This is I believe the original version of "Os Grilos," or better known as "Crickets Sing for Anamaria," an instrumental samba from the mid-60s by Brazilian music maestro, Marcos Valle.
Long sentence--but there's a lot to be said. Especially the fact that I adore this song. So summery, so seductive, so deceptively simple. What a brilliant little composition, equal parts classical and rhythmic, European and African. And thus all Brazil.
I'd give just about anything to be able to create an artwork like this.
There are apparently multiple versions of this song by Sr. Valle and others. Truth be told, I actually think the Walter Wanderley Trio's version from 1967 was the first. You can find that here.
So far, I've tracked down Marcos Valle's first instrumental version, first English-language version, first Portuguese-language version, and at least a couple of modern interpretations by him and others. There will be more to come I'm sure. I even feel a mix coming on. After all, it is "Semana do Brasil" in the cold wasteland that is Western Pennsylvania.
It's "Brazil Week" (or if you prefer, "Semana do Brasil") in Favela Montag. I'll do anything to get over the cold and the snow this winter.
We're 10 inches above normal (and not in any way that would be fun) in snowfall so far, although I've seen worse winters here, even ones that weren't dubbed "Snowmageddon," which occurred a couple years back. Still, it's snow. It's ice. It's cold. And my sitting two hours under an air vent in a class on snow-shoeing will not make me warm to the idea of winter. Nope. Pretty much over it. Very much ready to move on. San Francisco, you've got me. Hell, St. Pete, you've got me. Not choosy at this point.
But until my slow boat to China Beach comes in view, I'm going to think samba and bossa nova and anything else that puts me in a better frame and allows me to continue to practice cognitive "disco-nance."
So here's the first part of many: Brazilian composer and performer Marcos Valle singing an updated version of one of his classics, "Samba do Verão" or "Summer Samba," also known in English by the title "So Nice," because yeah, a summer samba would be so nice right about now--and truth be told, I don't like summer much better than I do winter. Desperate times, desperate measures, however.
Funnily enough, this week there was an article on the NPR website about Marcos Valle and his musical legacy. I admit to not knowing who he was right off but, instead, knowing several of his songs, including "Samba do Verão" and "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)." But no matter, we're connected now.
Now to cheapen the moment: I seem to have a thing for Latin men with blond hair. That cool Teutonic Bauhaus and Mercedes precision of decades gone by mixed with the earthy jungle-toned riot of the New World Order.
See? I told you it would be cheap. And did I mention stupid and offensive? Oh well. Consider them bonuses.
Generally, I loathe it when people (OK, specifically, gay men) go off about how hot some guy is or how Muscle Mary of the Formidable Form is just his type. Sweetie darling, *everybody's* your type. But I do have a point in mentioning this, albeit a cryptic one. It's not about lust. It's about loss.
I can remember one of my earliest crushes, as a 17-year-old in college before I came out to myself let alone the world: This blond Ecuadorian exchange student, who was about the loveliest, most clueless (or not) man I'd seen up to that point. He is probably now back in Quito or Guayaquil with a family of five (three with his wife, two with his mistress) and is none-the-wiser about my unrequited love. And me, I'm in Pittsburgh, getting over the flu and the death of a sweet little dream I had for a brief while.
History has a way of repeating like a fish oil capsule. Let's just say I have realized this little Blond Icon-venus Truth far too late in life after making a fool of myself too many times at home and abroad. But especially in the here and now at home. Which impels me to go abroad, even if just in my mind.
Because, suddenly, this continent doesn't feel big enough for the both of us.
About the only thing worth having the flu for--an excuse to go to Smallman Street Deli in Squirrel Hill and bring home a quart of chicken matzo ball soup.
I can't remember if I've posted this before, "French Cancan (Monsieur Sainte-Nitouche)" by Malian-French-American performer, Inna Modja.
A very catchy tune, classic '60s-'70s Gamble and Huff, one that I woke up with in my head this morning.
And a funny, quirky video, which I seem to appreciate more this morning than I have in previous viewings. Could it have something to do with the fact that I'm halfway through the bizarrely fun Holy Motors? In French no less . . . (with French subtitles; not fully there yet, not even really that close, as you'll no doubt notice from my occasional French essay posted here.)
