Our improv/jam band is back – this Tuesday @ The Cloak & Dagger.
Waters of March
(Yes…I know it’s May. Don’t take me so literally.)
One of the most captivating songs – a song that seems destined to have an everlasting power, despite a gaggle of jazz performers hanging their hat on it to fill out an album or hope upon hope for a Billboard spot – is a bossa nova piece, originally written by Antonio Carlos Jobim in 1972, called Waters of March (or Águas de Março in its native Portuguese). Remarkably, one of the definitive versions (although there are so many beautiful renditions) is captured on YouTube here, performed by Elis Regina. [sidenote: watch this side-by-side with the early 80’s video for Every Breath You Take by The Police – the similarities in the look, style, direction, and editing are uncanny]
What I love about the song, ever since I first became aware of it long, long ago (and still, it took me years to find the name of the song – I was convinced that Astrud “The Girl From Ipanema” Gilberto had done it originally, which turned out to be a red herring…as so many things I’d naively attributed to her – but that’s another story) is its flow and stream of consciousness; considering it was written during Rio de Janeiro’s downpours in late March – the end of summer in the Southern Hemisphere – it’s a stunning bit of onomatopoeia.
Though originally written in Portuguese – the language of Brazil, for all you junior ranchers out there – Jobim eventually re-worked the lyrics into an English translation which is actually longer (which was necessary to keep the feel/structure of the original). For more information on this song, please see this entry in Wikipedia.
Here are the Portuguese lyrics and their English re-working:
Águas de Março
“É pau, é pedra,
é o fim do caminho
É um resto de toco,
é um pouco sozinhoÉ um caco de vidro,
é a vida, é o sol
É a noite, é a morte,
é o laço, é o anzolÉ peroba do campo,
é o nó da madeira
Caingá candeia,
é o matita-pereiraÉ madeira de vento,
tombo da ribanceira
É o mistério profundo,
é o queira ou não queiraÉ o vento ventando,
é o fim da ladeira
É a viga, é o vão,
festa da cumeeiraÉ a chuva chovendo,
é conversa ribeira
Das águas de março,
é o fim da canseiraÉ o pé, é o chão,
é a marcha estradeira
Passarinho na mão,
pedra de atiradeiraÉ uma ave no céu,
é uma ave no chão
É um regato, é uma fonte,
é um pedaço de pãoÉ o fundo do poço,
é o fim do caminho
No rosto o desgosto,
é um pouco sozinhoÉ um estrepe, é um prego,
é uma ponta, é um ponto
É um pingo pingando,
é uma conta, é um contoÉ um peixe, é um gesto,
é uma prata brilhando
É a luz da manhã,
é o tijolo chegandoÉ a lenha, é o dia,
é o fim da picada
É a garrafa de cana,
o estilhaço na estradaÉ o projeto da casa,
é o corpo na cama
É o carro enguiçado,
é a lama, é a lamaÉ um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um resto de mato,
na luz da manhãSão as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coraçãoÉ uma cobra, é um pau,
é João, é José
É um espinho na mão,
é um corte no péSão as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coraçãoÉ pau, é pedra,
é o fim do caminho
É um resto de toco,
é um pouco sozinhoÉ um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um belo horizonte,
é uma febre terçãSão as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração”
Waters of March
A stick, a stone,
It’s the end of the road,
It’s the rest of a stump,
It’s a little aloneIt’s a sliver of glass,
It is life, it’s the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It’s a trap, it’s a gunThe oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrushThe wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at allIt’s the wind blowing free,
It’s the end of the slope,
It’s a beam, it’s a void,
It’s a hunch, it’s a hopeAnd the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It’s the end of the strain,
The joy in your heartThe foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot’s stoneA fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bowThe bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It’s a loss, it’s a findA spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the taleA truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the nightA mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme,
It’s a cold, it’s the mumpsThe plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It’s the mud, it’s the mudAfloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of springAnd the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It’s the promise of life
It’s the joy in your heartA stick, a stone,
It’s the end of the road
It’s the rest of a stump,
It’s a little aloneA snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It’s a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toeA point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of nightA pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stainA pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blueAnd the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It’s the promise of life
in your heart, in your heartA stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome roadA sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the runAnd the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It’s the end of all strain,
It’s the joy in your heart.
Bandcroft poster
Live Music in Toronto: A Mitzi’s Sister Mixer
This Saturday night, come out and see the band I’m in, Behind The Garage, when we play @ Mitzi’s Sister (1554 Queen St. W.) with The Three Bears, Alain Gratton, and The People of Canada.
The fun starts @ 9pm. No cover.
No..really, you should come to this. And I’m told you should bring “single friends”; by this, I’m assuming they don’t mean “a single individual friend”, but rather friends who are not betrothed to another. Just saying.
What are you doing on Tuesday night?
So…I’m drumming again. In spades.
This Tuesday (April 17th) at The Cloak & Dagger (College & Bathurst) I’m appearing with a rag tag outfit of musicians for a jam night. My colleagues include Shannon Du Hasky (from the Z-Rays) on guitar, Graydon James on bass, and Nancy Brooks on French horn. If all goes well, it could spring into a regular fixture (!).
