Moulin Rouge


In France, it’s just an ordinary name:

.                             it means “red mill,”

.                   a place to bring your grain;

.        back then, the massive millstone’s rumble

.                             thundered to the rafters,

kicking up a storm of dust that plastered


sweaty skin with shards of grain and dimmed

.                             the lamplight’s shine

.                   and made the shadows spin.

.         Back then, a different bump and grind

.                             brought patrons there:

a meal inviting them to taste, not stare.


Now, faster than it takes the feminine

.                               farine to rise

.                   into the masculine—le pain—

.         lithe dancers swirl before our eyes.

.                             These graceful nudes

bake up a more exhilarating food.


© 2008 Al Hudgins


The Sinai Negotiations

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbHThe recent discovery, in a cave near the Sinai desert, of what appears to be new source material concerning the composition of the Ten Commandments has caused considerable stir in rabbinical and ecclesiastical enclaves around the world. There is no dispute that it is authentic to the period…the object, a voluminous parchment made of cured goatskin, has been certified as being of sufficient antiquity, and the substances utilized in making the inscriptions upon it have been carefully analyzed and confirmed to be part human blood, part the juice of a berry indigenous to the region. There is a subsidiary flurry of excitement in some circles about the possibility that this blood, and the DNA it contains, might actually have belonged to Moses himself, for so the text strongly suggests…and the idea that the venerable prophet might one day be cloned has theologians at certain seminaries and universities in considerable uproar as to the ethical and religious ramifications of resurrecting Moses in this way.

But others have focused on the insights provided in the text itself, which appears to take the form of notes of a conversation between Moses and this deity with a divine name so holy an acronym was required—YHWH, or Yahweh—to avoid speaking the name out loud. One of the accounts in the Old Testament book of Exodus reports that Moses was away on the summit of Mt. Sinai for “forty days and forty nights,” although other accounts, including the material adjacent to the text of the Commandments themselves in the book’s twentieth chapter, indicate that Moses was on the mountain for a shorter duration and may have also had his brother, the priest Aaron, along with him when the text of the Commandments was first revealed. However, this newly-acquired text appears to favor that more familiar tradition, written, it is quite clear, during a longer period of isolation, as is immediately suggested by its opening entry:


After all this time here, all these countless days of talking with you, I am burdened by a great turmoil inside my head and feel I must attempt to preserve some of these ideas by writing them down.

You do not need to, said YHWH. I will help you remember. But if it helps to calm the tempest within you, I will bring a wild goat into your midst, which you may slay and offer as sacrifice, and then its skin, which I will cure, may receive your words.

And what shall I use to write upon the skin?

Crush the berries of that shrub beyond you and use your finger as a stylus.

You think of everything, I said and then did as I was told. So it is that I hold in my hands this skin, which YHWH has cured, and I will write down with my finger, dipped in the crushed juice of the berries I have collected, the words that pass between us.

Are you ready now? I was asked.


I have tried to be subtle in my influence over you my chosen people, and even though I knew it wouldn’t work, I tried it anyway, so you could realize that I did.

Are all the things you say going to be this complicated?

You see? That’s part of the problem. Your human need to simplify everything.

We are a people easily distracted. Why did you not give us the concentration and dedication you gave even to the lowly ants? They are never idle and always so intent upon the task before them.

Well, yes they are, but tedious to watch for more than a few minutes. There are no surprises. I like surprises. Why would I have created humankind otherwise?

This is something the priests continually discuss: the unworthiness of man.

Humankind. Be more inclusive.

I do not know what you mean.

Yes, I know. But let us not ourselves become distracted by such trivial matters as what preoccupies priests. I will address that problem later.

Well, yes, that can be difficult sometimes. At least you do not have one for a brother.

You are going to run out of berries before I can even begin.

Yes, let me go crush a few more.


I rose up and performed the necessary tasks and then once again sat before the presence of the LORD, awaiting his holy word, my finger dripping with the juice of the new berries I had crushed.

So, I said, you were telling me that you had tried to be subtle and that this had not worked.

I see now what I saw before but did not want to accept: that humankind often needs things summarized more simply. While I know that actually there is a need for as many laws as there are individual human beings—for each person requires a unique combination of laws unlike that for any other person—still I know such an arrangement would just be confusing to you all…at least for the time being.

Yes, I am afraid I am already confused.

So I am prepared to summarize things with a few general laws that should apply to everyone. Let’s start with what is simple and hope humankind might yearn for what is not.

“Yearn for what is not?”


I am sorry: my head is as thick as the blocks we used to haul back in Egypt.

Let us hope humankind yearns, one day, for what is not so simple.

Oh, yes. I see now. All right. I have that down. Simple first. Complicated later.

Something like that.

So you are going to give me a few simple laws that everyone must follow?

Yes. You don’t have to write them down. I shall make you a copy.

That would be good. I am running out of berries.

Let us begin. These are the things I command you as my chosen people.

So, not “laws” then, but “commandments”?

They are the laws I command you to follow.

Which should I call them, though?

What matters is what they say, not what you call them.

Still…I have to call them something. Would it be all right with you if I call them “commandments”?

If that will allow us to proceed.

Fine. Thank you. I am ready now to receive the first commandment.

