Night After Night

The hole truth?

(Posted this morning on the TONY Blog)

Up until Butthole Surfers frontman Gibby Haynes got arrested — or actually, y’know, didn’t  — for assaulting a monitor engineer last night at Webster Hall, I thought the smell permeating the space might be the corpse of late-’80s hardcore finally dissolving into a fetid gelatin. (Or maybe it was the last dregs of my pathetic youth.)

Don’t get me wrong: The spectacle of seeing the acid-damaged Texas psych-punk terrorists reunited in their finest five-piece form for the first time since 1989 — wrapping up a tour that marked the band’s first live appearances, period, since 2002 — was satisfying in a more-than-nostalgic way. Hell, seeing tandem drummers King Coffey and Teresa Taylor (the one who had a small part in Richard Linklater’s Slacker, it’s de rigeur to point out) together again would have been almost enough. But there was Jeff Pinkus, the band’s most sympatico bassist. And there was guitarist Paul Leary, his gaze unfixed on some distant point as he reeled off scuzzy riffs and gorgeously wounded leads.

But this tour, organized by Paul Green of the School of Rock, introduced an older, mellower Surfers, a band that seemed perfectly content to dish up proficient renditions of its demented classics. Most of the set list was drawn from the Surfers’ peerless Touch & Go catalog, augmented with a clutch of earlier tunes ("Suicide," "Cowboy Bob," "The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave") and a handful of well-chosen cuts from its major-label heyday. No sign whatsoever of the band’s freak alt-rock radio hit, "Pepper," and happily, no trace of its sad, bloodless swan song, Weird Revolution.

There was a video component, just like in the days of old — though Peanuts footage and a roller-coaster tracking shot were poor substitutes for, say, the graphic gender-reassignment surgery films of old. Later, at least, we got some viciously violent rodeo-accident scenes, Faces of Death III and what appeared to be a primitive circumcision ritual that involved improbable stretching and an ax. Ouch!

Throughout the set, the band was augmented, or even in some cases partially replaced, by players from Green’s School of Rock. There was nothing intrinsically troubling about this under the circumstances — it was even kind of charming to see three young women screaming and two sax-toting lads blurting throughout "Cowboy Bob."

But this is a band that in its most-notorious period offered flames, nudity, sex, chaos and completely genuine danger during its shows in the ’80s and very-early ’90s. What went down at Webster Hall was, by comparison, worthy of no more than a PG-13. MC Trachiotomy and th’ Terribleness, the NOLA act that played between an opening set of covers by the School of Rock kids and the Buttholes, was more genuinely confrontational — and even then, it practically boiled down to something like the J. Geils Band gone lounge-hop. (Excellent hula-hoop dancer, though.)

Haynes spent a lot of the show throwing silent hand gestures — and eventually a not-so-silent middle finger — toward the monitor engineer at the side of the stage, trying to get more sound. Finally, the vocalist lurched over to the board and — depending on which blogger you trust — shoved the guy, threw a punch or a beer bottle. (From my perspective Haynes shoved the guy, who took a swing back at him.)

Haynes went out to sing "Gary Floyd," after which he was escorted from the stage by security. Early reports from the crew and on Brooklyn Vegan said the singer had been arrested. (No, said BV commenters and Prefix mag: Haynes was escorted out -- at the request of his bandmates and manager, according to one caustic account -- then went for a drink at the Continental, and showed up as scheduled to DJ the after-party at Beauty Bar.)

Leary said the band would finish the show without Haynes, and closed with "The Shah Sleeps…," a song for which he had always been the lead vocalist, anyway. After the band left the stage, the crowd erupted in obscenities, hurling cups, water bottles and beer cans at smirking security guards. Recorded music came up but the lights stayed down, prompting sustained shouting for at least ten minutes. Genesis P-Orridge eventually sashayed out to the dead mike and tried to make peace, before being escorted off stage by another security guard.

Looking at the set lists posted on über-fan Jason Ramke’s website this morning, ironically, it seems that "Shah" had ended every show on the current tour. A skeptic might almost wonder whether the scene was just a last-minute bit of drama to close a show that was already done. Still: for just one brief, grotty moment it felt like 1988 all over again.