Context:
The last time I performed live (or even played on a drum kit for that matter) was over 12 years ago…in Thorold no less. It was the end of the band I’d been playing with for several years, a fin de siecle for that part of my life and it was a terrible (nay apocalyptic) gig. It was one of those nights where you grab your gear and run so that you don’t have to remember anything about it. We never played again for various good reasons, although it was nice while it lasted 1.
Fast forward: not only am I part of the jam outfit, but I’m also part of a new band called Behind The Garage (appearing April 28th @ Mitzi’s Sister).
Weird. But damned fun. Like life.
Come on out and enjoy the drink and songs – I couldn’t imagine playing in a better environment with a better group of people. 2
Update: Okay…I looked up the band I used to be in (we were called Spin Tree. We hailed from Burlington.) and found our demo album listed on someone’s Most Underrated Albums of All Time list. Wow. I sent him an email thanking him…it’s a little overwhelming to see yourself on someone’s list with such luminaries as Inspiral Carpets and Arcade Fire.
1. We were a goth band. I can say this now because at the time I hated when we were referred to as a goth band. Okay – we were a goth band with non-goth aspirations. We played with some well-known acts of the day, and got to play at such venues as The Opera House and The Drake (before it closed and became what it is now).
2. Until meeting and playing with Behind The Garage and the jam-band (if you have a band name, let me know – we’re dying for one), I’d always equated playing music with friction. This, of course, was an emotional artifact from my early days where there was a lot more artistic conflict – much of it needless. It’s 180 degrees different now – everyone I’m playing with is a *really nice person who also happens to be a really good musician*. Am I lucky or what?
Live in Toronto: The Z-Rays
If you live in Toronto (or are visiting) and happen to be itching for something to do on a Saturday afternoon, may I heartily recommend catching the Z-Rays. They are currently in-residence at the mighty Planet Kensington, smack dab in the middle of Kensington Market. The band is an instrumental 3-piece specialising in hard-edged surf-punk and rockabilly. A total no-brainer, considering it’s backed by cheap beer and a total lack of pretention. Good times aplenty and a great way to spend a hangover, too. No, really – go.
(p.s. – they do pronounce it zee-rays)
(p.p.s – it’s from 3pm -> 6pm…what the hell does anyone do on a Saturday during those times but drink?)
(p.p.p.s – their MySpace site is here)
Article: The Man Who Heard It All
I recently came across an article from The Nation that I’d bookmarked not too long ago. On the surface it seems like fanfare for the release of The Oxford History of Western Music (ISBN: 0195169794).However, as journalist Paul Griffiths talks to the man who put the canon together – Richard Taruskin – it quickly turns into a fascinating overview of how we encapsulate our historic understanding of Western musical culture. For example, the death of notation (ie original sheet music), the neglect of female composers, and racism. Fascinating stuff, particularly for those interested in music, history, and cultural anthropology.
—
Link: The Man Who Heard It All
Excerpt:
This is an astounding achievement. The Oxford History of Western Music fills five stout volumes (discounting a sixth given over to the index, bibliography and other such matters), and yet Richard Taruskin can justifiably speak of it as a single book. To be sure, it travels far and wide in pursuing a millennium’s ramshackle production of songs and dances, keyboard suites and operas, sacred chants and church cantatas, symphonies and chamber works, electronic compositions and virtuoso showpieces, a good number of them quoted in music type so that competent keyboard players can eavesdrop on this multicolored parade as it goes along. Meanwhile, however, the surrounding text keeps its steady voice of thoughtful inquiry, painstaking analysis, consistent generosity and courteous address to the reader. Nothing like this book has been attempted since the nineteenth century, and as the author ruefully remarks, nothing like it may be written again.
Taruskin makes clear his reason for this proud pessimism. The coherence of Western “classical” music–the jumble of types only partly enumerated above–lies in notation (though due acknowledgment is given here to what never was notated and so has been lost). Just as we can observe the emergence of clearly legible notation in the eleventh century, so we seem in Taruskin’s view to be witnessing its demise, as some of the composers he treats in his last chapter, from Charles Dodge to Laurie Anderson, go off into territories where notation is no longer of any use, and as the possibility arises with the spread of digital equipment that we may all compose, perform and even disseminate our own music without thought of staves, clefs and quarter notes.
In a sense, this book expresses the magnificence and melancholy of its age. Scholarship–some of it Taruskin’s own, on composers as widely separated in time as Stravinsky and the fifteenth-century master Antoine Busnoys–has brought into view, and often into performance, a vast amount of music that was only dimly known half a century ago. But that expansion of knowledge and experience has been accompanied, unavoidably, by doubts about the universal validity of the central repertory, or canon, that built up around the works of perhaps just a dozen composers from Bach to Mahler, nearly all of them not only dead white males but dead white German-speaking males.
—
There are many things I love about classical music. I love how, just like the best of our modern music, it can encapsulate history, life, and emotion. It is as if the composition itself is a biometric record of its day, its author.
However, music alone cannot tell us everything. When Solomon Volkov published Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich (ISBN: 087910998X) in 1979 which for the first time exposed a completely different picture of Shostakovich than what was assumed at the time (ie not a compliant citizen under Stalin’s reign), it drastically changed our view of both the composer and his music (the debate over this book is still raging today).
Music (classical or modern) paints a picture of lives and cultures past that deserve the painstaking (if admittedly imperfect) work that people such as Mr. Taruskin have committed to it, if only so that we can understand the context behind it.