You do not need to count them.

I am sorry. Just my way. I am always counting things.

I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery…

Oh, I see, like a little preamble, that. Let me get it down…

I will make you a copy. Just listen.

It helps me to focus if I can see it on the skin. I think I have it down so far.

Very well. Let me get to the point: you shall have no other gods besides me.

Did you say besides or before? There was a bit of wind kicking up at that moment and I did not hear…

Do you wish to provoke the wrath of the Almighty? Concentrate on what is being told to you.

No other gods. I understand. Well, that would follow, certainly. Why should you want us to divide our attention amongst all the competition?

There IS no competition.

Yes, I take your point. You are to be preeminent. First among all gods.

You are missing the point. There are no other gods.

Right. Quite right. It is good to be forceful about such a thing. I will make sure I place the proper emphasis when I proclaim this to the people below.

Look. You shall not make for yourself any of these invented gods. Not idols. Not statues. Not fetishes to wear around your neck. Not images from the sky over your head nor anything wandering on the earth at your feet nor anything that swims in the seas.

I think I have all that. Just let me grab the last of the berries.

There will not be enough. You should prick your finger when you run out of berries.

Ah. What a good idea! No wonder you are the LORD, the Holy One of Israel, and I am but a mumbling Midianite shepherd.

So, do you understand what has been spoken to you? You are not to make up gods when you have the real one to worship already.

Right. No bird gods, like the Egyptians. No water gods—carvings of Leviathan or a giant octopus or some incredibly long eel or something. No gods carved to look like animals. Do you really think we would do that?

They are talking to Aaron right now about fashioning a god out of gold, and they want him to make it in the form of a cow.

They want to worship a gold cow?

They miss drinking milk.

They are doing that now? Should I go down there and knock some sense into them?

We are not finished here. I will deal with the cow presently.

So, no idols. Got it. Do not make them. Do not worship them. You do not want any competition for our devotion. You are a jealous god…

When did I say that? The point is that no other gods exist.

Yes, you have been quite forceful on that matter. I do understand. If we worship these other gods, we will be punished, oh, say to the third and fourth generations…because you alone are the one we should worship. We worship you alone and things are good for a thousand generations.

You do have a weakness for numbers. It is clouding your wisdom to be so preoccupied by them.

I am as you made me, LORD. I will try to let you show me how to grace my wisdom with understanding.

There are no other gods. Do not make any.

Yes, I have that. Should that be one commandment or two?

You are doing it again.

Ah. Sorry. I will sort that out later. Should we move on?

Do you understand about the holy power of my name?

Yes, I have all that about the Y.H.W.H. standing in for what you told me at the burning bush…“I am that…”

Why are you speaking out loud the holy name?

Right. Sorry. You were speaking about its power.

You must not misuse it. You must not say it in trivial situations…or use it when you make your curses.

That will not be an easy commandment for us, I can tell you already. It is so apt at times. Nothing else quite expresses what that expresses.

Do you not understand how that makes me feel to hear it? I am the author of compassion, the one who instructs my chosen people how to care for one another. It is only natural that I would feel deeply this lack of respect, for that, essentially, is what constitutes the offense.

We should not use your name for the purposes of our own vanity. That the idea?

If you do not show me respect in your speech, it suggests you do not know me in your heart. If you truly knew me, you could not speak so casually my holy name. I should have thought YOU, above all others, would understand this.

I do understand…profoundly… what it means to be in your holy presence. I do not have any idea how to communicate what that is like to anyone, even my brother Aaron who speaks for me. I do not know any words that make such a communication understandable.

Yes. I believe you have known me. And yet even in your own speech there are times when you misuse my name.

Well, when you parted the waters for us to cross, I could not help exclaiming “Oh, my God!” We do not have a vocabulary to describe the awe-inspiring. I meant no disrespect. The words leapt out of my mouth before I had even realized I had given them voice.

Work on that. Think before you speak.

Yes, I see. That makes sense. I wish it were not so easy to say whatever comes into my mind. We all do. All right, so is that the third commandment? Or the second?

Why must you enumerate them? All you will wind up with is a book of numbers…and no wisdom.

“Book of Numbers”…hmm…I like the sound of that.

Let us speak now about the Sabbath. You should always keep it holy. Work six days and offer the seventh day to me.

No work on the seventh day?

Keep it holy. Use the time to think.

Nobody works?

You are not understanding the point again.

If I am not to fix my own meal on the Sabbath, and no one else, likewise, is to work at such preparations, how are we then to eat?

This is about your belly being full?

Well, maybe if we prepare something the night before…

I rested after six days when I created the world…so should you after your more humble labors. Human beings function better if your routine is interrupted now and then…and if you do not set aside this time, you will not grow in wisdom, for you will not otherwise devote the time to it that you should.

Thinking is not working? What if you are a priest? Or a philosopher? Or a judge?

All days should not be alike. Humankind does not do well when one day is the same as another for weeks on end.

I can see I will have to give this matter more thought before I try to explain it to the people below.

Let us talk about your parents.

What about them?

Honor them. You will live longer if you do.