Setlist: 22 Going on 23 / Fast / Suicide / Moving to Florida / One Hundred Million People Dead / Some Dispute over T-Shirt Sales / Goofy's Concern / To Parter / Tornadoes / 1401 / Graveyard / Dust Devil / Ulcer Breakout / Rocky / Cowboy Bob / Cherub / Sweat Loaf / I Saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas / Gary Floyd / The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey's Grave

[Note: Ramke's setlist has "Jimi" and "Cartoon Song" before "X-Ray," leading directly into "Shah," as on the previous dates in this tour and the hand-written setlist for the June 24 tour opener in Asbury Park, NJ. But according to my notes "Jimi/Cartoon" was omitted and "Gary Floyd" was most certainly added, and I'm sticking to that account. Anal retentive, I know... but isn't that in keeping with my subject?]

Altered states.

"Minimalist Man Tries Organizing a Concert Series"
The New York Times, July 27, 2008

An article about Foster Reed (pictured left, in a photograph by Rochelle Redfield) and his invaluable new-music label, New Albion, which is celebrating its 25th anniversary with a 10-concert mini-festival at Bard College starting Friday. The label has played an important part in my own musical education for nearly as long... I remember picking up the Ingram Marshall disc with Fog Tropes and Gradual Requiem and the John Adams CD with Shaker Loops and Light Over Water back in college, probably around the time that the second Marshall disc, Alcatraz, was issued.

The festival looks absolutely amazing -- and I'm personally going to miss the entire thing. Still, I'm glad to have had an opportunity to call some attention to it. I wish there had been space enough to go into the specifics behind each program, because Reed applied the same sharp curatorial sense that has made New Albion such a treasure over the years. You can see a complete schedule of events here, including a succinct description of what makes each program tick. All told, it's a stupendous series that gives an accurate impression of Reed's pioneering work.

I had a great time speaking with Reed, Marshall, Sarah Cahill, Kyle Gann and Christopher Tignor for this piece. (And, as Kyle pointed out already, how great is it to see his face peering out of the Times?) I'd originally hoped to augment the article with a blog post here about the essential New Albion recordings -- some of which, like Rothko Chapel, you most likely own, and others that I discovered (Janice Giteck's HOME (revisited), Ira J. Mowitz's A la Memoire d'un Ami) or rediscovered (Carl Stone's Mom's) during the process of working on this article.

That might still happen at some point, but not tonight. No... because I'm stranded in a hotel room in Dallas, my flight back to New York (and two or three others) having been canceled due to inclement weather on the East Coast. I spent four hours in the airport vainly hoping (along with about 140 other stranded souls) to get on a later flight, then close to two more hours sitting outside the airport in the blazing heat, waiting for the "courtesy shuttle" to arrive. I have to get up for my return to the airport at an hour that qualifies as obscenely early (for me, anyway), so a long night of blogging is not in the cards.

Oh, but before I sign off, and on the record now: Kaija Saariaho's Adriana Mater at Santa Fe Opera last night was devastating. The piece is deep and probing, mysterious and dreamy, disturbing and provocative in a manner seldom encountered in the opera house.

The four principal vocalists were outstanding, a genuine feat given that two of them were under the weather during the dress rehearsal only two nights earlier. The electronic spatialization of the chorus, located in the orchestra pit and discreetly amplified, was far more noticeable and effective on Saturday night. Even the translation in the seat-back titles had been tweaked for the better: a subtle point that nonetheless underscores the tremendous care that Santa Fe poured into this elusive work.

The reception was overwhelmingly positive -- not a given with an opera so dark and demanding. The conductor Ernest Martinez Izquierdo, in his American debut, was revealed as an artist to watch closely. Even the weather participated: After a day of intermittently heavy showers, a rolling fog settled into the mountains behind the theater. Tendrils of mist that licked through the stage added an inadvertent but perfectly right element to Peter Sellars's moody minimalist staging.

Anchors aweigh.

What a sad, noble and beautiful opera Benjamin Britten's Billy Budd is, and how sharply and vividly are its passions enacted in the Paul Curran production currently being presented by the Santa Fe Opera, which I saw this evening (Friday, July 25). The main attraction here, one could argue, is the performance by Teddy Tahu Rhodes in the title role. Any interpretation leaves room for debate, of course, and one friend with whom I briefly spoke at intermission was unconvinced. But I found Rhodes pretty much perfect: a sterling singer, a fine physical specimen capable of swinging from ropes and climbing nets with gusto, and an actor who provided a pitch-perfect enactment of Budd's character: a swaggering charisma born from guilelessness, a pride too naive to avoid boastfulness.

