Soul Rebel Soundtrack

It’s mid 2012, and there’s roots reggae playing tonight, as happens every Saturday night, in the Hotel Santa Fe Bar & Grill. But this isn’t a dislocated place in New Mexico, nor is it throwback Jamaica — I’m beachside on the island of Guam, seven hours west of Honolulu / three hours east of Manila. High tide or low tide.

Nearly 40 years have passed since Bob Marley & the Wailers first popularized reggae worldwide, 30 years have passed since Bob moved on to that big sunsplash in the sky, and you can still hear Jamaican-based ska, rock steady, reggae and dub emanating from sound systems and stages in every corner of the globe.

A few years back, while living in rural Akita-ken, in northwest Japan, I used to hang out in Bliss, a street-corner drinking spot in the  picturesque coastal city of Honjo. What I recall most about Bliss are three things: the long blonde dreadlocks of the Japanese surfer-dude bar master, the complete Marley oeuvre on display in CD form, and — if I remember correctly through the haze of time — an Olympic-size rasta flag (with a cannabis leaf) unfurled in the shop’s front window. To top it off, the music was invariably a soul rebel soundtrack.

We’ve all heard reggae, even those among us who still don’t quite get it. Wherever you stand though, you have to be amazed by the quantity and quality of music that has originated in Jamaica. When I visited in the late 70s, the 11,000 sq kilometer island was home to a mere 2,000,000 people (in contrast to tiny Singapore’s 2.2 million at the same time). But what a dynamic musical culture!

While I might have been oblivious to the power of reggae in 1979 (sure, I’d seen Peter Tosh in concert, but that was only because he played as an opener for the Stones), what stands out in retrospect is that no matter where I was in the west of the island — strolling through the street market in Negril, catching sunset at Rick’s Cafe on the West End Cliffs, or lounging somewhere along the infamous 7 Mile Beach — reggae was pulsing from ghetto blasters and PAs alike, and everyone within earshot was grinding their hips.

What I didn’t know at that time was that Jamaica was home to hundreds of competing recording labels and studios. One label, Island, was the world’s leading indie music brand back in the 70s, and is now a mainstay under Universal. Sound studios such as Studio One, Treasure Isle, and The Ark, the home base of early Wailers’ producer Lee Perry, made an impact through both the music and the mythology that grew alongside it. (Remember, The Ark was allegedly burnt to the ground in a splif-inspired fire, ignited by Perry himself.)

There were also thousands of professional musicians in Jamaica during that era, a good number achieving international renown, all the while leaving us with a huge catalogue of classic recordings. Many of those included astute social commentary, with others being playful or self-mocking. Performances were typically soulful and heart-felt.

This episode’s set includes an array of songs, mainly from the 70s, with lesser-known artists like Tinga Stewart and The Uniques represented beside well-established singers such as Desmond Dekker and Max Romeo. It also presents more recently released numbers with a clear Jamaican connection, starting with a pair by Abyssinia Infinite (showcasing percussionist Karsh Kale, the ubiquitous Bill Laswell, and the fine singer Gigi), a bouncing social critique by Tiken Jah Fakoly from Cote d’Ivoire, and a party song by Sierra Leone’s Refugee All-Stars.

This is the first in a number of episodes dedicated to all and anything ska-ish and reggaesque. Bliss indeed.

This post is taken from Daddy Peet Expresso Episode #35, on www.radiomoka.com. Hear the music at this mixcloud site.

Music of the Spheres

It was supposedly Pythagoras who realized that the pitch of a musical sound was in proportion to the length of string that produces it. He also apparently understood that basic numerical ratios can be found in the intervals of harmonious sound  frequencies. With these ideas in mind, he went a step further and proposed that the sun, moon and various planets each produce their own tones, which are in relation to their orbits and the distances between each other. Mother Earth and the quality of life of its inhabitants would naturally be affected by the music of these spheres.

Well, I can dig that. Again, I’m reveling in sunset at one of the beach-front tables at the Santa Fe Bar & Grill, on Tumuning Bay, Guam. I’ve mentioned this place in the previous episode. The bay is at high tide this evening, and pretty much empty except for a trio of local fellows casting a net for what catch I don’t know (I haven’t seen a fish longer than an inch during my forays into the water). Beside them, there’s a young loving couple cam-whoring, and further down the beach a slightly hunched Korean or Japanese lady apparently trying to train her Chihuahua to swim. I’m dry yet enjoying the restaurant’s sesame-tinged Tuna Poki, and a cold Stella Artois, but things are far from perfect — the background noise sucks.

What is it about so many of these paradisical drinking establishments and their bad taste in musical entertainment that riles me? (I must ask now for you to forgive my irritation, and my pretension.) Just above the bar is a 36-inch TV delivering raunchy music videos (which segue into Major League Baseball by 8pm). At the same time and in distinct counterpoint, the bar’s stereo system belts out tunes as improbable as ACDC’s “Highway to Hell” and “American Woman” by the Guess Who. Clearly, somebody in management needs a lesson on more appropriate ambient music. (I’m preaching to the converted if you are a regular listener at Radio Moka.)

How rare it is for a “rock free” playlist to appear in paradise. I think back, recalling when and where a beachside establishment bucked the trend and played music that seemed to fit the scene: Mykonos, Greece, 1979 — the master of a small tavern that served killer ouzo introduced me to the wizardry of two true guitar heroes, Paco de Lucia and Baden Powell.

Praia do Meco, the nude beach on Costa de Caparica just south of Lisbon, Portugal, 1981 or so — an airy cabana serving beers also had a cassette player, where for the first time I heard the lyrical voice of Brazilian Milton Nascimento.

