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Franchise day for Stonehenge.
This past morning, the sun rose over the heelstone, visible from the center of the monument... the Midlands official start of summer fun. Hey, they didn't have theme calendars in the bronze age. So I recall from my former obsession with things mystical. Hopefully, there are still mystical things happening... architecturally or not. It may not be exactly occult phenomenon, but the musical forces have certainly been at work as of late. I admit suffering a little burnout with the barrage of things that must be listened to in the course of making a theme show alive, lively and pertinent (and they ain't all good, either). That, and the fact that there is no one else playing reggae within earshot, so I can join in the fun. No Man Is An Island...unless you spin Jamaican music in the center of Virginia. Not that I did, this week. Or will, the next. Despite the crushing frustration of a network teetering on the brink of meltdown, and the tilted perspective of workmates, no sooner had I heard the lock snap behind me on the way out into the car park... all was forgotten. Erased by the night, the road, and the radio. Sometimes there are rewards. Heading south, with the half moon perched upon my left shoulder (the heavens visible for the first time in weeks), I was awash in excellent radio for the second time in twenty-four hours. Ironically, by the same DJ. I don't usually name names to be easily searched in this journal... I see too many unpleasant comments from those who are stumbled upon by the perverse. I'll make an exception in this case. WPFW 89.3 in Washington, for the most part a Jazz and Afrocentric station, is usually the only radio I can bear to listen to, week-in, week-out. It can be dreary and overbearing and narrow-focused at times, but anything is better than bombardment by commercials and the same lame, derivative songs being repeated incessantly. Especially when there is a world of untapped music out there (thanks, Jen). At half-past noon, and when I twisted the key in the ignition to breathe life into the internal combustion heartbeat, jumping from the speakers was the pound, scratch and wheeze of zydeco... arguably the most fun there ever has been with an accordion in a band. An unholy mix of soul, polka, blues and pogo... there are few rhythms in this world so insistent upon the pulse, and the anathema to ass-sitting. It didn't hurt that the DJ was a certifiable genius and smartass. "Cowboy Fred": Texas-born, bayou-twanged, unaffected by the nation's capital and the stuffy atmosphere of jazz purism. New stuff, old stuff, snappy repartee with people in the studio and on the phone, the guts to play a lily-white country song on a inner city frequency, and a keen eye for the "tomatillos" (his tag for the ladies). And a good ear for making miles and minutes melt with a beat. How can you not love a station that boasts (or has boasted) such behind-the-mike luminaries as the "Cowboy", "Captain Fly", "Doctor Dick" and Papa Wabe? I think not. There is still hope for FM. Cheers to you,"Cowboy Fred". Check it out on the web. This day, another meterological rollercoaster, fought to defeat what little resoures I had left after the three-day walk through hell. The Speckled Beast tapping me on the nose with unbeared claws, four hours after lights out. Sporadic showers wetting down calf-high grass in the yard. Informing Miss Jane, hours after her return, that I'll be taking a mini tour of DC on Thursday and Friday... no recriminations, this time. No. I made fresh salsa verde. Grilled salmon. Endured the Cathedral Of Cheap Plastic Crap to get some paint to change the perspective in this dreary cottage. And spent three hours of the evening with a forgotten epic of a film, the Seven Samurai. A clangorous, spastic, silvery, thought-provoking and a satisfying interval spent for mind, soul, and adrenaline. No wonder I think most new movies are shite when there are masterpieces like this still around. Yet more to exerience, as well. And not only from the electronics. |
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