Still, as Charles T. Downey of Ionarts reminded us in his rather brilliant preview, Billy Budd isn't especially its title character's opera; arguably, the most critical role is Vere (the Peter Pears part, naturally), the ardent, dreamy tenor-pitched captain who recognizes the ultimate cause of Budd's undoing, yet fails to stop it. William Burden sang (and enunciated!) gorgeously, eliciting pity for a character whose private transgression seems nearly beyond pardon.

I initially found Peter Rose not nearly blackhearted enough in the role of Claggart, the master-at-arms whose envy and desire cause him to target Budd for destruction. (Kelly Markgraf, in the minor role of the Bosun, was far more immediately loathsome.) But I came to adjust that view; the softness with which Claggart fondled the kerchief he'd compelled Budd to remove spoke to resisted passions that explained his actions better than any mustachio-twirling malevolence would have done.

The supporting cast was uniformly strong, with especially fine contributions from Keith Jameson, an especially sweet-voiced Novice, and Thomas Hammons, a crusty but sensitive Dansker. (Also worth noting is Richard Stilwell, the Metropolitan Opera's first Billy Budd, cast here as first lieutenant Mr. Redburn.) Robert Innes Hopkins provided a simple but effective set, with a deck that raised to show the crew quarters and Budd's prison cell. Susanne Sheston's chorus was drilled to rousing effect, and Edo de Waart presided over a keenly balanced, sharply detailed account of a score more attractive than I'd remembered. This was the first time I saw the opera performed live, and I was deeply moved by this production.

Admittedly, all of this was a bonus -- which extended to a happy reunion with Lisa Hirsch of Iron Tongue renown, as well as discovering that the gent sitting next to me was none other than Ionarts maven Downey himself! See, it wasn't Billy Budd that brought me to Santa Fe; I came here for Saturday night's American premiere of Kaija Saariaho's Adriana Mater -- another excellent preview by Downey here -- and specifically to interview the composer prior to her upcoming Mostly Mozart Festival residency. I saw the dress rehearsal of Adriana on Thursday night, about which it would be improper to comment formally. (Informally, then: stunning.)

Chatting with Saariaho on Friday morning was yet another reminder of the remarkable privileges my work provides. And truly, this entire trip so far -- American Airlines agita aside -- has been a magical tonic after the past few weeks' worth of toil and challenge. Last time I was in Santa Fe was 20 years ago on a college band trip, which means this is like getting to know the place all over again. I've consumed some more-than-decent enchiladas, and spent some quality time in the presence of exceptional works by Georgia O'Keeffe and Ansel Adams at the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum this afternoon.

When I first arrived here on Thursday afternoon, I drove from the Albuquerque airport to Santa Fe. Motoring though side-by-side showers of sun and rain, I missed the turn for my hotel. By the time I reached the exit for the Santa Fe Opera, I realized I'd gone too far, so I made a U-turn at the next exit on the highway. Driving back toward town, I saw something I'd never seen before: a double rainbow.

This place is magical. Why didn't I come here sooner?

Alma brasileira.

José Feghali at the Michael Schimmel Center for the Performing Arts
The New York Times, July 16, 2008

Pilgrim's progress.

"A Composer Forever English, Cows and All"
The New York Times, July 13, 2008

Meant to be posted yesterday but delayed due to Typepad shenanigans, here's an article marking the 50th anniversary of the passing of English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. Specifically, the article focuses on two recent audio and video releases meant to mark the anniversary: O Thou Transcendent, an elaborate, imaginative documentary by filmmaker Tony Palmer, and The Collector's Edition, a budget-priced 30-CD boxed set from EMI Classics that contains the bulk of Vaughan Williams's output.

I started the article by examining variations of the well-worn trope comparing the music of Vaughan Williams, or one or another of his pieces, to some iteration of a bovine nature. Looking at the story on the Times web site, I couldn't help but notice that if you look at the top of your browser, there's a slight variation on the title the article was given: "A Composer Forever English, Cow Pats and All." (Emphasis added, of course.)

Anyone who follows this blog, and specifically the playlists that appear near the bottom of most posts, already knows that I'm a passionate admirer of Vaughan Williams's music. I've mentioned it several times here, at one point (if memory serves) stating that his nine symphonies constituted quite possibly the most overlooked major cycle of the 20th century. I still think so. I never get tired of these works.

There was, I admit, one thing I intended to include in the article that in the end didn't make it. Near the end, I call Vernon Handley's Royal Liverpool Philharmonic symphony cycle (which is included in The Collector's Edition) "perhaps the most consistently rewarding cycle available." That "perhaps" was unnecessary, I think; it's mostly there in deference to Adrian Boult, whose two cycles provide vital insight and no end of pleasure. Originally, I'd hoped to cite a few instances of important non-cycle symphony recordings, with which one could (and should) augment any cycle. In the end there was no space for that particular detour, so I think that could become a blog project.