I don't think there's any great insights to be gained from this song, the movie I'm watching, or the language I'm studying. Except maybe this: Go through your day with a clever, sexy song in your head, which will serve you well as the soundtrack to the bizarre movie that plays around you. Do all this in a half-understood language, pretending that you're experiencing life in a locale more exotic than the one you're currently inhabiting.
Trust me, it makes this reality we endure much easier to tolerate.
My performance-enhancing drug of choice. Laid out in pretty much the proper order -
Café Britt, a dark roast, ground coffee my sister brought me from Costa Rica. (Do they sell it stateside? I must investigate.)
Peet's Major Dickason blend, my go-to life source. At home, I'm all about the whole beans, but at work, we make do. I have the coffeemaker and all the accoutrements, but I've drawn the line at bringing in my grinder and French press.
Tim Horton's ground, that along with Van Houtte's"mélange maison," being sentimental favorites from Canadian vacations and fascinations. Truth be told, the coffee sold in Tim Horton's shops tastes better than the canned stuff sold and brought home. Must be that clearly Canadian water.
Yes, we all have our habits, our drugs, our addictions . . . but I don't hide mine from anyone. I don't secretly use them to get an unfair advantage over others, nor do I think they give me such an advantage. I don't threaten anyone who gets in between me, my banned substance use, and victory.
Well, OK, that's a lie. I most definitely would threaten someone who got in between me and my coffee monkey. If caffeine were a banned substance, I'd be scoring it in urban parks, manufacturing my own in rural farmhouses, and mainlining it into my thigh.
So my point is that I like coffee. A lot. Oddly, I don't really care if Lance Armstrong and his ilk shove Cocoa Puffs and gunpowder up their bums for a boost or for fun. On the same morning that I saw highlights of his "Come to Oprah" moment, I also saw advertisements for AndroGel, a topical medication designed to help with "low T" - which is ad-speak for "low testosterone," which is medical-speak for moodiness, weight gain, lack of energy, and fewer erections.
Which is reality-speak for middle age.
So there's a lot of doping going on, a lot of performance-enhancing happening at all levels. Coffee seems the least of my worries. I mean, it's not like 4 cups a day (which, admittedly, I'd like to get down to 2 cups a day) is likely to cause "signs and symptoms of puberty in a child, changes in body hair or increased acne in a woman; blood clots in your legs; possible increased risk of prostate cancer; possible lower sperm count; swelling of your ankles, feet, or body, with or without heart failure; enlarged or painful breasts; problems breathing while you sleep (sleep apnea)," etc.
Sure I'd like to weigh less and have a few more erections (and someone to share them with on a regular basis). But the risk of losing my body hair and heart failure hardly seem worth it.
I guess I think the same about Mister Livestrong himself. Winning the Tour de France seven times and having minimal body fat would be way cool. Threatening the lives and livelihoods of others so you can be on top and being humiliated and exposed as a liar, a cheat, and a thug hardly seems worth it.
All in all, I'd rather be an enhanced human being than an enhanced performer at work, in sports, or between the sheets. I'm not sure coffee is the best way to reach that goal, but I'm unlikely to have to go on national TV to confess to Oprah about it.
And that, my friends, is enough to give me some extra impetus for getting it up in the morning.
At least someone is trying to make the best of a bad winter situation. It certainly isn't moi, but this was nice to see on my way into work on a snowing Wednesday morning in Pittsburgh.
But, wait, what's that at the bottom of the snow-scripting? Arms raised in defiance? Upraised middle fingers? Exposed, pierced nipples?
Who knows? But it's closer to my take on a winter wonderland than a smiley face and some hair fringe.
Still, an A for effort. Thanks, Mystery Artist, for trying to make me feel better. Nevertheless, I still want to get the frozen hell out of here as soon as possible.
Is this any way to deliver the weather? In France, peut-être, mes amis, peut-être . . .
My favorite little Lolita of the Longitudes and Latitudes is at it again - TV5Monde presenter, Karine Arsene, giving the weather in a sparkly, black cocktail dress, of which this photo gives poor reflection.
No matter where you are on the planet, when Karine's temp-telling and cloud-busting, it's always 45 C in the shade with a 100% chance of va-va-va-voom.
