Strung Out

San Francisco

It's the street after street filled with damp cars parked outside all night -- streaming ships of the city unable to find a harbor . . . It's the dreamy silence of Pier 44 on a sunny mid-afternoon -- where customs officers, white-capped longshoremen and shipping officials quietly play cards over a counter to prove that men can get along with each other . . . It's the endless rows of cabs lined alongside the places where people gather -- Yellow feet for the ones tired out in the work of having fun . . . It's the 7:30 p.m. flurry of humanity around the tiny neighborhood movie houses -- tinsel palaces of escape for those who slave by day in the temples of Big Business.

It's the smoky, all-night pool parlors of North Beach -- fraternity houses for the lonely brothers who've been black-balled by life . . . It's the Saturday tea dansant at the Palace -- where the most beautiful girls in the world gather under one roof not to be admired, but to admire Artie Shaw, who only looks the other way . . . It's the Old San Francisco restaurants -- with their ancient waiters serving the same old food in the same old way because tradition is their master and an increasingly cruel one, too.

It's the cold, refined handsomeness of outer Pacific Avenue, which picks up its skirts daintily and stares haughtily in another direction as the street swings into a less correct district . . . It's the frenzied burst of activity on the city's playgrounds each Sunday morning -- the people joyously breaking their backs on the Day of Rest, losing their heads in an escape from six days of headaches.

It's the parade of Willkie buttons in the noontime eating places -- men wearing their political hearts on their sleeves . . . It's the blind, hatless banjo player feeling his way smilingly along Post in the afternoon sun -- making tinny music for the ears in the midst of women making silky music for the eyes . . . It's the indescribable conglomeration of beauty and ugliness that makes San Francisco a poem without meter, a symphony without harmony, a painting without reason -- a city without an equal.

-Herb Caen

Petit Savanne

There’s something universal about how people take information in. And even more universal is the language of music. I was reminded of this again while visiting Dominica, when my Mom and I had the chance to visit the Petit Savanne elementary school in Delices. I only hope that the joy and inspiration we got from sharing in their lives for a day was equal to what they felt.

The kids were forthcoming and had very generous personalities, and we all learned from each other. They had plenty to tell us, but that day, sounds and smiles were enough for a thousand words. Now it's a picture's turn.

Musica Puertorriqueno!

I've been listening to Puerto Rican music for years, and I finally got to see some up close, live. The rhythm of the clave and drums in the tropical air made a little more sense. The bassist danced and smiled as he kept melodic time. Horns harmonized, the singer improvised, the dancers floated on feet tied to the elastic, ecstatic sounds of Puerto Rican salsa. Si!

New Music From My Turkish Friends

This is a recent concert including Filiz Kaya Bodur, a Klasic Kemence player whom I met while in Canakkale, Turkey. She played a few songs for me then, an outstanding, rare experience. The Klasic Kemence is an Ottoman era instrument, played by stopping the strings with the nails instead of the fingertips. I am drawn by it's vocal, singing quality, and it's nice to hear her beautiful playing again. The gentleman is playing the baglama, a lute derived instrument in wide use throughout Turkey and the Middle East.

Grup Fuzuli - Zeybekler from Onur Türkyılmaz on Vimeo.

The Sounds of Dominica

I’m back from an island that captivates, so green and mountainous, it truly evokes the idea of paradise. Volcanoes seethe underground, sending boiling water and steam into the tropical air. Bubbles escape into the turquoise waters around impossibly colorful fish. Dozens of birds talk in the canopy of the forest. It’s par for the course on Dominica, and the locals have found ways of living that fits with the natural idea of the island and it’s bounties. For the most part agriculturally self-sustainable, growing everything imaginable under the sun, farming plots cascade down the hills- the pineapple, banana, noni, grapefruit, nutmeg and cinnamon plants hardly noticeable to an outsider compared to the gigantic green ferns and palms growing alongside.

My sister and her husband decided to have their wedding in this setting, lucky for the families. We hiked through the volcanic remains and lush rain forest, snorkeled through reefs and ate the best locally grown food. The ceremony was on the beach and the reception on a cabana overlooking the ocean. That night, we listened and danced to great local music. The jing ping and bele concert, with the French derived accordion melodic influence mixed with African and Caribbean drumming and harmonies, was fascinating and reminded me a little of cajun and zydeco music from the southern U.S..

After talking to one of the musicians, I learned there was a man in the band that played the banjo. This was extraordinary, since the banjo would have appeared here at about the same time it did in the states. I was introduced to Hans, and he said he learned to play the banjo from his father, who was gone now. As far as he knew, he was one of the last players on the island, he hadn’t seen another. He couldn’t even find banjo strings and used mandolin strings instead.

As it was, he was a policeman, and could hardly find time to play shows at night, but he still played the banjo by himself once in a while. I promised to send him some strings and peppered him with questions. It turns out he plays a modern style instrument with 4 strings, but that his father played a handmade instrument. It sounded as if he used a stroking style, like the clawhammer style in the states, but I can’t be sure- I only got to talk to him for a few minutes, his kids were calling for him and he had to leave.

The link between the evolution of the banjo and the way it was played in Dominica and in the states was evident to me as I talked to him, but it wasn’t until later that I grasped the amazing relevance of that link. In the states, the banjo was often synonymous with the best and worst historical developments. It transcended mere musical influence and came to represent different ethnic groups at different times for wildly different reasons. Of all American instruments, it is the one most weighed down by history, and at the same time, made more rich by it. For some of the story, check this out:
http://nativestring.blogspot.com/2009/03/banjo-american-instrument-part-1.html

To get the chance to see how it progressed in Dominica and the surrounding islands would be amazing… maybe one day. In the meantime, I found a picture of another man still playing banjo on the island as well. A Mr. Pascal in Grand Fond.