Perhentian Island, on the northeast coast of Malaysia, early 1990s — a sandy tie-dye place called Coco Hut, wedged between three gargantuan boulders and canopied with dried coconut fronds, served Alpha Blondy’s reggae and jazz by the likes of Stan Getz amidst a buffet of catch-of-the-day curry and grilled barracuda. That all made perfect sense.

This week’s set is yet another foray into background ambient consultancy. I’ve purposefully kept the focus on Latin, Brasilian and African-based rhythms, each song with a clear tropical vibe. If only I were in charge here at the bar & grill, what magical musical majesty I might suggest.

But now the sun is blazing a bit too brightly (yep, blinding me) as it begins its dip into the Philippine Sea; the Earth seems still for a second, and good, as she grinds inexorably along her axis.

Happily, I imagine other realities, parallel universes, where no music is ever overplayed, where Anglo-American rock, rap and pop are kept at bay, and where every beachside bar and grill gets its sound just right —- in accordance with the music of the spheres.

This post first appeared on Daddy Peet Expresso #36, on www.radiomoka.com.

Missing Suitcases and Other Odd Phenomena: A Question of Management

So nice to be back home in safe, clean Singapore after a couple weeks in the Philippines. The two countries are both in Southeast Asia, and both are members of ASEAN, both are island nations -- though the Philippines has 7000+ islands and Singapore merely a handful -- but they couldn't be more different. I'm going to use my travel experience to illustrate.

On a recent international trip, I arrived by plane in Cebu, the second largest city in the Philippines, to find that my suitcase had not arrived with me on the Tiger Airways day flight. The bag was left back at Changi; it was then forwarded to the Cebu - Mactan Airport on a subsequent Cebu Pacific night flight. That flight left Singapore at midnight and arrived in Cebu's airport at 4am. There my suitcase apparently sat unattended for six hours. I suspect that was when it was ransacked. When I opened the bag in the presence of a Tiger Airways staff member who brought it to my hotel at noon the same day (24 hours after I'd arrived), I discovered not only that everything in the bag was jumbled, but that the new Nokia Lumia 610 phone I was bringing to Cebu as a gift (still in its original packaging) was gone.

Later, when I reported this theft to the head of police back at the Cebu Mactan airport, I was told by the kind gentleman that he indeed suspected it had been stolen there at the airport. He also confided that he had items taken from his own suitcase on a recent flight from Singapore to Cebu. In fact he went on to tell me that a crime syndicate was operating at the airport among the Cebu Pacific luggage handlers. According to this same police chief, his office was recieving complaints nearly every day of thefts from luggage!

Naturally, I asked the chief why his office couldn't make an effort to stop the crime wave at the airport. His answer startled me: oversight of the luggage handling was the responsibility of Cebu Pacific, not his office. 

That is precisely what I see as the major difference between Singapore and the Philippines, this lack of a sense of responsbility. Of course, it would be naive for me to say that everyone in Singapore feels responsible. However, I think people in Singapore are encouraged to take action, to get involved, and to be responsible. Rigorous demands in the education system require such responsibility, certainly. I also see it in the place that the rule of law plays in Singapore society.

Let me explain this idea in terms of another example, something very basic: the way people interact with the physical environment, which is another area of stark contrast between Singapopre and the Philippines.

In Cebu, I have been startled by the grime, dust and dirt on sidewalks, roads, buildings and public spaces, how litter is openly strewn on streets, fruit peels tossed into gutters, and plastics dropped helter skelter. I've seen people spit and piss throughout public areas (including a taxi driver who stopped near my downtown hotel and was peeing along the street), kids blatantly drop icecream wrappers and other rubbish on the ground, and smokers flick their cigarette butts randomly onto the street.

It seems that few Cebuanos hesitate to trash their living environment. The result is one of the trashiest, smelliest places I have ever visited, bar none, in the world. When I asked my Filipina fiance about this, she reported that many people in Cebu have the attitude that things are messy, so what would be the difference if a bit more garbage is added.

Clearly, there is little sense of "I am responsible for my environment." (Very little attention apparently given to any sort of "green movement" in Cebu, and dare I say, in the Philippines in general.)

I contrast this to the endless campaigns I witnessed in my youth 40 years ago in America, both in school and through the mass media, by which the value for creating and maintaining a clean environment was instilled. The results today in America are obvious: beaches are pristine, wilderness areas are garbage free, roadsides are generally litter-less, and city streets and sidewalks exist without rubbish. (Sadly, America has a long way to go toward ensuring its citizens that their environment is also safe!)

As for cleanliness, Singapore is very similar to the U.S. in this regard (although I have witnessed a worsening in Singapore since the late 1980s). As I rode the bus this morning from my residence in Bukit Timah to my office in Kent Ridge, the fact that the roads and sidewalks were clean jumped out at me. (And nowhere in Singapore have I ever smelled pee in a public area!)  Someone somewhere has done something right when an environment filled with so many people -- and Singapore is one of the most densely populated islands in the world -- is so clean.

It's also clear to me when something is wrong. Yesterday, taking the taxi from central Cebu City to the airport on Mactan Island, I was struck yet again by the filth on the city streets, sidewalks and in public spaces. Who's in charge, I wondered.

For me, that is the real issue: Who is in charge? Where's the management? Where is the sense of responsibility of the chief executives, directors, section chiefs, police chiefs, mayors, council members and other government representatives?

What do the citizens of a place like Cebu think when they visit a place as clean and safe as Singapore, or Tokyo, London, Chicago, New York, or Paris?

It is the responsibility of ordinary citizens to have the concern, and then they must pressure those around them, including their leaders, to set goals and work hard to lead their constituency in a direction that pays more than lip service to the notion that the Earth is our home. Safety and cleanliness are basic human responsibilities, and rights, not luxuries.