What does that mean, exactly? I do not still have to take their advice on all matters, do I? They have had some rather peculiar notions in the past. They did not want me to run off into the desert, for one thing, back the first time I did it. And you should have heard—well, I suppose you did hear—what they had to say about that business of the burning bush. I know they thought I hallucinated the whole thing. My mother wanted to know what I might have eaten before claiming to have seen it. Or if I had consumed too much of my father-in-law’s wine.

If you treat them as lesser beings, you yourself will be diminished in time, at the hands of your own children.

Well, could we have a commandment, then, that says they cannot give out advice after the child reaches a certain age? Or gets married? So many opinions my mother had about Zipporah, my wife. It caused such strife in my household.

Listen to their wisdom. One of the few things that makes human beings wiser is time. Your parents will always have more wisdom than you if they live by my teachings.

If that is so, why do they often seem so foolish?

That is your own folly you are seeing. You deceive yourself in so many countless ways each day. It is only by growing older that you begin to see this truth.

Some days I just want to kill them.

You shall not murder.

It’s just an expression.

No, this is another of my laws. Killing people is not allowed.

What about soldiers in a war? Are they not to kill?

Wars are such a good thing? I am to make exceptions for those involved in the practice of war?

Are we not to fight for our beliefs at times? Do you not wish us to stand up to our enemies? To your enemies?

Who made the Egyptians perish in the waters? Was it you who did that?

No. You did.

Whatever war that must be fought on my behalf will be waged by me.

This will not be good news for the captains and the generals.

You should not commit adultery.

I am out of berries. Let me find a thorn to prick my finger.

I will inscribe all these laws on tablets of stone for you. Do not worry about writing everything down. You do not make so competent a scribe in the first place.

Ouch! Okay, I am ready once more. You had said something about adultery.

Do not commit it.

What if the husband knows about it and does not mind?

Are you going to take us down the road to Sodom? Permissiveness has never been license.

Yes, that makes sense. But what if someone married too quickly, while in a state of agitation, after fleeing for his life, actually, and then crossing a great wasteland for many days before finally finding an oasis, where all he wanted was a drink of water and was, instead, surrounded at the well by seven beautiful sisters?

This story sounds quite familiar.

So he is given the hand of one of these women in marriage by her father before he’s barely slaked his parched throat? Next thing he knows he’s married and has become a father and the whole situation is so strange to him that he names his son “Alien”?

You would be surprised how similar are the lamentations of the people.

The years go by…his wife gets busy with her family and their children and barely has time for him anymore. He is a full-grown man and his needs are not unlike the instincts of the beasts he tends. Should he not want to go into his wife more than once a season?

There is a time for everything under heaven. A time to go in, and a time to stay out.

And then he becomes the leader of a large group of people, some of whom are quite attractive and look at him with such admiration…even longing…in their eyes. Is he not supposed to imagine what he cannot help imagining?

You know the answers to your own questions.

Why did you make us so? Why did you plant such torment within us?

It is a question of love.

You should not commit adultery unless you can keep it from becoming love? Or you can only commit adultery if you cannot find love within your own tent?

Have you been in love? Do you understand what it means to feel such things?

I have been in love.

Tell me what you felt when you were in love.

It did not start out as love with Zipporah. In time, though, I came to savor her smiles, and the music of her voice…to enjoy the sweet grace of her kindness to me and how that might translate into sighs and longings for us both. All that came about in time…the way I could not pass through a morning or an afternoon without thinking of her and yearning for her…then not even through an hour without wanting her…and then my every thought was of her. This was what I felt when we were most in love, Zipporah and I. But, as I have said, it did not last. And it was not, as I also told you, how we began…but after all, in those first days together I had just come from wandering in the desert all this time, looking over my shoulder for the Pharaoh’s guard every other minute, fearful of being pursued and arrested for murder…

Yes, you have already broken several of my laws.

I killed that Egyptian for his cruelty to your chosen people. Did you not approve of this?

I will myself avenge the wrongs done to me and to my people. Did you not take my law into your own hands?

I acted on impulse. I stopped him from beating my cousin. I did not think anyone else saw me do it.

I saw. I made it known.

What are you saying? That’s how people heard? You told them somehow?

I made it known. And yet you still have not repented of this act against my law.

I did not know I had violated your law.

You know now.


I was suddenly filled with great dread, rising up out of the innermost parts of my body, and I knew how unworthy I was, how unclean I was before my God. I knew I had been wrong to take that Egyptian’s life, even to protect my kinsman. I had never asked forgiveness. I had never renounced what I had done.

I am truly sorry, I said then. I am humbly sorry for the blood on my hands. I repent of this violence in my past, and I beg you to forgive my transgression.

You are forgiven. Do not do it again. Control your impulses. Draw in your rage. You have within you the violence of an inarticulate man—I have seen this often. You cannot speak forcefully with words, and so you speak forcefully with your body instead. In much the same way, you might one day find yourself saying with your body to another the message of love that only your wife should receive.

I have found it difficult to prevent the feeling of desire. I suppose that is why you have made this law, to encourage us to prevent desire?

I do not believe you can prevent desire. But I do wish to prevent love from growing where it should not.

You do not want love to grow?

Where it should not. There is no deeper agony for the human heart than love that has sprung up where it should not.

I have never looked at this matter that way.