Mainly, though, I'm surprised at myself for not finding a way to mention a piece I hold especially dear: the Symphony No. 8, without question the one that I go back to most frequently just for the sheer pleasure of it. Vaughan Williams wrote the piece between 1953 and 1955, when he was in his eighties; John Barbirolli, to whom it was dedicated, gave the first performance with his Hallé Orchestra in 1956, and recorded it soon after.

The first movement, Fantasia (Variazioni senza tema), opens with a gentle trumpet fanfare in rising fourths, followed by shimmering figures on vibraphone and celesta, a new melody on solo flute, and finally a surging melody in the strings. Rather than strictly developing these elements, Vaughan Williams proceeds through a series of variations, any one of which might have served as a source for the elements in the enigmatic opening sequence, which return in the end.

Scherzo alla marcia, the second movement, is scored for winds and brass alone, deployed with a confidence and style honed through his earlier writing for wind band -- Toccata marziale, Sea Songs and Variations are pieces with which any former band player will be familiar. The movement has plenty of charm, but in more successful performances those brittle trumpet fanfares ought to have something of Shostakovich's acidic bite, especially coming as they do on either side of a gentle trio section.

The third movement, Cavatina, is for strings only. The main theme of the movement bears a similarity to Bach's "O Sacred Head, Now Wounded," one of Vaughan Williams's relatively few clear nods to a composer whose works he must have known intimately, given a lifetime of work in church music and the British choral tradition. It's a characteristically gorgeous string reverie, with lovely solos for violin and cello.

Toccata, a boisterous finale that wavers between major and minor, includes a trio of tuned gongs, not an instrument closely associated with Vaughan Williams, Barbirolli or the Hallé. I'd often read that this was inspired by Puccini's Turandot, and in Tony Palmer's documentary Ursula Vaughan Williams explains the story: She compelled her husband to take her to a performance of the opera, but they were so late in acquiring tickets that they ended up on the front row overlooking the pit.

Vaughan Williams, Ursula said, spent much of the first act watching the percussionists, and at intermission sent her away to have a drink while he lingered to chat with the players. (She also noted that orchestra managers have been angry with her ever since: the gongs, she notes, are expensive to rent!) The final stretch of the symphony is a glorious orgy of clanging tubular bells, sweeping harp, splashing cymbal, rackety xylophone and regal brass.

If you've acquired the Handley cycle (or plan to), you're well set with his Eighth. Handey's tempos are on the fast side, but he has the work's variable character down pat. His ensemble plays well, and is exceptionally well recorded -- a critical element in this piece, with its wide dynamic range and diversity of timbres.

Anyone who loves this piece will also have to have Barbirolli's original recording from 1956. Sure, the Hallé could be a scrappy orchestra; the brasses blat and the strings aren't always altogether polished. But no other account is so robust and flavorful, and only in this recording -- made by the Mercury Living Presence team, and exceptional for its vintage -- do you hear the tuned gongs in the finale as Vaughan Williams meant them to be heard. (There are two live recordings by Barbirolli floating around, but the studio version, currently available on Dutton, is the one to get.)

Leonard Slatkin's Philharmonia Orchestra account for RCA Red Seal, out of print but not hard to track down, is the most exquisitely recorded version of the Eighth, and arguably the most deftly balanced. Slatkin lacks a bit in the charm department, but yields to no one in terms of clarity and atmosphere. (Honestly, Slatkin's entire cycle deserves to be reissued.)

Adrian Boult recorded the Eighth twice, first for Decca in 1956 and later for EMI in 1969, both times in stereo. The first version, while perhaps remarkable for its time, is no longer competitive from a sonic perspective and not an especially rewarding interpretation, either. The second version is much, much finer, a leisurely account with many telling details and a good honest recording. Only occasional noises and the clack of celeste keys preclude a recommendation as high as those for Handley, Barbirolli and Slatkin.

As for what's left: André Previn is a reliably fine interpreter of Vaughan Williams's music, but his Eighth, currently available in an otherwise highly recommended RCA box set, sounds rather bad -- some have suggested that the master tape was allowed to deteriorate. Bernard Haitink's London Philharmonic set is well recorded but more often than not a crashing bore, and that's certainly the case in his lugubrious Eighth. Richard Hickox, usually admirable in Vaughan Williams, doesn't get much out of the Eighth in his current Chandos recording.