Group Grades versus Individual Marks

In the course that I have been most recently teaching, Professional Communication: Principles and Practice, I need to justify for the powers that be the weighting of the various course assignments. One could say it breaks down to 90% for individual marks and then 10% for group grades. The so-called individual stuff includes a blogging regime of six content-based posts and regular commentary on classmates' posts, an application letter process, a peer teaching (in a team) assignment, a team-based discussion of a research project, an oral presentation of that same assignment, and finally, a composite score of various classroom interactions. The "group" grade is for a team-written research-based proposal. Identifying assignments in this way -- group or indiviual -- is nearly as inaccurate as calling the work either individual or group though, as it overlooks the interdependent nature of the work and each assignment.

In the oral presentation (OP), as one example, I give indivdual grades largely based on each team member's performance, but much of the effort, e.g., the slides of the typical PowerPoint, is a group creation (even if one person was initially responsible). The “value” of the slides is then figured into the holistic assessment of the OP for each individual, the assumption being that every OP team member signed off on the final set of slides. In short, each OP team member gets an individual grade, but that is within the context of the group’s effort.

I feel that what constitutes the group grade vs individual “mark” is hard to judge at times (and rather inappropriate), especially in a communication setting where working together/creating together is so much part of the classroom process. In my course, a student is required to find a job, grad school or internship advertisement, and she then does her application letter and resume in a four-draft process. In principle, the various drafts are refined with input from peers and me. Is the work, therefore, individual or group? Well, the grade eventually given is certainly individual. But what about the actual work?

The same question could be asked about each component of the course. Which "product" is the result of a process done independently, individually in isolation? Certainly none of the final products. Perhaps an initial draft of a blog post, say the one written on an interpersonal conflict, is done while the writer is alone in the proverbial ivory tower. But even the blog posts can be updated based on reader feedback. In fact, it's my hope that each one IS refined because that is exactly how writing is effectively improved.

When so much of the work in a course like mine is process-based with lots of requisite peer and tutor feedback given, it could almost be argued that for any final product a team should be judged more accurately than any one individual. You might say, however, that in an assignment like the team-oriented, research-based oral presentation, most of the weight of a grade should be based on each team member's performance, ie., the delivery. But even our OP is founded on a process; it has the required research project discussion as stage one, an “elevator test” summarizing the main content objective as stage two, the mock OP as stage three, and the final OP as stage four. Of course, an individual's performance is factored into awarding the final mark, but so much prior to that performance depends on other individuals, whether in the form of contributions made by teammates or feedback from members of the larger class group. Unfortunately, when I give an individual mark that social element is eclipsed. This may satisfy my superiors because they want to be certain that individual students are achieving the prescribed learning outcomes and receiving the appropriate carrot or stick, but it diminishes the various nuances involved in the educational process. 

Why do we often have to align the educational universe in this manner? Because even for a content-area such as communication, even when the course focus is helping students develop what are essentially social skills, we are in the business of teaching and assessing individuals. Of course, students can only improve communication skills when they develop a sense of other, of audience, and this happens best within the context of team projects and group-oriented assignments. But still our philosophical focus is on the "I," the individual rather than the group. This is because our value system within the educational context, just as in the context of contemporary life in general, is focused on each one of us as an individual; we have a certain obsession, if you will, for giving each individual a specific mark because individualism rules the day, not "the group," not "the learning community."

So I give individual marks, for the sake of the student,  my boss, the system; and  I justify the individual marks given, even when I feel that doing so misrepresents the way effective communication develops or the manner in which the associated skills improve.

Speaking of Norms: America and the "Gun Culture"

The headlines are hardly noteworthy anymore: "...shooting-leaves-1-student-dead-and-4-wounded." Why? Because in America, it happens all the time. School shootings have become a norm.

This time, however, I took note because the tragedy occurred in an Ohio high school. It was easy for me to imagine the cafeteria at 7am just before the shooting took place: kids coming in with thick winter coats and scarves on, having just arrived from homes nearby. Others sitting and talking with their friends, their coats hung on their chairs, hats and gloves piled in front of them, right beside the plates of scrambled eggs and glasses of orange juice. And still other kids dragging themselves up to the cafeteria line, waiting for some grub.

The place would have been lively, maybe with a song from Lady Gaga's latest album playing from one girl's laptop, noise from another being passed ear to ear as a group of boys checked out a new screamo number from a buddy's mp3 player. 

Then suddenly one lad, a boy that many people knew as a quiet guy who attended a different local school but who would occasionally stop in Chardon High to visit a friend, stands up, jostles with his coat and takes a pistol from his pocket. He brandishes the weapon for just a second, then takes aim at a group of dudes sitting at the next table over.

Before anyone can process what is happening, BAM! he shoots. BAM BAM!!! he shoots again. A couple boys slump immediately in their seats, slide to the floor. Simultaneously,  a heavy rain of screams and cries pours out from all directions. Hell is unleashed.

The scene might seem like that of a Hollywood flick, but it is all too real, all too common: Thanks to a combination of interpersonal issues (bullying and teenage angst) and America's "gun culture,"  a young problem child turns to violence to express himself. Others end up dead before their time.

For several days, maybe even a week, the media will focus on the school, the victims, the culprit, and the affected families and friends. There will be images of hospitals and funerals and the childhood home of all those involved. For another fortnight, there will be talk throughout Ohio about the shooting up in Chardon. For a year, maybe two, maybe three (until the kids who witnessed this incident have all graduated), there will be a ripple effect throughout scores, maybe hundreds of parent-teacher meetings, counseling sessions, and focused community discussions on the cause of violence in schools and the part that guns play in the equation.