The woman in the crowd who enflames your lusts…do you not see how easily she might yield to love? And to what end? She cannot allow her love to flourish into bloom, for she would need to hide it out of view of your wife and your people.

You know about the woman?

I know your heart.

Yes…of course you do.

Did you ever think to consider her agony? To be in love with you and unable to tell those around her? To love you so deeply and be unable to express this love whenever she might wish?

I did not consider that.

And did you consider the agony of another heart? That of Zipporah’s? Did you not think of what this other love might do to her own love for you?

Yes. I have thought about Zipporah. It is why I have not acted on my instincts in this way.

And think of your own heart. It is not possible for love to grow the way I have intended it to do if it is split and tied off in two separate directions. You stake off a tree in this way and a fissure develops in the notch, eventually cleaving the tree in two, killing both halves.

Yes, I have seen that.

The nature of love is what makes adultery impossible. You cannot control the force of love. You cannot hope to contain it. Therefore you must devote yourself to one love. Choose that love wisely…and do not open up your heart to alternatives.

It is the harm that love can do when it is misdirected that makes this law necessary?

Yes. Love is more powerful than the mightiest cataract flowing over the highest cliff. It is more powerful than the great tides of the sea. It is more powerful than the strongest storm or the fiercest wind. You must be careful how you unleash this force in your life. You must not be careless with so great a power as love…for if you are unwise in love, you will find yourself wishing you had never been born.

It seems so obvious when you explain it like that.

You must not take things that do not belong to you.

Are we still speaking of love?

We are speaking of anything that is not already yours…or could not choose to be yours, as Zipporah, on the advice of her father, agreed to do. Possessions, land, livestock… you should not take what belongs to someone else.

Except in war? When you have us enter the Promised Land, will we not be required to possess what belongs to others?

Again this preoccupation with war? When I bring my people into the Promised Land, I will possess what they require and give it to them. They will not take it on their own. I will take it and give it to them.

How would that work in practical terms?

Would you assume to sit upon the throne of the Creator of all things? Would you presume to possess the mind of the Almighty?

I just wondered…

In each instance, the way will be made clear. In each need, I will devise a course for my people to follow. You do not need to concern yourselves with the slope of a path seven days off. Concentrate on what pebbles lie before you where you walk, and trust me to lead you to the way you must follow tomorrow.

So, we should remember that you alone are God. That we should not make copies of other gods to worship instead.

There are no other gods.

Yes, I have that. We should not misuse the holy name or cause it to be applied to matters unworthy of it. We should set aside the Sabbath for rest and reflection. We should honor our parents— although just exactly what that may involve is still a little vague to me. We should not take someone else’s life or commit adultery or steal. That’s eight commandments, so far?

The number is not important.

I am sorry. I keep doing that.

You should not lie against your fellow human being.

Is this more of the adultery commandment? No physical contact?

What you say about someone else should not be false. Do not claim something about another person that is not true.

“…not bear false witness against your neighbor…”

And while we are on the subject of neighbors, you should not wish you possessed what your neighbor possesses.

Isn’t that like the commandment about stealing?

This prohibition is the root of the other: if you do not wish you had something that belongs to someone else, you will not find yourself trying to steal it later on.

So, shouldn’t this one come before the other one? Do we need them both if we satisfy the requirements of the root cause? Or perhaps we should combine them into one commandment? If we gathered together the idea of remembering that you alone are God, that we should not misuse your holy name, and that we should not make any idols…that could all be one commandment about you. If we put together the stealing thing with the envy thing, that’s another. Add in the other five and that makes Seven Commandments! That sounds good.

The number is not important.

No other god, no misuse of your name, no idols…that’s one. No stealing and no envy…two. Keep the Sabbath… three. Honor your parents…four. No murder…five. No adultery…six. No false witness…seven. “The Seven Commandments.” Perfect.

The number seven IS perfect…and for that reason alone there should not be Seven Commandments…for my chosen people are far from perfect.

That’s a good point. I suppose we could break them back down into separate commandments. That would make…oh, let’s see…ten. Ten Commandments. That could work.

Do you not hear me when I speak to you? Do your ears deceive you about the sounds they receive? Will you focus so much on how many commandments there are that you will not follow any one of them?

And you are going to put them on tablets, you said? Two tablets? Maybe five on each side? That would look better when they are displayed.

They do not need to be displayed before the eyes. They need to be written inside the heart.


I stopped writing, feeling faint from the loss of blood, and sorrowful to my soul that I had argued so foolishly with the LORD. I stopped to meditate on what should be written in my heart and how many ways that would change my life. I asked the LORD to help me understand all this. I asked for the LORD to be patient with me…and to explain it again and again until I finally understood what all of it really means.

And so it was I remained on the mountain for forty days and forty nights.

Three Newspapers Blowing by on a Snowy Day



What fell, I felt, were razor flakes:

their edges sharpened my mistakes,

the flurry of regrets I’d stored,

confessions I found hard to make.


The breeze beyond my window soared

and down the empty street implored

two acrobats to skate on by,

a circus I could not ignore.


Theirs was a teasing way to fly,

a zigzag game of Tag the Sky.

A third slid in, a harlequin

of retail logos, smooth and sly,


spread-eagled first, then leaping wind

to sudden heights—and this is when

I realize they’re lifeless sheets:

and I’ve projected dance on them.