Photographer: Roger Higgins, 1959. From the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. Digital ID cph.3c19337.
* * *
Later that same day . . .
I was watching some cultural programming on TV5Monde this evening (really good documentaries and movies in the evening, often subtitled in English) and patting myself on le dos for being able to understand more French than I would have imagined possible a few years ago.
When all of a sudden I hear them talking about American author Truman Capote. Except that they didn't pronounce it Ca-po-te, three syllables, like we do in American English. No, instead, they kept referring to him as Truman Ca-pote, two syllables. Like "fruit compote."
The gods help me, but I have had the theme to '80s powerhouse soap Knots Landing stuck in my head for a couple of weeks now. California dreamin' or such a fugly winter's day? Mayhaps, y'all, mayhaps. The tune has been rather incessant, especially for a show that I haven't had a flashback to for a few years at least.
On Friday, oddly enough, the version featured in the opening credits above--the one with the punchy horns at the beginning--started to intermingle in my mind with "Ballroom Blitz," a power pop tune by '70s UK glam act, The Sweet.
I have no idea why, really. There's nothing about the holiday season that seems particularly sweet this year.
But come to think of it, there's plenty that seems particularly Sweet. The season does put me on edge enough that I could fantasize about colliding the two pop cultures together into one fireball of holiday doom. Imagine now: A ballroom blitz featuring the cast of Knots Landing, losing it feral-style in some sort of glamtastic, Clockwork Orange,Bob-Carol-Ted-and-Alice barbecue-cum-orgy-cum-meltdown. All in the blandly beautiful, '70s swingers cul-de-sac and split-level underworld of Caligula's (or Califigula?) worst erotic, tambourine-and-Hell's-Angels Orange County afternoon-cocktails-by-the-poolmare.
Wow. And sigh
Perchance I do need an escape. A rescue. A refuge. Or even just a vacation.
My word of the week: "Synapstasy" - an ecstasy of synapses firing and misfiring in a professional meeting. Lots of ideas, dreams, desires, and plans get discussed and launched. But nothing much ever comes of it. Mainly because the next synapstasy overwhelms the previous one.
So pretty much Monday through Friday for me. How about you?
Soyez gentil, y'all. This is only my second attempt ever to write an essay en français. This one's about Fredericksburg, Texas, a favorite place of mine.
* * *
Un lieu dans la campagne que j’aime est la petite ville de
Fredericksburg, dans l’état de Texas. Pendant j’habitais au Texas, je visitais
souvent cette belle ville et cette région historique.
La ville n’est pas ancienne à coté des villes et des lieus de
l’Europe : Des immigrés de l’Allemagne ont établis la ville pendant le
moyen de la XIX siècle, bien que la région s’ait eu installée déjà par des gens
indiens.
Malheureusement, aujourd’hui il n’existe presque personne de ces gens originaux,
à part des noms de lieu (que sont rares) et des reliques que on peut trouver
parfois dans la campagne. Cependant, il existe encore beaucoup de
caractéristiques allemandes dans la ville. Par exemple, il y a des restaurants
allemands qui servent la nourriture traditionnelle du pays. Il y a beaucoup de
noms de lieu qu’on écrit en l’allemand (par exemple, « Hauptstrasse »
et le « Vereins Kirche »). Il y a encore des coutumes allemandes qui
sont pratiquées à Fredericksburg, inclus des fêtes, la fabrication de la bière,
et de l’architecture de la ville.
Mais, cependant, Fredericksburg est une ville texane, avec une culture
« cowboy » et « western. » Les rues de la ville sont très
larges – parfait pour tourner une charrette et des chevaux. L’architecture
inclut des motifs traditionnels de l’ouest des États Unis, par exemple, la roue
de la charrette, le fer à cheval, les clôtures à bois, et les murs à calcaire.
C’est la campagne du cheval, du cowboy, du ranch, et du élevage de bétail. Il y
a une tradition riche de la musique « country » aussi : La région
est très célèbre pour la proche village de Luckenbach et sa mode de musique,
« outlaw country. » Des musiciens célèbres ont habitées dans la
région, inclus Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jessie Coulter, et plus.
