"About Her"
One of the most influential people in modern musical history passed away yesterday. Malcolm McLaren, aged 64, lost his battle with mesothelioma. McLaren was the man behind the New York Dolls and quite possibly the most important band of the punk rock genre, The Sex Pistols. As manager of the Sex Pistols, he was the central figure behind the band's craziest and most iconic moments. He helped orchestrate the release of "God Save the Queen" during the Queen's Silver Jubilee. He had the band performed on boat on the Thames so he can have them perform in front of the House of Parliament. A musician in his own right, McLaren's influence was seen in a variety of ways in the music world. His song, "Buffalo Gals", was sampled and referenced to in Eminem's "Without Me".
My introduction to McLaren was through his song "About Her" appearing in a pivotal scene in one of my favourite films by my favourite director--Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill (Vol. 2). Sometimes a great scene needs the right bit of music to truly create the perfect mood and atmosphere. There's this great chill in the air when the song starts playing in the movie. The protagonist, the Bride, has a major dilemma on her hands; she has just learned that the entire basis for her mission to get revenge has been misguided. The rhythm, as well the lyrics, complement the Bride's dilemma perfectly.
One of the things I admire about Tarantino is his ability to match great music to his great scenes. He has never used an original score in his films and in a strange way it works in his favour. His latest film "Inglourious Basterds" takes place in World War II and he takes no shame in taking liberties with history (and of course spelling). And that's why it's only fitting he uses a David Bowie song from the 80s as the perfect way to encapsulate the mood needed to start the film's final chapter.
Whether it's from your iPod or in a movie theatre, music and sound have this great power of creating familiar feelings and emotions, sometimes in very unconventional ways.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Sense of Taste
The Last Meal
The sense of taste is the most powerful of them all. We all have food related memories. One could be transported to a much happier place, just by biting into a plump, juicy orange. If there is one thing that all cultures have in common, it's a strong culinary tradition.
In the United States, right before their execution, death row inmates have the chance at one last meal; one that is totally up to them. Professional chefs like to play a game called "the last meal" in which they describe their own last death row meal; one final chance to eat like a king or queen. For the most part, however, chefs do not pick an elaborate or elegant meal, akin to one found on their restaurant menus. Rather, they choose something simple, a comfort food, or a meal mom would often make when they were a child.
My last meal would be a simple one, as well. I would start with the Colonel's fried chicken (also a popular choice amongst professional chefs). My friends would say that I have an unhealthy addiction to KFC and I probably do agree with them. I often joke that, one of those secret 11 herbs and spices must be crack. KFC is a perfect balance of crispy, greasy, juicy goodness. For a second course, I would pick a meal of fried hilsa fish, caramelized onions, and plain white rice, with it have to be prepared by my Aunt Barbara from Queens, NY. The dish is arguably the national dish of Bangladesh. The hilsa is an incredibly flavourful fish; it has this incredible bold salty flavour, which marries well with the traditional spices it is prepared with, turmeric and chili powder. To complement the first course, the hilsa or ilish has a scrumptious oilyness. The onions balance things out by adding a nice rich, sweet accent. And the rice...well I wouldn't be Bengali without it. The condition that it has to be made by Aunt Barbara stems from the fact that she is the best cook I have ever known. You can really taste her hard work and dedication in each bite. It also triggers some of my happier times of my childhood, those beautiful summers spent in New York.
What would your last meal be?
The sense of taste is the most powerful of them all. We all have food related memories. One could be transported to a much happier place, just by biting into a plump, juicy orange. If there is one thing that all cultures have in common, it's a strong culinary tradition.
In the United States, right before their execution, death row inmates have the chance at one last meal; one that is totally up to them. Professional chefs like to play a game called "the last meal" in which they describe their own last death row meal; one final chance to eat like a king or queen. For the most part, however, chefs do not pick an elaborate or elegant meal, akin to one found on their restaurant menus. Rather, they choose something simple, a comfort food, or a meal mom would often make when they were a child.