My heart’s eclipse cannot deplete

this joy I beam to paper feet

to animate a lonely street

to animate a lonely street



© 2015 Al Hudgins

Great Albums of the 20th Century: The Dave Brubeck Quartet’s Time Out (1959)

Dave Brubeck Quartet - TIME OUT - 1957In this occasional series, I celebrate some of the previous century’s greatest albums, presented in no particular order and whenever I get around to it. The only requirement: every track has to be great. This is a personal list, ultimately, but one I hope proves persuasive at times or, at the very least, piques your curiosity about an album you may have overlooked.

No album has a stronger or more confident opening than this one, proclaiming with its first measure the kind of wild and unusual ride it will be. “Blue Rondo à la Turk” explodes with rapid-fire piano in a 9/8 time signature—quick (because eighth notes get the beat) and distinctive (because the nine beats per measure are emphasized not in the typical 3-3-3 pattern prevalent in western culture, but in a pattern its composer, jazz pianist Dave Brubeck, picked up as he passed street musicians in Turkey on his way to a radio interview: 2-2-2-3 (three groups of two beats followed by one group with three beats). Once it gets inside your head, it becomes instinctive, but in December 1959, when this album was released, most jazz compositions labored according to the predictable dictates of 4/4 time. In this historical context, an album with unusual time signatures on nearly every track was a daring move.

Recalling the resistance he encountered with his label, Brubeck admitted that he “had broken three of Columbia’s unwritten laws. All of the tunes were originals, whereas the label liked standards to be mixed in; they also wanted songs you could dance to, and I had given them all of these uncommon time signatures; and they never put a painting on the cover of a jazz album. So the company didn’t want to put the album out.”

Take Five singleBrubeck appealed to Goddard Lieberson, then president of Columbia Records and a pianist himself, who loved what he heard and, at his suggestion, a single was released in September, three months before the album, featuring two of its tracks: “Blue Rondo à la Turk” as the B-side and a Paul Desmond composition entitled “Take Five” on the A-side. It became the first million-selling jazz instrumental single on the Billboard Hot 100.

Jazz writer Ted Gioia, founding editor of, has this to say about the single’s influence:

In the aftermath of Brubeck’s success, the “Take Five rhythm”—a 5/4 bar divided into a waltzy 3/4 followed by a two-beat kicker with an emphasis on beat four—was popping up in places far beyond the confines of the jazz world: on the theme to the TV series (and later movie) Mission: Impossible, in rock band Jethro Tull’s hit single “Living in the Past”…

Desmond often said that the piece “was never supposed to be a hit. It was supposed to be a Joe Morello drum solo.” He was surprised by its success and the difference it made in the group’s reputation, and, to show his gratitude, he bequeathed the song’s royalties, when he died in 1977, to the American Red Cross, which annually receives a six-figure income from his gift.

In the garage band days of my youth, my good friend Tom, a drummer, loved working in five and taught me how to feel that beat using this song as illustration. Many of our subsequent jam sessions featured that and other unusual time signatures, and I still notice when I encounter them in songs.

I have two criteria for inclusion on my list of Great Albums of the 20th Century: first, that it be a personal fave of mine…and, second, that every track be outstanding (that’s what disqualifies Synchronicity by the Police—all brilliant except for “Mother,” its utterly dreadful fourth track). I have listened to Time Out for decades and each time I do, every track is a pleasure to revisit. I never skip tracks on Time Out.

Blue Rondo à la Turk” starts off with Brubeck’s solo piano in a four-measure phrase that ends with a 3-3-3 configuration that almost feels like triplets after all that 2-2-2-3. He’s joined in the next phrase, first by bassist Eugene Wright and, four beats later, by drummer Joe Morello. Paul Desmond’s alto sax enters when the song modulates keys in the third phrase, and the four play as one as the entire figure is repeated several times and they begin to improvise a little on its irresistible syncopated pulse. Every note played—and there are many—is dead-on perfect, and by the time the signature shifts to 4/4 for the solo turns, not quite two minutes in, you feel as winded as a sprinter and ready to stroll at a more leisurely pace. But Brubeck, ever playful, initially interrupts that respite with single-measure reprises of the opening 9/8, the transitions back and forth masterful and assured, before relenting to 4/4. Wright’s walking bass and Morello’s brushed symbols in this section provide a steady-but-swinging pace for solo improvisations, first the sax and then, four minutes in, the piano. As the song approaches its six-minute mark, it reintroduces that single-measure of 9/8, then back to the 4/4, doing that several times, like a train whistle letting us know we’ll soon be back where we started, which indeed we are, a few seconds before hitting the six-minute mark. It feels as if we’ve come home, the syncopation still new but now familiar, the pacing provocative but also comforting, and after the opening progression is complete, something new appears to signal the end of the ride.