Mais il y a plus de la musique et de la nourriture à Fredericksburg; il
y a aussi beaucoup de belle campagne. Fredericksburg est située dans la région
appelée le « Texas Hill Country. » Par conséquence, il y a beaucoup
de collines et de vues panoramiques. Il y a beaucoup d'arbres, comme le chêne,
le pecan, et le peuplier qui fournissent beaucoup d’ombre
quand il fait chaud et le soleil brille. Malgré le chaud, il ne fait pas trop humide.
Il y a beaucoup de parcs et il n’y a trop de voiture sur les chemins. La région
est presque parfaite à faire de la randonnée et à faire du velo.
Mais faites attention! Voici des animaux dangereux! J’ai vu des serpents
proche des rivières et j’ai vu des tarantules et des scorpions sur la terre. Il
y a des coyotes dans les champs. J’ai vu une fois un puma au parc
« Enchanted Rock », mais, par bonheur, il ne m’a pas vu. Même le
tatou timide et mignon est dangereux – il porte les bactéries que font la lèpre.
File under "gifts from Twitter": Israeli artist Riff Cohen performing "À Paris." This is a lovely, sexy video the current host for the @MoroccoCuration account sent me, after I shared with him a favorite of mine, "Ya Salam" by Moroccan performer, Ahmed Soultan.
The Riff Cohen video reminds me of my trip to Paris this past summer. It doesn't hurt or help that I spent the morning going through photos of that trip in an effort to cobble enough together for some Christmas gifts.
Nevertheless, there are far more naked, writhing men of color in these videos than I managed to encounter en France or anywhere else in recent memory.
I really must remember to come back sluttier and less shy in my next life.
I should be playing The Waitresses' "Christmas Wrapping"--one of the best modern holiday songs, I would argue. But I can't find a decent video for it, and besides, knowing what boys like is all I want for Christmas.
I can't remember who first mentioned chocolate beetroot cake to me. It was definitely someone on Twitter from South Africa, but as to who exactly, I won't reveal, in part because I can't remember. Are beets good for short-term memory? Let's hope so.
Anyway, I finally gave it a go, baking one tonight--after first roasting the beets nearly a week ago and after having roasted another batch a month or so ago but, after repeated culinary delays, eventually tossing them. I figured I didn't want both beetroot cake and salmonella.
The cake turned out pretty good, if I do say so. Chocolately and rich bit not cloying or sickening. I thought it could have been a little sweeter (I used honey and maple syrup, rather than sugar) and moister (at 40 minutes, it didn't seem done enough; at 45, mmmm, maybe a little too done?). Thus I'm going to make a glaze tomorrow, which will hopefully resolve both issues or at least hide both failings.
Truth be told, I'm not a great baker. I can generally manage cakes, but I am ashamed to admit I've never really attempted a pie, other than a Québécoistarte au sucre, which after two goes, I still can't get right. The filling never sticks--which is amazingly difficult not to do with a mixture of brown sugar and butter--and I'm too skittish to make my own crust. Resolution for a new year: Bake a damn pie already.
And maybe make more cakes. The good thing about a beetroot cake is that it gives the illusion of healthiness. I'll take what I can get at this point, but all in all, this wasn't as deadly as it might have been. Some butter, yes, but the aforementioned honey and maple syrup, a little olive oil, and no dairy. So I'll have to go screw it up with some cream cheese, Karo syrup, or a stick of butter. That's the solution! Beetroot Kiev! The perfect Russian-Ukrainian dessert.
* * *
Ah yes, the South African obsession continues, having moved on from music and history to foodways. I roasted a fairly decent chicken over Thanksgiving, stuffed with sage and onion, coated in butter and stone-ground mustard, taking the recipe from Lazy Days (or as my friend Cali put it, Boozhy Days), a cookbook by South African "lifestyles" author Phillippa Cheifitz, with which my sister gifted me after her last SA sojourn. Lazy, boozhy, lovely, snooty--whatever, it's a gorgeous book featuring some delicious food, even if there's not a chance in Good Hope I'll find a supply of snoek at Wholey's fish market in the Strip District anytime soon.
I'm even toying with the idea of trying to make koeksisters, a South African pastry that resembles twists or braids, which sounds inordinately complicated to prepare and taxing even to my level of cultural stalking.
So maybe, instead, focus on pie for the new year. Something all-American, like apple. Or cherry. Or beetroot pecan.