And then, slowly but surely, the focus will turn away, turn to other events, turn to violence with other faces, in other places, while back in Chardon, like in Columbine (Colorado), like in Baton Rouge (Louisiana), like in Blacksburg (Virginia), things will have long returned to "normal."

But what is the norm? 

That a shooting can happen anytime, anywhere, and anyone can be a victim. Just wait and see.

For more information, check out this link.

I will never meet the Sentinelese

Have you ever imagined taking a sailing trip through the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal? I have. And though I hear the scuba diving is excellent and the sunsets are spectacular, my greatest interest is not in the water or on the horizon but for the little known island of North Sentinel. What would it be like to step ashore, I've wondered.

Welcome to a version of the Stone Age, where sure death is the answer. For on that tropical islet, among lush vegetation and behind a ring of white sandy beaches, resides a group of people for whom outsiders are unwelcome, and time has stood still --- meet the legendary Sentinelese.

In visiting North Sentinel, one has to move cautiously. In an article on the website AtlasObscura, it is reported that two fishermen who made the mistake of illegally casting their lines within the shadow of the island were killed in a barrage of arrows. Even the helicopter sent to retrieve the bodies nearly fell prey to the tribesmen's expert shots.

No, the Sentinelese don't take to strangers, and for that and other reasons, their idyllic speck of real estate has been declared off limits by the Indian government, which oversees the area --- and that has been the saving grace of their society and culture.

When we talk about culture, I like the definition set forth by Lederach (1995) in the book Preparing for peace: Conflict transformation across cultures: "Culture is the shared knowledge and schemes created by a set of people for perceiving, interpreting, expressing, and responding to the social realities around them" (p. 9). 

The social reality for the Sentinelese, we might surmise, is one in which the idea of in group and out group is very strong. If you are one of us, you look like we do, you act like we do, you speak like we do, and you live in the lean-to next door --- then you're safe. If you don't fulfill those criteria --- you are a danger for us, and if you get too close, you will die.

The Sentinelese "perception" of outsiders as dangerous aliens who merit a response of finely-crafted iron-tipped arrows has been corroborated by the experience of other islanders in the Andamans. Without the protection of the Indian government, the Jarawa, the Onde and others have been individually and collectively exploited, their social universes broken apart in much the same way as those of the native Americans from the 17th through 19th centuries: men forced into working as cheap laborers, women conscripted into the invaders' kitchens and beds, and children stripped of their sense of identity as the tsunami of outside influences rushes in.  

There are different perspectives, of course, on what action a government can and should take in this case. Some would argue that it is better for the inevitable to happen, that the assimilation/integration of "primitive" groups to the dominant, more "civilized" society is social evolution, a necessary stage in historical development, and the sooner the better. That argument gains strength when one considers, for example, the advantages of giving these people access to modern health care. 

Still, as the experience of the Penan in East Malaysia and countless other tribal groups from Borneo to West Papua shows us, forced assimilation -- with reneged upon promises of health care, housing and formal education -- can come at a high price: thwarted expectations, dire new living conditions and cultures in decay.

So India's current policy of enforced protection of the isolation of the Sentinelese stands, and my dream of visiting their island will never be realized. Good for them.

For more information on the culture of various tribes in the Andaman Islands, see this link.

Turning the Table on Study Habits (repost)

Have you ever wondered whether it's more effective to study in the same place night after night or to change locations frequently? Should you focus on one subject per study session, doing mugging for that physics exam tonight and the project work for prof comm tomorrow, or split things up across various evenings?

This article from The New York Times,  "Forget What You Know about Good Study Habits," gets at the heart of study habits in a lucid manner. Invoking recent research while dispelling old myths, author Benedict Carey leads you through the library, into your favorite spot in the student lounge, back to your room in the residence hall and right up to your work desk --- then out again, and provides fine detail on an activity that takes up far too much of your time.

So you better get it right!

The Kids of Ermita

I was in a taxi Christmas Eve coming from my hotel near Mango Square in Cebu, the second largest city in the Philippines, when my destination took my driver by surprise. "Ermita?" he asked. "Are you buying drugs?"

Huh? "No, I'm not," I responded.

"But Ermita is dangerous," he added.

"I'm visiting a close friend," I added. (My friend is a veritable "princess" of Ermita, the granddaughter of one of Ermita's most infamous personages, a now-deceased "godfather.")

Having been to Ermita nearly half a dozen times before Christmas Eve, I already had many impressions of the neighborhood bisected by a single pulsating thoroughfare: crowded, chaotic, in-your-face, friendly, even welcoming.

Every time I had been driven by "tricycle" into the Ermita barangay (burrough) from one of Cebu City's main bayside arteries, Magallanes Street, I had been warmly welcomed by kids wanting to give me a high-five and voices familiar and unfamiliar alike: "Hey Blackstone! Hello Blackstone!" 

And though there were stares and the occasional threatening glare, I never had the impression that Ermita was dangerous, not with so many children out and about. My most immediate reaction was that the place, while teeming with seemingly hundreds of kids of all ages playing games, was like a gigantic pre-school. Of course, Ermita's main drag, more like an alley lined with mostly open drains and an assortment of narrow makeshift wooden and brick homes, stores and other structures, hosted not just kids but also gossiping housewives, preening teenagers, straining videoke singers, street vendors selling everything from local dishes and pastries to bagged soft drinks and bottled water, lounging village elders, and random chickens and ducks (and even the occcasional pig). At various spots along the alley, fires were being tended, with black kettels hung over them being brought to a boil or skewered meats being grilled.