The second piece, “Strange Meadow Lark,” is another Brubeck composition (he wrote everything on Time Out except “Take Five”) and is actually my favorite of the seven tracks. This may be because I was enduring a series of company-wide layoffs in 2007 when I purchased the CD to replace my vinyl, and my stress level was calmed in the piece’s first two minutes by the solo piano (employing unusual ten-bar phrases that sound almost freeform). When the rhythm section and Desmond’s sweet alto sax join in at 2:10, I would find myself in a better state of mind and ready to let the reassuring melodies carry me aloft. I could even smile at Desmond’s brief, playful tribute to “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” (he fiddles with the riff that accompanies the lyrics “You better watch out” at 3:21, which struck me as sound advice at that turbulent time in my employment history). On the Friday it seemed likely I would be included in the fourth round of layoffs, I had tickets to see Brubeck that night and wisely decided to call in sick, so as not to taint the experience with fresh anxieties. One of my smarter moves. Rather than wait in my office to be called in and axed, I stayed home and played Brubeck all day and then gathered up my discs and went to Trenton for the concert, which was, to everyone’s surprise, including Brubeck’s, way longer than expected—he praised the audience’s smart applause and appreciation and rewarded it with encore after encore. At the stage door, after all the other fans had given up, my patience was rewarded when he finally emerged with his assistant and graciously autographed my copy of this album and allowed me to gingerly shake his hand. The following Monday morning, I went in early, on my own terms, confirmed I’d been laid off, handed in my company laptop, and went home to put on this track. Brubeck saved my soul back then.

I won’t expound at length about “Take Five,” about which so much has already been written by far better scribes than me. But I love its five-and-a-half minutes of perfection: its solo drum opening, immediately followed by Brubeck’s recurring piano figure (now instantly recognizable around the world), over which Desmond’s mesmerizing melody works its magic (he remains my all-time favorite alto sax player) until he eventually grows quiet and leaves things to the rhythm section—Brubeck’s piano, Wright’s bass, and, at first, Morello’s drums, though this last instrument begins to spool off from the other two and becomes a thoughtful two-minute solo, building slowly, forcefully, and inventively over Brubeck’s and Wright’s steady 5/4 cadence, the string bass becoming a skosh flat on the high note that comes with every fourth beat, just enough to offer a mellow imperfection against the same note being played on the piano.

A few quick thoughts about the remaining four tracks.

In the next track, “Three to Get Ready,” the time signature, according to Steve Race’s original 1959 liner notes, “promises to be a simple Haydn-esque waltz theme in C major. But before long, it begins to vacillate between 3- and 4- time, and the pattern becomes clear: two bars of 3, followed by two bars of 4.” Maybe so, but more important to my ears was the way both Brubeck and Morello grow wonderfully more experimental as the song moves into its middle section. And Desmond’s sax, towards the end, sounds so relaxed, I’m tempted to think he’s playing it in a hammock.

Track Five offers “Kathy’s Waltz” (named after Brubeck’s daughter Cathy but unfortunately misspelled on the album). Set in three, unusual for jazz in those days, it provides an excellent example of what I’ve taken to calling “Swingopation,” that DBQ combination of a swinging style perforated by clever offbeat riffs. Underneath it all, Morello’s brushwork is steady as a locomotive.

The final two tracks—“Everybody’s Jumpin’” and “Pick Up Sticks”—offer experiments in 6/4 time, with another fine Morello drum solo in the former and Wright’s engaging six-note walking bass line in the latter, along with a stretch in Brubeck’s piano solo that sounds almost as if he were performing in Morse Code, using staccato pairings of eighth notes to punctuate the melody.


Great Albums of the 20th Century: Joni Mitchell’s Hejira (1976)

Joni Mitchell - Hejira coverIn this occasional series, I’m going to celebrate some of the previous century’s greatest albums, presented in no particular order and with no discernible frequency. The only requirement: every track has to be great. This is a personal list, ultimately, but one I hope proves persuasive at times or, at the very least, piques your curiosity about an album you might’ve overlooked.

On a relaxing stretch of highway during a daylong solo drive in June, I began playing Joni Mitchell’s Hejira and my journey was abruptly transformed by this music from forty years ago…how good it was: its sound, its thoughtfulness, its power to be so immediate and wise-weary. The album’s title, based on the Arabic word for journey, is its theme  (reinforced by a stunning cover double-exposure), particularly how a solitary traveler’s senses, freed from the distractions of conversation, are sharpened when confronted by the new. Here’s the lyrical riff that ends the album, all triggered by glimpsing a calendar in a gas station:

In a highway service station
Over the month of June
Was a photograph of the earth
Taken coming back from the moon
And you couldn’t see a city
On that marbled bowling ball
Or a forest or a highway
Or me here least of all
You couldn’t see these coldwater restrooms
Or this baggage overload
Westbound and rolling
Taking refuge in the roads

—“Refuge Of The Roads” ©1976 Crazy Crow Music (BMI)

I’m awestruck by the narrative zoom in these lines…out to the moon and back (humanity’s ultimate journey, so far)…and how effortlessly she shakes up perspective and her place in the scheme of things. Indeed, the poetry in her lyrics is perhaps the album’s most compelling feature, certainly for the writer in me.

She avoids the cliché of “from the cradle to the grave” by her more succinct and inventive phrase “between the forceps and the stone” (“Hejira”), which is a master class in sensory suggestion (you can’t help but feel both the cold steel of the obstetrician’s forceps and the stony surface of the “granite markers,” a phrase she uses in the next stanza—these references serving as tactile bookends bracketing a life).