My last meal would be a simple one, as well. I would start with the Colonel's fried chicken (also a popular choice amongst professional chefs). My friends would say that I have an unhealthy addiction to KFC and I probably do agree with them. I often joke that, one of those secret 11 herbs and spices must be crack. KFC is a perfect balance of crispy, greasy, juicy goodness. For a second course, I would pick a meal of fried hilsa fish, caramelized onions, and plain white rice, with it have to be prepared by my Aunt Barbara from Queens, NY. The dish is arguably the national dish of Bangladesh. The hilsa is an incredibly flavourful fish; it has this incredible bold salty flavour, which marries well with the traditional spices it is prepared with, turmeric and chili powder. To complement the first course, the hilsa or ilish has a scrumptious oilyness. The onions balance things out by adding a nice rich, sweet accent. And the rice...well I wouldn't be Bengali without it. The condition that it has to be made by Aunt Barbara stems from the fact that she is the best cook I have ever known. You can really taste her hard work and dedication in each bite. It also triggers some of my happier times of my childhood, those beautiful summers spent in New York.
What would your last meal be?
Famous food industry heavyweights discuss their death row meal (around the 7:00 minute mark).
View From Up Above
Flying Man
Between the heavens and the earth, it all looks very different. Whitfield and deserts become interchangeable. Lush green forests transform into something recognizable, like those scarves grandma used to make, ready in time for late spring. At this altitude, one truly gets a full scope of all the fruits of God's creation and Man's labour.
But seeing and experiencing are two entirely different entities. We were never meant to view the world from 20, 000 feet up in the air, let alone practically live there. That is, if you can call living out of a carry-on on a 747 living.
My life is dominated by three letter places, like JFK, YYZ, LAX, microwaved meals, crying kids and their useless and helpless parents. There are the occasional and temporary lapses in this monotonous life I live. I never tire of the sweat-drenched faces of boonieland bumpkins, as they sit beside someone wearing a religious or ethnic outfit. Hell, sometimes I go weeks without shaving, just so I can see that priceless expression. But those moments are far and between.
I often envy those people frustrated at a flight board filled with cancellations and delays. To me there isn't a more beautiful view.
Between the heavens and the earth, it all looks very different. Whitfield and deserts become interchangeable. Lush green forests transform into something recognizable, like those scarves grandma used to make, ready in time for late spring. At this altitude, one truly gets a full scope of all the fruits of God's creation and Man's labour.
But seeing and experiencing are two entirely different entities. We were never meant to view the world from 20, 000 feet up in the air, let alone practically live there. That is, if you can call living out of a carry-on on a 747 living.
My life is dominated by three letter places, like JFK, YYZ, LAX, microwaved meals, crying kids and their useless and helpless parents. There are the occasional and temporary lapses in this monotonous life I live. I never tire of the sweat-drenched faces of boonieland bumpkins, as they sit beside someone wearing a religious or ethnic outfit. Hell, sometimes I go weeks without shaving, just so I can see that priceless expression. But those moments are far and between.
I often envy those people frustrated at a flight board filled with cancellations and delays. To me there isn't a more beautiful view.
March Break
Back to Silverstone Park
Over the last few weeks, I have been on a major nostalgia trip. To me the thought of growing older, 18 in May, then graduating from high school and going off to university is scary. When the break started, it dawned on me that this would be the last of them. In a year's time, March Breaks will evolve into Reading Weeks, in the still chilly and snowy month of February.
This break, I took it upon myself to make a pilgrimage to Silverstone Park, in my old stomping grounds of Rexdale. It was only fitting to spend a portion of my last March Break in the very place I spent the majority of my March Breaks. Silverstone Park is a rather nondescript public park. There's a few trees, some sets of swings, a slide, and some sort of monkey bar apparatus. However, the rather limited offerings never seemed to matter. As I looked around the empty park on that Tuesday afternoon, I remembered the many inventive ways we used the park. It was a clubhouse, a soccer field, a baseball diamond, a cricket ground. The older Italian gentleman of the neighbourhood used to spend the breezy summer evenings playing bocce. I'm unsure if those games still go on. A couple of years ago Carmelo, a stalworth on the Silverstone bocce circuit and my next door neighbour, passed away of a heart attack.