Even with such robust activity though, Ermita was clearly one of the poorest neighborhoods in all of Cebu City. This was evident in the rags that many of the residents were wearing and the scrawniness of so many of the kids. On my early visits I had also been struck by the fact that so many babies were being carted about by tiny mothers, some barely into their teenage years. In fact, a recent article bears witness to the pressing social problems confronted by the area's residents, from unemployment and gambling to teenage pregnancy and hunger.

Still, even in the face of such problems, the neighborhood has impressed me as its inhabitants strive to work together to overcome the obvious challenges and create a sense of normalcy within their community. I've seen this in the way that those who have share with those who don't, in the manner that the most fragile young are so often protected and even adopted by the ones who can do so, and in the enduring and seemingly genuine cheerfulness that pervades interactions---and in the smiles.

Of course, as I reflect on my experience with the residents in Ermita, I wonder what I can do to help. The impromptu English lessons that I gave, the tips to the trike drivers and the asundry holiday handouts are not enough.

What could I or any one of us who are in more fortunate positions contribute to a community such as this?

The Playlist

On a biweekly basis, a musical playlist that I create is given airtime on www.radiomoka.com under the title Daddy Peet Expresso (DPE). Along with each "show," I also write what could be called a blurb, not a description of the music so much as a reflection on any aspect of that particular list that catches my fancy.

For DPE #12, I thought it would be of interest to give listener/readers a chance to get in the kitchen, to see what my playlist creation process might entail. Here's what I wrote for that segment:

  

If you were considering making a playlist for a party, or for a romantic evening, or even for an afternoon of work, where would you start? Favorite songs? Favorite songs on a particular theme? Songs that elicit a special mood?

And if you were going a create a playlist for a biweekly program, would you go about it in that same way, choosing favorites or hoping to create moods?

I can’t speak with the authority of a world famous deejay, nor can I pretend that my own approach is based on any sort of winning formula. What I can say is that for creating the Daddy Peet Expresso playlist, the process is a bit like the creative process I’ve followed in writing a short story, a poem, and even a song lyric. I get some sound or phrase in my head, process it in my imagination, then it takes flight from there. What the playlist eventually sounds like might not be anything like that initial sound byte, but within the broad songscape there certainly is a genesis, an alpha, the beginning of a storyline, just as there is also a sense of omega, le fin, “leave out all the rest.”

This particular set of songs * was probably initiated when I was lounging in my living room in a condo in Singapore, chilling to the disc Bleu Blanc World, a free CD that accompanied my monthly Songlines magazine injection, and I heard voices from what I later learned was a 6-man vocal ensemble from Marseilles named Lo Cor de La Plana doing a very fine a capella piece called “La Vièlha,” and I thought, “that’s cool,” a nice song to start a set with.

Later, on my iPod, a rhythmic African number that I didn’t recognize but that I guessed came from a CD I’d picked up on a recent visit to the States gnawed at my attention, and I took note: an Angolan singer named Mamukueno doing a piece entitled “Rei de Palhetinho” (The King of Palhetinho). Let’s add that.

Then there was the moment when I was sitting at the kitchen table of my sister’s country home in southern Ohio, surfing the Net and listening for the first time to the last Ray Charles recording, one that included, she said, a series of unlikely duets. Sure enough, the minute I heard the notes of an old familiar tune done with strings, then voices I never imagined side by side, I paused and asked, “Who is that?” The duet was both poignant and arresting, especially when the improbable meant voices as tonally disparate as Ray’s and Willie Nelson’s, on a Sinatra tune with all the orchestral hype --- schmaltzy? Absolutely. Moving? By all means.

And so forth. One by one other tunes joined the ever growing list in my Mac: by popping up in my daily listening experience on the iTunes shuffle (“La Negra Tomasa” by Compay Segunda and Moby’s “Run On” being two), at least one from my daughter’s iPod (“Secrets” by One Republic), one re-enjoyed when I was traipsing out in the world (Marley’s "Exodus”) and a dozen others popping up…..well, as to where and how, that’s very secondary to the music itself. 


* By the end of December 2011, all Daddy Peet Expresso playlists will be available for your listening pleasure on the updated and improved radio moka website. Stay tuned ...

Three Chords and the Truth

On a lazy Sunday afternoon in May 1977, I was taking the escalator up and out of the Universitetskaya metro stop near my Moscow State University student residence, when I saw two fellow American exchange students, both like me from Ohio, coming down the adjacent escalator.  Where you guys headed? I recall asking. The girls responded with great excitement: “ Come on, Khlebchick! We’re going to see the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.  Why don’t you join us?”

They went on to rush an explanation of where the American country band was playing and how the two of them had gotten tickets. I hesitated, not knowing much about Nitty Gritty and not really “into country” at that time. And then my chance had passed; the girls were gone.

A day or so later when Laura and Deb told me about how great the concert was, and how they’d been invited back stage to meet the stars and then to the after-concert party at the US Embassy, I was deflated. (And if my memory serves me correctly, they reported that Comrade Brezhnev, apparently a fan of American roots music, was also in the audience.)

Now I realize what an opportunity I had missed. The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band might have had less rock star flash than similarly-influenced units from the era, groups such as The Band and Crosby, Stills and Nash, but its members were seriously talented, and by recording with Maybelle Carter and Vassar Clements on the album Will the Circle Be Unbroken, they not only gave a nod to their “bluegrass” roots but put themselves at the forefront of a “country and western” (C&W) revival.

The C&W appellation actually included a number of early 20^th century folk music styles, from reels and ballads to cowboy songs, accompanied either solo on guitar or with a combination of guitar, violin, harmonica, banjo and dulcimer. The genre in its various forms originally gained popular appeal in the 1920s with recordings by Fiddlin’ John Carson, Uncle Dave Macon and Charlie Poole. By the 1930s groups such as the Skillet Lickers and the Carter Family as well as individuals such as Jimmie Rodgers and Bill Monroe had become widely known through nascent radio broadcasts.