With astonishing economy, she reduces a lover to his essence with this clear-eyed observation:

He picks up my scent on his fingers
While watching the waitresses’ legs
—“Coyote” ©1976 Crazy Crow Music (BMI)

Other ways Mitchell creatively translated the mundane:

  • “I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitudes/And looking down on everything” (“Amelia”)
  • “In the church they light the candles/And the wax rolls down like tears” (“Hejira”)
  • “While the boarders were snoring/Under crisp white sheets of curfew/We were newly lovers then/We were fire in the stiff-blue-haired-house-rules” (“Strange Boy”)
  • “As snow gathers like bolts of lace/Waltzing on a ballroom girl” (“Hejira”)
  • “I looked at the morning/After being up all night/I looked at my haggard face in the bathroom light/I looked out the window/And I saw that ragged soul take flight/I saw a black crow flying/In a blue sky” (“Black Crow”)

Supporting these lines: Weather Report bassist Jaco Pastorius, guitarist Larry Carlton (The Crusaders), Tom Scott, Neil Young, Bobbye Hall, John Guerin, and Mitchell herself on guitar and vocals. Pastorius, in particular, with his signature freeform fretless bass, adds a resonant and inventive texture, their first collaboration, added as overdubs after all the tracks were recorded. Carlton’s flawless lead guitar, especially in songs like “Black Crow” and “Strange Boy,” adds energy, urgency, or languor, as needed, every note impeccable. And Mitchell’s voice, which in earlier albums could sometimes veer into the peculiar, is here pitched perfectly, full of nuance and emotion, one of her strongest performances on record.

I bought this album when it first came out, as I did with most of her albums in the 1970s and 80s. In my twenties, I was fascinated by Mitchell’s candor and saw her confessions as a way to better understand a woman’s point of view, something I surely needed. I also noticed how devoted to her were many of the girls I’d known in college, well beyond the boundaries of an ordinary fan. Clearly she was articulating something important, lessons I needed to learn…about love, living, and loneliness. She could be melancholy at times—in “River” (on Blue), she even managed to make melodic lines from “Jingle Bells” as mournful as a funeral dirge. By the time she’d released Hejira, her eighth album, I had come to rely on her as an essential element of my education.

For me, Hejira is like choosing an alternate route on a long trip that won’t necessarily get you there the fastest but is so pleasing during the time it unfolds you can’t resist going that way again and again.


A Vision Sequence from my novel-in-progress AS THE OZ-MAN DANCES

Entwined - AlHudginsSuddenly, an eerie saxophone curves its solo line like a serpent around the folds of my brain, emerging out of an icy-sounding tinkle of four notes in an ascending pentatonic minor scale, like playing the black notes on a ghostly keyboard, beginning with E-flat, and the otherworldly atmospherics of this sound sweep a calmness through me, but also a feeling of dread. Every thought in my head is somehow suspended in this drifting, mysterious music, as if we were awaiting the arrival of something ominous and relentless and could not escape the encounter. When we can bear the wait no longer, soft drums begin beating a steady 4/4 and I hear a woman begin to sing in a foreign tongue. I know this music. The saxophonist Jan Garbarek. I have this disc. It’s called Visible World. God will have his little ironies, won’t he? The song is entitled “Evening Land.” It’s a haunting piece, background to a Norwegian music video if I remember the liner notes correctly, co-written by Garbarek and a woman from the Arctic region of Lappland named Mari Boine. This is the woman who is singing, presumably in the language of her people, backed by a moody accompaniment that evokes the stark beauty and arresting near-desolation of her native landscape. It does not matter what she is actually saying, these words somehow exactly express my despair, and Garbarek’s saxophone insinuates itself into my sorrow, the notes trickling down like tears.

Without warning, the drums change their rhythm, and I hear the clack of sticks behind me and this startles me, makes me turn to face the frozen ocean behind me and I imagine myself gliding over its surface, hurtling with the speed of a comet all the way to the Arctic Circle, to the brilliance of a twenty-four-hour day shining down on the blinding, glistening surface of snow-covered tundra. There is no color here, none of the subtle shading of the temperate regions, and the edges of the shadows which fall here are as sharp as a knife. Off in the distance some people bundled in furs and sheepskin are traveling on skis and in sleds pulled by reindeer, the snap of their whips matching the slap of the drumsticks perfectly. Garbarek trills out a cluster of notes that are as alien to my ears as the words the woman has been singing or the keening of a Palestinian widow, but I am filled with a desire to make myself known to these people, and I wave my arms to hail them, but they do not see me; they are miles from where I stand, intent upon their journey across the glacial wasteland.