Over the last few weeks, I have been on a major nostalgia trip. To me the thought of growing older, 18 in May, then graduating from high school and going off to university is scary. When the break started, it dawned on me that this would be the last of them. In a year's time, March Breaks will evolve into Reading Weeks, in the still chilly and snowy month of February.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Conflict
Silence Begets Violence
A young man is shot dead.
A victim of cruel and unjust violence.
At his funeral, his mother, his siblings
His friends all mourn the loss of a young soul.
But the sombre and solemnity is broken up,
By the eerily similar sounding gunfire.
A man, remorseless and shameless, pulls out a glock
And another young man is shot dead.
Cries of mourning change
And they become cries of shock.
The rendition of "Amazing Grace"
Drowned out by sirens of police cars and ambulances.
Years pass and the cycle continues.
Death after senseless death.
The vast majority:
Without convictions nor major suspects.
But we all know the killers.
Choosing not to go forward with our knowledge,
Fearful of the inevitable ramifications.
"If I speak up, will I be next?"
The real conflict lies not in two gangs.
But, the conflict lies in our souls.
Our conscience slowly rots
As we remain silent.
Inspired by the tragic loss of Amon Beckles.
A young man is shot dead.
A victim of cruel and unjust violence.
At his funeral, his mother, his siblings
His friends all mourn the loss of a young soul.
But the sombre and solemnity is broken up,
By the eerily similar sounding gunfire.
A man, remorseless and shameless, pulls out a glock
And another young man is shot dead.
Cries of mourning change
And they become cries of shock.
The rendition of "Amazing Grace"
Drowned out by sirens of police cars and ambulances.
Years pass and the cycle continues.
Death after senseless death.
The vast majority:
Without convictions nor major suspects.
But we all know the killers.
Choosing not to go forward with our knowledge,
Fearful of the inevitable ramifications.
"If I speak up, will I be next?"
The real conflict lies not in two gangs.
But, the conflict lies in our souls.
Our conscience slowly rots
As we remain silent.
Inspired by the tragic loss of Amon Beckles.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Magic
WHAT?! You Mean He's Not Real?
In the Western world, there is no character nor concept more magical than Santa Claus. Santa Claus personifies magic more than any Las Vegas casino act. Throughout the year, he has the power to document all those that are good and bad. Every Christmas season, he magically appears at malls and parades across the world; sometimes being in more than two places at a time! Criss Angel has nothing on him. And when was the last time you saw David Blaine sailing a sleigh across the sky on Christmas Eve, propelled not by petrol or propane mind you, but by reindeer... reindeer! Then he goes onto chute down every chimney in the world, delivering to kids the exact presents they wanted.
All these things are truly magical, but the real magic of Santa Claus lies in how parents have the heart (or lack thereof) to lie to their own children and claim Santa Claus is real; only for them to crush that magic 17 years later. Mom and dad thanks for making this past Christmas the least magical of them all.
Going Into a Picture
Tiananmen Square ‘89
Who am I in this scene?
Am I the man or am I a tank?
Do I make stands or do I take them?
Am I the oppressed or am I the oppressor?
Am I the man?
Am I one standing out of the crowd?
Am I defiant in defending my beliefs?
Do I feel an inevitable battalion coming after me?
Do I go along in life without companions,
Have the courage and strength,
To look coldly at my enemies,
Unfazed and unwavered by the bevy of consequences?
Perhaps I’m a tank.
Am I one in an army of many?
Am I powerful and bloodthirsty?
Do I dare run this man down?
Do I take orders from a higher power,
Conforming out of fear and necessity,
To persecute those straying from the pack,
Apathetic to whether or not I’m doing the right thing?
The fact is that I’m both, we’re all both.
In this world of 7 billion and counting,
It’s not possible to be alone in any cause,
Nor is it to fully share one either.
What we see here is merely a glimpse,
No one truly knows what happened before or after,
Because a picture is a single scene,
In the multi-act production that is the world.
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