Bryden Thomson's earlier Chandos cycle is solid enough; his Eighth is neither objectionable nor particularly special. Andrew Davis, on Warner Classics, plays around with the tempi a bit too liberally; balances downplay the more magical qualities, especially in the first movement, and the playing often lacks polish; on the other hand, Davis's Scherzo alla marcia is quite good. I don't know the Kees Bakels recording on Naxos particularly well, but apart from slightly driven tempi it does seem to be a solid, sane representation for the budget-minded. (I haven't heard the 1964 Stokowski recording with the BBC Symphony Orchestra in ages, and accordingly don't feel qualified to judge.)

I've come to seriously doubt that I'll ever get to hear a live performance of the Vaughan Williams Eighth, but for anyone who's curious, Mark Elder will be conducting the Hallé Orchestra in a performance of the work at the BBC Proms on July 29; the performance will be broadcast live on the Internet, and will be available for streaming for seven days afterward courtesy of BBC Radio 3.

Playlist:

Ralph Vaughan Williams - Symphony No. 8 - Philharmonia Orchestra/Leonard Slatkin (RCA); Hallé Orchestra/John Barbirolli (Dutton); London Philharmonic Orchestra/Adrian Boult (Decca); London Symphony Orchestra/André Previn (RCA); London Symphony Orchestra/Richard Hickox (Chandos); London Symphony Orchestra/Bryden Thomson (Chandos); London Philharmonic Orchestra/Bernard Haitink (EMI Classics); Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra/Vernon Handley (EMI Classics); London Philharmonic Orchestra/Adrian Boult (EMI Classics); BBC Symphony Orchestra/Andrew Davis (Warner Classics); Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra/Kees Bakels (Naxos)

Duke Ellington - At Fargo 1940: Special 60th Anniversary Edition (Storyville)

Ingram Marshall - Fog Tropes; Gradual Requiem; Gambuh I (New Albion)

Back for more.

I never saw At the Gates "back in the day," so to speak, so I can't compare last night's show at Irving Plaza to what the band might have sounded like when they last played here 12 years ago. In 1996 I was barely keeping up with what was new in metal at all, and certainly hadn't heard that a group from Gothenburg, Sweden, of all places, had helped to invent a new strain of death metal by introducing -- believe it or not -- catchy melodies and sing-along choruses.

Between 1990 and 1995 At the Gates recorded an EP and four full-length albums, each more proficient and catchier than the last, culminating in Slaughter of the Soul, the band's sole release on the fabled Earache label and an album pretty much unanimously hailed as a benchmark of the genre. Wider recognition, even mainstream success, were probably within grasp.

Instead, At the Gates broke up in a storm of acrimony. Three members -- sibling guitarist and bassist Anders and Jonas Björler and drummer Adrian Erlandsson (briefly) -- went on to form tough-as-nails metalcore band the Haunted, which I caught twice in 2001 at CBGB and Limelight -- both times with a fledgling Lamb of God. Martin Larsson, the other guitarist, took up with another Swedish band, Fifth Reason. And frontman Tomas Lindberg (pictured above in a photograph taken by Matthias Westfalk at a Tokyo show in May, from the official At the Gates website) became a journeyman vocalist, working with bands like the Crown, the Great Deceiver, Lock Up and most recently Disfear.

In the years since At the Gates split, most of the other seminal Gothenburg bands (primarily In Flames and Dark Tranquility) veered closer and closer to commercial acceptability, but lost the essential ferocity of their early work. The Gothenburg sound, meanwhile, was vastly influential, with American acts like the Black Dahlia Murder, Darkest Hour and the hugely successful Killswitch Engage picking up where At the Gates left off.

Just what brought At the Gates back together this year is unclear; according to various interviews, talk of a reunion had been afloat for some time now, but this was the first time that all the pieces fell into place. No new material was written; no new album is planned. Basically, the "Suicidal Final Tour" is five old friends patching up burnt bridges and reaping the benefits of a sterling reputation that was never blighted by commercial compromise or diminishing inspiration.

I got to Irving Plaza too late to see Municipal Waste, a rowdy thrash-metal band from Richmond, VA, or the aforementioned Darkest Hour, a charismatic group I caught at Ozzfest in 2004. At the Gates took the stage at 9:55pm sharp, and blazed its way through a tight set that leaned heavily on songs from Slaughter of the Soul, with tracks from all of its earlier records thrown in for the true believers.

