video game that you can’t control really isn’t that fun. This movie isn’t a lot of fun either, even with addition of real live actors like John Cusack and Woody Harrelson. The fantastic, intricate models of vintage George Lucas made films more realistic–not to mention better for the economy. Think about all the sets and costumes that had to be manufactured! 2012 could have been a public works project for the recession. At least it would have had more impact that way.

I think people are getting tired of CGI, and low-budget, box-office surprises like Paranormal Activity are a testament to that. There are a few scenes at the end of 2012 that are shot tight and close in digital video with a handheld camera, and these are the most frightening and compelling. Computer images are merely crude simulations of reality. Reality is much, much scarier.

Let ‘er rip!

There are a couple of different types of music I generally cannot stand: techno, contemporary Rn’B, but nothing comes close to my distaste for smooth jazz–instrumental music with all the interesting edges buffed out till you have a kind of cloying white noise perfect for the dentist’s office. So imagine my surprise when I ended up at a Rippingtons’ concert yesterday at Indy’s Music Mill. Granted, the tickets were free, and I had been told that these legendary kings of smooth jazz were actually a jazz fusion band. However, any element of jazz improvisation was ripped from the Rippingtons long ago, and replaced by tightly orchestrated melodies seemingly written for corporate videos.

The Rippingtons are the aural equivalent of a Perfect Strangers episode. You could imagine their music in some humorous montage of Larry and Balki strolling in Central Park. Unchallenging and mushy, there’s something almost Soviet or propagandistic about The Rippingtons’ sound–music created by big brother to reassure the populace that their every move isn’t being controlled. Does that sound paranoid and libertarian? But really. How can people possibly enjoy it? I just don’t understand. And people were REALLY enjoying it last night…dancing in the aisles! Giving standing ovations! Take a listen. I know the following video is from the 90s’, but, believe me, they sound just as lame today.

It’s so soulless! All their songs are named after postcard pictures of beautiful places: Los Cabos, Kilimanjaro, Morocco, A Night in Brazil, Weekend in Monaco, Tourist in Paradise. It’s Conde Nast Traveler set to music. I think it would be fun to hear the Rippingtons’ take on Southeast DC or Detroit. Would they still kick up the reverb on the acoustic guitar or give it a grittier sound?

Sax player, Jeff Kashiwa, plays tenor and soprano sax in the Kenny G/Dave Koz style. But last night, he played mostly the EWI (electric wind instrument), probably one of the most annoying instruments known to man. The painful screeching of the EWI was exacerbated by the fact that sound man had no clue how to mix this band, favoring instead a hard rock sound–all drums and bass at excruciating decibel levels. I put bar napkins in my ears! At a Rippington’s show!

About an hour in, all my companions were in agreement that we should leave. One of them, a musician and jazz fan, said of the Rippingtons’ sound, “It’s not free at all.” He’s right. It’s contrived and artificial–evocative of safely-contained emotions. But, to me, the experience is far from pleasant.

Brian Williams is funny. Who knew?

I’ve got a crush….on Brian Williams? How is this possible you ask? I heard the incredibly witty and hilarious anchorman on NPR’s Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me! on Sunday, where he quipped on Balloon Boy, Fox News, Bill Clinton, and, finally, his unfortunately named music blog, BriTunes on MSNBC. Up until now, I thought Brian Williams was all hairstyle and charm school–a bit stiff perhaps, but android-perfect and groomed for TV from a young age. I was wrong. Dead wrong. This guy is hilarious. Please check out this link from this weekend’s show and become a believer in Brian.

A Brief History of Ska

Yesterday, the popular online magazine Pop Matters published my ska thesis, The Ska Will Go On. For this article on the rise and fall of ska music, I interviewed several of the scene’s movers and shakers including musicians, record producers, and DJs. The piece is already spurring controversy in certain ska circles because it fails to mention some bands and gives too much space to others. But, all comments have generally been positive. It’s always hard to write a comprehensive history of a cultural movement, because, ultimately, cultural histories are subjective. Just look at the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. My video about the Three Floors of Ska event held at the Knitting Factory in NYC is posted here and on the Pop Matters site.

Indianapolis Indeed!

It’s that time again. Oh, wait. Not really. The Indy Jazz Fest, usually held in July, has moved to September.  In fact, we’re in the thick of jazz mayhem right now. And it’s divine…

The Indy Jazz Fest launched last Saturday night with a concert at Clowes Hall by famed saxophonist, Joshua Redman. Last night, I attended a record release concert featuring Mark Buselli’s Big Band at the Jazz Kitchen. And I was blown away. This is a world-class big band, smack dab in the middle of the heartland. Buselli, who also joins in on flugelhorn and trumpet, writes gorgeous arrangements of standards, contemporary jazz compositions, and orginal material. Last night, he had a 17-piece band–14 horns in all. The sound is powerful, like a wave of sparkling brass washing over you and the smile plastered on your face. Another new discovery last night was the vocalist Kelleen Strutz who joined the band for two numbers each set.  Her rendition of Angel Eyes was stunning thanks to her mix of va-va-voom 40s’ sex kitten style and dynamic vocal chops. I particularly enjoyed the moments where vocals and brass sang duet on the same harmonic line. Beautiful!