But soon the music had been overshadowed, first by jazz and rhythm and blues, then by pop and rock. By the late 70s, however, country had shed its “western” nomenclature and polished its rough-hewn edges, reinventing itself as it incorporated elements of pop, rock and R&B, gaining audiences far beyond its blue-collar Appalachian and prairie home. Country’s popularity in the USA today is unparalleled. In fact, according to a recent Harris survey, 60% of America’s adult population like country music, supporting 2,600 full-time country radio stations. That’s up 92% since I was in Moscow missing the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

This playlist includes a range of songs from beneath the country umbrella, including a bluegrass number by Doc Watson and Bill Monroe (its alleged father), country rock by the likes of Pure Prairie League and the Marshall Tucker Band, pop country by 60s idol Skeeter Davis and Canada’s Cowboy Junkies, and the roots Nashville sound by legends Hank Williams Sr. and Patsy Cline.  Of course, there’s also a representative song by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

If that was good enough for Comrade Brezhnev, it’s good enough for me. Enjoy!  

* This essay was written for the www.radiomoka.com Daddy Peet Expresso program entitled "Three Chords and the Truth":  http://www.radiomoka.com/daddypeetexpresso13 

Psychic Elephant & other gems

The range of approaches and results in songwriting never fails to amaze. Just look at a sampling of the titles in this set, on a continuum from the most straightforward to the most enigmatic: Miriam’s Goodbye to Africa, Last Steam Engine Train, Satin Doll, Rio Nights, Como Siento Yo, Luz Negra, The Calling, Camions Sauvages, Kinsiona, Meadows of Dan, Fake Plastic Trees, Psychic Elephant.

Though the meaning behind musical titles can elude discerning listeners, it is often the lyrics – no matter how inventive -- that baffle us to the point of no return, even while bringing us great entertainment in our attempts at deciphering. Over the years how many Beatles’ fans and critics alike have agonized about the meaning of the classic “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” without simply attributing the psychedelic imagery and that of other masterpieces from the period to John Lennon’s well-documented interest in hallucinations?

Another fine example is Thom Yorke’s 2001 classic, “Fake Plastic Trees,” from Radiohead’s The Bends:

Her green plastic watering can / For her fake Chinese rubber plant /
In the fake plastic earth / That she bought from a rubber man / In a town full of rubber plans / To get rid of itself … // It wears her out, it wears her out / It wears her out, it wears her out…

We can speculate on whether Yorke is feeling anger or amusement, whether it’s based on some reality or merely theater of the absurd. But for many listeners, the words of such numbers are irrelevant.  It’s all about the mood created, the rhythms, the arrangements. For others, realism in lyrics is a must, and so the lyrics of a song like those by Brazilian songstress Fernanda Takai – even while dramatic to the extreme -- make much needed sense:

Sempre só
(Always alone)
Eu vivo procurando alguém
(I live searching for someone)

Que sofra como eu também
(Who suffers like me)

Mas não consigo achar ninguém (But I don’t succeed in finding anyone)

Sempre só
 (Always alone)

E a vida vai seguindo assim
(And so life goes)

Não tenho quem tem dó de mim (There’s no one to pity me)
Estou chegando ao fim (Arriving at the end)

A luz negra de um destino cruel
 (The black light of a cruel destiny)

Ilumina um teatro sem cor
 (Illuminates a theater without color)

Onde estou representando o papel
 (Where I play the role)

De palhaço do amor (Of a clown of love)

Whatever your fancy, the beauty of music is that there is a song being created every day that will soothe the soul each one of us. There’s a number in this set for each of us as well. Enjoy!  

*This is the blurb for the www.radiomoka.com Daddy Peet Expresso program "Psychic Elephant and other gems":  http://www.radiomoka.com/daddypeetexpresso14

Rastaman Vibration: A Brief Intercultural Encounter

Sunday afternoon at Goodluck Garden. From inside my second story concrete nest, I can see the pool, cool transparent blue. Usually the pool by this time of day is filled with kids and doting parents -- of Singaporean Chinese, Indian or Caucasian background -- splashing each other, floating on rafts or shooting water guns. 

But this afternoon is different. There is only one family at the pool today, a mixed family, the wife a Caucasian woman in her early to mid 30s, a pair of cute kids around three or four years old, and nearby, the husband, a very athletic black man with thick dreadlocks dangling to his waist. What makes this scene most unusual is that I have rarely seen any fellow Goodluck Gardeners of African (or African-American? Jamaican? African-European?) origin, much less anyone whose hair  seems to be classic Rastafarian.

I call my daughter from her room to see the family, simply because I know she will admire the man's hair, which she does (she also says he is "amazingly buff").  As we then spy on the group  from our apartment, discussing the wife's midriff bulge, the man's dreads and the beauty of the couple's kids, we witness an unusual occurrence. 

Another couple, seemingly in their 20s and also mixed (she appears Chinese, he Indian), approach the pool area from the area opposite our place, hand in hand with their own kids, twins of two years old or so. They are dressed in bathing suits as well. Suddenly though, when they get a view of the athletic gentleman, they do an about-face, making a hasty retreat. 

Then my daughter and I both wonder: What has just happened?

What to do when your money is on the line?

It's Saturday afternoon, and I receive an email request from a professional acquaintance who directs an English program at an Indonesian university. I'd already heard that he was coming to Singapore for a professional visit with nearly 30 teachers from various Indonesian universities. I'd also heard that he'd made reservations for his group at a local budget hotel. What I didn't expect was what he would ask me to do.