Now the original musical arrangement reasserts itself as I watch passively the passage of these people along the edge of the arctic horizon. They seem to move in synchrony with the loping drums, the steady strides of the reindeer falling on the beat and this woman’s song weaving in and out of this scene, first here beside me, then out there with her people, the Lapps, the Saami, those strange bundled people of the far north I find myself now so desperately and inexplicably yearning to know. Garbarek’s saxophone descends into its lower register, like the mellow voice of age, commanding my attention and offering me its instruction. These are fathers and sons who pass here, it says to me, and mothers and daughters. The woodwind yields to the woman again, who tutors me in lessons of intuition and respect, insistent as a nun and as confidential as a lover. These are dreams that pass before you, she is telling me, and desires and despairs. Imagine them, for they will not exist if you do not imagine them, she says, her voice rising, and in reply Garbarek cries out at her side. Imagine them, imagine them all, they insist, but my heart cannot contain all these hopes and fears. Now there is a rush of strings, sighing their melodic descent like a kind of gentle snowfall. I don’t feel the cold. I don’t feel anything. I don’t move before the vastness of this monochrome panorama so bright it brings tears to my eyes. It’s as if my feet were already frozen into the ice beneath them. I don’t seem to breathe. I have lost the feeling in my fingers. The drums return, carried on the rushing wind of the strings, and the woman begins to moan and wail, beyond words now, her voice beseeching me, rising high over the sleigh bells and the brute clamor of the beasts pulling the sleds, cutting through the gathering snowfall, its path made clear by the precise blows of Garbarek’s sax. I open my mouth to cry out, but I can’t be heard above the loud, urgent exclamations of voice and reed, though I try to drown them out, but they overwhelm me and finally nothing emerges from within me at all, nothing that can stop the steady progress of the passing nomads, still thundering in the far distance to the rhythm of the soft drums. The four-note ascending pentatonic line has returned, bells or perhaps synthesized chimes, something metallic and treble and struck, playing in the background, slowly climbing upward from the frosty traces across this barren earth, as tiny as snowflakes thrown up by the ceaseless arctic wind, perhaps, or the galloping hooves of the reindeer. These notes accumulate quickly into sonic drifts that have overcome the woman and begin to suffocate the woodwind, settling over everything and everyone, obscuring the wanderers beyond my view, and seeping into my throat with the vacant taste of ice. Garbarek bursts out with a sudden exclamation: Acknowledge your own limitations! The snowflakes swirl around his solo like angry bees, and they speak to me with one voice: Why must you uncover what we have so carefully hidden? Everything begins to fade away, the drums, the wind, the sound of my own breath, and I would raise up a response, but there is no other sound permitted here but Garbarek’s last desperate gasps amidst the brushing of cymbals and the sighing of the diminishing strings and even, if I’m not mistaken, a Pakistani bell tree’s glissade, which seems as woefully out of place here as I am. We are fading into an emptiness together, all of us, and into the void of holiness.

It would seem that the piece is all but over, because nearly all the instruments have stopped, the few that remain just barely audible as they fade out, and before my eyes there is nothing but a bright whiteness, the snow obscuring all signs of life. But now a spooky whisper of a vocal begins, the woman’s words close against my ear, close as a lover’s tongue, but there is wonder in her tone, a sense of awe, and the language she is speaking now sounds different, sounds almost like Hebrew, though I suppose it’s still her own language, the language of her own people. She is singing this dirge as if all the musicians of the world have suddenly died and she alone is left to mourn them. The softness with which she sings these words is exquisite, with a kind of desperation that makes you question if she’ll ever be able to take in another breath. There is certainty in the way she expresses these words. The certainty of faith, perhaps. The certainty of knowledge. And there is resolution there, too. As if she were singing for the resurrection of the dead and knew instinctively that they are better summoned forth by a whisper than a shout. I wish to summon forth no one from the dead. I wish to be away from this limbo of light and formlessness. But the woman keeps whispering these words I know and do not know. These ideas I recognize and do not recognize. I am no priest, and I am no saint, and I do not belong here, I want to tell her. But she whispers her song into my ears as if mine were the only ears that could receive it. And gradually the strings, playing as if from across the sea, quietly drift back into sound. Like the waves of a gently rolling ocean, in shushing chromatic descent, they draw near, and as I catch sight of their ship on the crests of the water, the sea becomes a desert and Garbarek’s muted sax returns, leading them like Moses. They walk across the revealed foundation of the earth with the confidence of true believers, of chosen people, and I marvel at this new landscape, so alike and so different. Bright and blinding still, but what was frozen is now burning, and what was obscured by snowflakes is now exposed to the full light of the sun. The drums return, with the cadence of a caravan, and now the nomads are bedouins, riding upon camels that step faithfully to the slow, steady beat, bringing them over one dune after another, closer, closer to where I stand, buried now in sand instead of snow, and Mari, oh sweet Mary, now she sings the same melody she’d sung at the beginning, and the song’s mystery is renewed. Garbarek blows hard here, wails his sax into the face of a sudden scirocco that sweeps over us, hurling the stinging sand into our eyes, into our mouths and ears and nostrils. Why have you uncovered what we have so carefully hidden, cries the voice at the center of the tempest, the sand swirling around us, gathering in gritty drifts around our legs, around our waists, why have you tried to uncover what we have so carefully hidden? The woman sings, the woodwind wails, the drums pound, the sand and the snow and the water and the fear, they overcome us, overcome us all.

And then there is no sound. No music. There is again the frozen beach and the eerie glow and the feeling of a presence I cannot name and do not wish to face.

This passage was inspired by a track on the ECM album by Jan Garbarek entitled “Visible World” and was composed to be read aloud with the track playing underneath, something I hope to do and then post before too long.  It contains a paraphrase of a line by Vladimir Nabokov in Lolita (“Imagine  them…”).