Mark Buselli

My two favorite moments, however, were the band’s renditions of two Charles Mingus tunes, Fables of Faubus and Pussy Cat Dues. The exquisite joy of hearing hard bop played big and loud by a tight orchestra–with solos by Indy’s best sax player (and up there as one of the best playing today) Rob Dixon. Was I moved? Let’s just say, there were goosebumps. And then my goosebumps had goosebumps. Afterwards, I thought this is just what I want to hear when I walk through the gates of heaven–weird, wonderful Mingus like I’ve never heard him–even if it’s just on my celestial iPod.

This weekend marks the culmination of Indy Jazz Fest–two days of live music downtown at White River State Park. On saturday (the day I wouldn’t miss) check out Soullive, Pancho Sanchez, and Branford Marsalis.  Saturday, the headliner is Marcus Miller. I saw him back in 2005 in St. Petersburg. High-energy funk.

I’ll be there both days volunteering. Let’s pray for sun!

SkaCast!

Wanna learn more about the ska scene in Russia? But of course! The great Gabe Paredes interviewed me on his latest episode of Pressure Drop Soundcast.  I discuss my band, St. Petersburg Ska-Jazz Review, playing music in Russia, and my experience touring Europe. The interview begins about 30 minutes in. Check it out!

The movement of Shen Wei

Here’s a recent piece I wrote about acclaimed choreographer, painter, photographer, and artistic director Shen Wei published in Syracuse magazine. Shen Wei, originally from China’s Hunan province, is most famous for choreographing the opening ceremony of the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing.

Below is an excerpt from Shen Wei’s piece, Connect Transfer, which was the inspiration for the opening ceremony of the Olympics. As dancers move accross the stage, they are painting the floor with their bodies.

Dispatches from the casket capital of the United States

Relentless low-pitched noise rumbles throughout the 300,000 square foot factory, ricocheting off the concrete floors and corrugated metal walls. The sounds of electronic beeps and shrill bells are punctuated by intermittent drilling—similar to what you hear in the pits at the Indy 500. My 62-year-old mother and I survey the assembly line of finished metal caskets as second-shift workers add finishing touches that resemble pin striping to the shiny façades. A hydrolic lift loads the coffins onto awaiting trucks—famous white and green trailers with the friendly warning on the back: “Drive Safe. Heaven Can Wait.” A model known as The Primrose model sails by on the line. “Our bestseller,” says Mark Lanning proudly, vice president of investor relations at Batesville Casket Factory in rural Batesville, Indiana—casket capital of the United States. Retailing at about $3,000, The Primrose gleams bright white beneath fluorescent lights. Featuring enamel plates decorated with delicate pink roses fixed to the corners and more roses machine-stitched on the white padded interior, The Primrose makes a perfect resting place for a beloved grandmother or schoolteacher.

Workers prepare caskets for paint

All three of us wear large plastic safety glasses, which I keep pushing up on my head (a blatant disregard for safety). Lanning informs us that the factory cranks out a fresh casket every 58 seconds.

“It’s kinda similar to auto production,” says Lanning, watching the men and women, in t-shirts and jeans, dust off the finished caskets with a towel. “Like producing a mini version of a car with no motor or wheels.”

Final inspection

Dressed like a state assemblyman in a grey slacks, white shirt and a tie, every grey hair in place, Lanning is serious about his product. He has worked at Batesville Casket Company for 20 years, and he discusses the features of the Batesville casket with the kind of single-mindedness found in a successful door-to-door salesman. One of those features is the patented Memory-Safe Drawer, a little drawer inside the coffin where you can store personal affects like photos or letters, “instead of just throwing them in the casket.” There is no trace of irony to this man. Raking in $678 million last year, Batesville Casket Company is serious business.

Sandwiched between Indianapolis and Cincinnati in Southeastern Indiana, Batesville has a population of roughly 6,000; slightly less than half of these folks work at the casket company, an industry that has supported this green, hilly town for the last century. Settled by Roman Catholic German immigrants, Batesville residents are proud of their heritage. Local eateries serve German specialties like wiener schnitzel and bratwurst and white stone statues of Mary stand in modest, well-manicured yards. Batesville’s most famous family, The Hillenbrands, are the Rockefellers of Batesville, and streets and public buildings are named in their honor. John Hillenbrand, a German immigrant, first began making hardwood caskets in 1861. His son, John A. Hillenbrand, a true captain of industry, purchased the failing Batesville coffin company1906, renamed it Batesville Casket Company, and built a thriving business. The Hillenbrands ran the company for four generations until August “Gus” Hillenbrand stepped down in 2006. Hillenbrand, Inc. branched out into hospital bed production in 1927 under a division called Hill-Rom, and today you’ll find Hill-Rom beds in nearly every hospital in America. Whether caskets or hospital beds, you know you got problems if you require a Hillenbrand product.

Batesville's first family: The Hillenbrands

With roughly 45 percent of the market share nationwide, Batesville Casket Company is the Walmart of death care. Batesville Casket Company operates three other factories: two in Tennessee and one in Chihuahua, Mexico, but the headquarters in Batesville, Indiana, that produces metal caskets, remains the largest.  More popular than wood due to their lower price, Metal caskets make up about 60% of the caskets sold in the United States.