He was in panic mode. According to his missive, he had not been able to secure his reservation because he didn't have a credit card, and the visit was just two weeks away. His request was this: Would I be willing to use my credit card to secure the reservation and pay up front for 15 hotel rooms? The tab would be in the thousands of dollars, but he assured me (and I believed him) that as soon as he received the bill from me he would have the money wired to my account.

Generally, I would not have even considered getting involved. But the fellow making the request was a person who had helped organize for me a workshop tour of various Indon universities. He had also invited me to do a presentation skills workshop at his school. In addition, he had made it possible for me to get a book chapter published, and we had also collaborated in project work. In a very real sense, I owed him.

At the same time, I was wary of putting so much cash up front. What would happen if something went awry? I really wanted to avoid a situation that tested our professional friendship.

So how to avoid a conflict in this situation?

I will never meet the Sentinelese (repost)

Have you ever imagined taking a sailing trip through the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal? I have. And though I hear the scuba diving is excellent and the sunsets are spectacular, my greatest interest is not in the water or on the horizon but for the little known island of North Sentinel. What would it be like to step ashore, I've wondered.

Welcome to a version of the Stone Age, where sure death is the answer. For on that tropical islet, among lush vegetation and behind a ring of white sandy beaches, resides a group of people for whom outsiders are unwelcome, and time has stood still --- meet the legendary Sentinelese.

In visiting North Sentinel, one has to move cautiously. In an article on the website AtlasObscura, it is reported that two fishermen who made the mistake of illegally casting their lines within the shadow of the island were killed in a barrage of arrows. Even the helicopter sent to retrieve the bodies nearly fell prey to the tribesmen's expert shots.

No, the Sentinelese don't take to strangers, and for that and other reasons, their idyllic speck of real estate has been declared off limits by the Indian government, which oversees the area --- and that has been the saving grace of their society and culture.

When we talk about culture, I like the definition set forth by Lederach (1995) in the book Preparing for peace: Conflict transformation across cultures: "Culture is the shared knowledge and schemes created by a set of people for perceiving, interpreting, expressing, and responding to the social realities around them" (p. 9). 

The social reality for the Sentinelese, we might surmise, is one in which the idea of in group and out group is very strong. If you are one of us, you look like we do, you act like we do, you speak like we do, and you live in the lean-to next door --- then you're safe. If you don't fulfill those criteria --- you are a danger for us, and if you get too close, you will die.

The Sentinelese "perception" of outsiders as dangerous aliens who merit a response of finely-crafted iron-tipped arrows has been corroborated by the experience of other islanders in the Andamans. Without the protection of the Indian government, the Jarawa, the Onde and others have been individually and collectively exploited, their social universes broken apart in much the same way as those of the native Americans from the 17th through 19th centuries: men forced into working as cheap laborers, women conscripted into the invaders' kitchens and beds, and children stripped of their sense of identity as the tsunami of outside influences rushes in.  

There are different perspectives, of course, on what action a government can and should take in this case. Some would argue that it is better for the inevitable to happen, that the assimilation/integration of "primitive" groups to the dominant, more "civilized" society is social evolution, a necessary stage in historical development, and the sooner the better. That argument gains strength when one considers, for example, the advantages of giving these people access to modern health care. 

Still, as the experience of the Penan in East Malaysia and countless other tribal groups from Borneo to West Papua shows us, forced assimilation -- with reneged upon promises of health care, housing and formal education -- can come at a high price: thwarted expectations, dire new living conditions and cultures in decay.

So India's current policy of enforced protection of the isolation of the Sentinelese stands, and my dream of visiting their island will never be realized. Good for them.

For more information on the culture of various tribes in the Andaman Islands, see this link.

Nonverbal versus Verbal Communication: A False Dichotomy?

Imagine this scenario: It's dark in Cebu City, 7:45pm. On Mango Avenue sits a well-lit bookstore. On the shop front, a sign reads 10am-8pm.

Two potential customers arrive at the front door. They are obviously not locals, and perhaps are not aware of the norms of the store. They try to enter the main door but find it locked.

Inside the shop, a store security man stands at attention as a cashier rings up a final customer. Outside, the two would-be customers stand in surprise when they note that the door has already been locked nearly 15 minutes before the end of the opening hours stated in the language of the sign.

One of these potential shoppers becomes angry. Without a word, he waves at the security guard, points at the shop sign, grimaces, then tugs at the door handle. The guard looks on but doesn't move. The would be customer throws up his hands in frustration, looks directly at the guard and points yet again at the sign, and when he receives no response other than an indifferent look from the guard, he turns and walks away.

What has just happened in this mainly nonverbal exchange? Why is there a problem?

The Imaginary Jukebox

9 to 5? Work deadlines? Doctor bills? Mortgage payment? Taxes?

Those are all burdens that we adults have to endure. Just for a second, wouldn’t it be nice to be a kid again? How would that feel?

Of course, it wasn’t a painless experience, but when I remember how carefree I felt at particular times during my childhood, especially during my teenage years, circa 1972, and most especially when I was hanging out on my beach towel at the swimming pool in Thornville, Ohio, on lazy summer afternoons, a big smile comes to my face.

Part of that pleasure was retiring to the pool for a swim. Another part was ogling the young ladies.  But just as important was hearing the music blasting away from the pool jukebox, that oversized, coin-operated phonograph that kept the pool crowd swinging.

A quick Google search shows that the “juke” in jukebox derives from “juke joint,” the often rowdy drinking and dancing establishments that catered to workers on plantations in the southern states of the US in the early 20^th Century. (The word “juke” is apparently from the Gullah (Georgian Sea Island) word “joog,” meaning wicked.)  By the middle of the 1940s, 75% of all the records produced in America – and that was millions of records -- found their home in a jukebox.