I'd have to guess that new fans outnumbered old ones two-to-one. Still, so many audience members sang along that from my perspective up in the balcony, it sounded something like a massed football chant. Lindberg was a gregarious frontman, and there was a merciful lack of dead time between songs in the fast-paced, well-oiled presentation.

Irving Plaza was steamy like Bangkok and as rank as a post-game gym locker. The floor erupted into mosh pits constantly, with an especially dramatic whirlpool whooshing around in the dark to the pre-recorded industrial noise track that prefaced the first song of the band's encore: "Blinded by Fear," the ripping opener from Slaughter of the Soul. Lindberg, always addressing himself to the "ladies and gentlemen" present, repeatedly expressed the band's appreciation at the warm welcome. At one point he confessed to having goosebumps -- not especially metal, but endearingly honest.

The first of the summer's two least likely metal reunions, then, was a complete success and a joyous occasion, one I feel privileged to have attended. And on a purely personal note, if you've noticed a crabby tension in certain politically motivated posts (to which it was probably unfair to subject you) during the last week or so, you can surely understand why bouncing and buckling in place to just over an hour's worth of slamming death metal with sing-along choruses was exactly what I needed.

And now, the summer's other least likely reunion -- the mighty Carcass -- can't arrive soon enough.

Setlist: Slaughter of the Soul / Cold / Terminal Spirit Disease / Raped by the Light of Christ / Under a Serpent Sun / Windows / World of Lies / The Burning Darkness / The Swarm / Forever Blind / Nausea / The Beautiful Wound / Suicide Nation / All Life Ends / Need // Encore: Blinded by Fear / Kingdom Gone

Playlist:

Miley Cyrus - Breakout (Hollywood, out July 22)

Entombed - Left Hand Path (Earache)

Ralph Vaughan Williams - A London Symphony; Sinfonia Antartica; Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis - London Philharmonic Orchestra/Bernard Haitink (EMI Classics)

Carcass - Symphonies of Sickness (Earache)

Joan Jeanrenaud - Strange Toys (Talking House)

Tangerine Dream - Nebulous Dawn (The Early Years) (Castle) and Rockface: Tangerine Dream Live in Berkeley 1988 (TDI download)

At the Gates - Slaughter of the Soul (Earache)

Caroline Herring - Lantana (Signature Sounds)

Worth less.

The downward spiral continues: According to a recent declaration from the Environmental Protection Agency, the "value of a statistical life" in America is $6.9 million, down a million dollars from just five years ago. Sounds like a punchline, but Associated Press science writer Seth Borenstein spells out what it actually means:

When drawing up regulations, government agencies put a value on human life and then weigh the costs versus the lifesaving benefits of a proposed rule. The less a life is worth to the government, the less the need for a regulation, such as tighter restrictions on pollution.

Consider, for example, a hypothetical regulation that costs $18 billion to enforce but will prevent 2,500 deaths. At $7.8 million per person (the old figure), the lifesaving benefits outweigh the costs. But at $6.9 million per person, the rule costs more than the lives it saves, so it may not be adopted.

The article reports that some concerned parties have reached an obvious conclusion: that the Bush administration is handling math and science with its usual creative flair, in order to ward off regulations that might prove costly to its own vested interests, and those of its deep-pocketed friends. The official reponse:

Agency officials say they were just following what the science told them.

You can read the entire article here.

Prickly heat.

Washington Square Music Festival Ensemble in Washington Square Park
The New York Times, July 10, 2008

Summer, minus the garden.

The Attacca Quartet at the Museum of Modern Art
The New York Times, July 8, 2008

What's in a word?

The word waterboarding has become a familiar part of American conversation during the last year or so, but in practical terms it still remains something out of black-ops fiction. That's why controversial author Christopher Hitchens agreed to a challenge from Vanity Fair editor-in-chief Graydon Carter and submitted to a waterboarding session at the hands of specialists whose normal job is to train soldiers how to resist the technique. Hitchens's report appears in the August issue of the magazine, and it's also available online.

Potentially more persuasive to the masses, however, is this disturbing video of the ordeal. I won't spoil it for you; it's short and you should see it yourself. Shame that Vanity Fair doesn't allow embedding the video, but I suspect it'll be viewed plenty anyway. (I'm sure lots of folks will claim that the lousy atheist had it coming, too.) Grim musical relevance: Try not to shudder at the use of "O Fortuna" from Orff's Carmina burana in the loud, obnoxious dance-mix soundtrack to which Hitchens is also subjected. (Thanks to my colleague Elisabeth Vincentelli, a.k.a. The Determined Dilettante, for the pointer.)