Mom asks Lanning if employees get a free coffin as part of their benefits package. He informs us for the second time today that Batesville Casket Company does not sell directly from the factory. For the first time today I ask why. “You don’t just go buy your product and have your own funeral,” he says. “The only person that can conduct a funeral and handle a body is a licensed funeral director.” Batesville only sells its products through licensed funeral homes.

There’s something appealing about the mechanical orderliness and sheer productivity of a factory (in the time it takes for me to take a shower, the workers at Batesville Casket Company have produced fifteen caskets!). I’ve admired factories ever since childhood when I watched Mr. Rogers and his field trips to the suitcase factory and printing plant—the smooth systems of conveyor belts hypnotized my young eyes, and each finished, quality-tested product served as a sturdy example of human achievement. Mom admits sadly that she never visited her father at the U.S. Steel mills in Gary, Indiana where he worked his whole life. My grandfather, son of Polish immigrants, was working at the mill the day I was born, and decided to sneak off for a catnap in the utility closet (he was already in his mid-sixties at this time).  My grandfather once told me how his supervisor went searching for him when my grandmother called the plant to tell him I had been born. His supervisor found him asleep on the job, kicked him in the legs, and told him he was in big trouble. But grandpa didn’t care when he heard the news of my safe, healthy birth.

After the casket factory, we head to a famed Batesville establishment, The Sherman House, a German restaurant and Inn established in 1852. At 5 p.m. on a Thursday, the empty streets of downtown Batesville give the city a eerie feel—like a dusty set from Stephen King’s Children of the Corn; the old-fashioned movie theater and quaint diner advertising homemade pies are closed. You can almost see the tumbleweeds rolling by. The Sherman House, huge and sprawling, with large banquet halls for weddings and conferences, is also bereft of clientele. With it’s exposed wood beams and stained glass, the interior was designed to look like a rustic German cottage, at least according to the designer charged with the task of reproducing German kitsch in 1975. It needs an update. Countless wooden chairs with brown leather cushions are scattered around heavy wooden tables; the pink and grey paisley carpet is worn from years of company dinners on the Batesville Casket tab. Our attentive, middle-aged waitress, brings us complementary fried biscuits with apple butter, an Indiana favorite. I’m disappointed to discover there’s only one German beer on the menu—Warsteiner, the classic wheat beer available pretty much everywhere. I order one and mom gets hot tea as usual.

The Sherman House, restaurant and inn

Our meal, entitled “German Fare,” is a little sampling of everything: wiener schnitzel, sausage, and sauerbraten. Served lukewarm, each item is very brown and mushy, and indistinguishable from the other. “No offense to Batesville,” mom says. “But this is not a vacation, it’s more like a sentencing. Let’s hit the road.”

As we head home on 74 West to Indianapolis, I switch on a light rock station.  My mom, who always insists on driving, also insists that I check her blind spots before she changes lanes, meaning that if we crash into another car, it’s probably my fault. “Straight From the Heart” by Bryan Adams comes on the radio and I sing along.

“Who’s this?” mom asks.

Despite having been married to my father who sang in a rock band for ten years and raising two music-obsessed kids, my mom never ever knows who’s singing.  She loves to tell the story about how she rode in a New York City elevator once with the Rolling Stones in 1965, right after the release of “Satisfaction,” and had no idea who they were. My 18-year-old mom and her seven girl friends, who called themselves The Great Eight were visiting NYC for the first time, According to mom, Mick Jagger told them that they were the Rolling Stones. My mother answered, “We’re the Great Eight.” The story always makes me cringe because somehow I know that’s exactly what my mother, born and raised in Gary, Indiana, daughter of a U.S. Steel worker and one of seven children, said to Mick. She really didn’t give a shit who he was and she’s never been afraid of anyone.

I decide to give mom some more clues as to the author of “Straight from the Heart.” “You know this one, mom. You took me to see him in concert in fourth grade. He’s Canadian,” I offer

She thinks long and hard. “Hmmm…is it quick hand, I mean, fast hand?”

I roll my eyes. “You mean slow hand, and this is not Eric Clapton. It’s Bryan Adams,” I say.

“He’s Canadian?” she adds.

Mom and I start laughing hysterically.  I can barely breathe.  As we pull into our garage in Carmel, Indiana, we continue to giggle with the motor running and the garage door shut behind us.

“Hey mom,” I say.  “Let’s turn off the car.”

“Good idea,” she says, tears from laughter pouring out of her eyes. “Suicide. How’s that for an ending to our day at the casket factory.”

Get your skank on!

Ska music, born in Jamaica, raised in England, and transplanted to America, has long been the soundtrack to an active subculture. Syracuse ska concert promoters, SkaDanny and Brendan McCarey, discuss ska fashion. From British mods in the 60s to two-tone ska kids today, ska style is constantly evolving.

This is a video I recently made for my Fashion Communications class. I’m currently working on a thesis article about ska music in America today.  Watch out for more ska posts.