The jukebox at the Thornville Pool stood right at the front of the concession stand, opposite the wading pool. For a quarter (25 cents), you could choose 3 songs from the 100 or so titles that were presented on a menu within the display case top. Some of my friends would probably spend 50 cents every time they visited the pool, enough for 6 songs. If a guy had a buck and a half, he could line up 18 songs --- and if my memory of 1972 serves me correctly, they might have included anything from War’s recent release “Cisco Kid” to the oldie but goodie “Under the Boardwalk” by The Drifters. Of course, there were also hits by hugely popular groups such as The Doors and Chicago and by cool singers like Cher and Marvin Gaye.

For some of us though, it was about more than music; the jukebox at the pool was where we learned so much about hipness, about style. Listen to the words and catch the vibe from songs like the “Theme from Shaft” by Isaac Hayes and Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” to see what I mean.

Tune in to Daddy Peet Expresso on www.radiomoka.com on Saturday night August 20/21 midnight and Sunday morning at 11am for this program.

Help Me



“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

The theme of love gets revisited by each of us over and over in our lives. We lap it up as babies, demand it as small kids, chase after it in the dark when we’re school children, and fret over it from adolescence forward. Still, it’s an emotion that can’t be easily defined, although many songwriters have tried.

Whether our love is directed at a supreme being or a fragile human, whether it is carnal or spiritual, we pace our lives within its parameters. It’s noteworthy, too, that since the advent of mass media such as radio, songs of love have become commodities that seem to reinforce our sensitivities.

Chicago has been a hotbed of stories sung about love since its studios started recording crooners and its radio stations began to compete in the “broadcast boom” at about the same time, early in the Jazz Age. In fact, one of the very first commercial broadcast stations in America, WLS (standing for World’s Largest Store), which was inaugurated in April 1924 by Sears-Roebuck Company principally as a means of advertising its commercial wares, proved to be a long-lasting outlet of music and other information.

I got my own taste of Chicago radio in the early 1970s when each night I would tune the radio beside my bed to WLS. One of the groups I would hear there was the Chi-Lites. Their soul hit from 1972, “Oh Girl,” resonated deeply for a small-town Ohio boy, searching for answers to conflicting feelings:

"Oh girl/I'd be in trouble if you left me now/'Cause I don't know where to look for love/I just don't know how”; “I could save myself a lot of useless tears/Girl I've got to get away from here"; "Better be on my way, I can't stay here….”

Sonny Boy Williamson’s classic blues, “Help Me,” recorded in Chicago in 1963, hints at a similar dilemma:

“You got to help me/
I can't do it all by myself/
You got to help me, baby/
I can't do it all by myself/
You know if you don't help me, darling/I'll have to find myself somebody else….”

Perhaps Nietzsche, whose words inspired an opera by Wagner, but – to my knowledge - have not been set within many love songs, said it best when he commented that “a pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”  

Whatever the case, it’s the songs that most often get us through.

(abridged from a Daddy Peet Expresso program of the same name) 

Blues the Healer

Are the blues a cultural universal? We all suffer disappointment, loss and ultimately, the sort of pain from harsh reality that provides the basis of “having the blues.” And if that is true, do we solve our problems in similar ways? More aptly, does music similar to the blues bubble to the surface from geographical areas besides the Mississippi delta, and give us a sense of “get over it”?

Music writers are quick to connect the structural dots, of course, not just between African beats, work songs, field hollers, spirituals and the genesis of the blues, but also between gypsy cante and flamenco, and between sailor songs and Portuguese fado.  That sort of etymological discussion can take place across the globe when it comes to all sorts of traditional music.    

My own understanding of the blues in musical terms got a serious shot in the arm when, in the late 1980s, I was living in Petaling Jaya (PJ), a suburb of Kuala Lumpur (KL), Malaysia, and more importantly, hanging out in various corners of the vibrant local music scene. The live music there in particular was strongly influenced by an American and British invasion, with numerous Filipino bands well established at major hotels, and small bars like All That Jazz, The Longhorn, and Traffic Lights featuring groups that eased through jazz standards, country rock and pop/hard rock respectively.

On the bar circuit at the time was one group of long-haired local talents called The Blues Gang, whose high octave repertoire included a fistful of rock-based originals sung in Malay along with numerous well rendered tunes from the American-British blues rock songbook, from the likes of Muddy Waters and Jimi Hendrix to Eric Clapton and Cream.  Having been a rock head in my youth back in the US, I was quick to get on the party train a la the Blues Gang in Kuala L’impur (Andre Gide’s words, not mine).

In the same era I also frequented a hole-in-the-wall stereo shop in the now defunct Asia Jaya mall. There my buddy Kim, the well-informed and UK-refined Chinese owner, sold state of the art audio equipment while possessing what must have been the best collection in the Klang Valley of recordings on the new CD format, which he would happily expound upon and then loan out for a small fee.  It was on Kim’s recommendation that I borrowed the Deutsche Grammophone recording of the San Francisco Symphony doing Gershwin’s “An American in Paris,” Bernstein’s “Symphonic Dances from West Side Story,” and a piece I had never heard before, William Russo’s “Street Music: A Blues Concerto.”

A blues concerto, on blues harp no less? Completely plausible, I remember thinking. Not long before listening to and being blown away by Russo’s ode to the blues, I’d been in Cee Jay’s in central KL, listening to the Blues Gang cranking out a fast-paced rocker together with local harp maestro Rafique Rashid wailing away, when I suddenly realized the power of that tiny ten-holed instrument, bent to tasteful effect with a bout of the blues.  

Having the blues is undoubtedly a cultural universal. Being a fan of blues perhaps less so. But until you've given listening to the blues a chance, whether on CD or in a bar or on the back porch, don't judge. You don't know what you're missing.