Bear with me: … I’m getting the hang of this host-change thing. It’s quarter past 2 in the morning. I’m not at my best.
Shampooed the locks Monday, but didn’t get around to shea-buttering them down till this afternoon. I think it went well. I can ponytail the ones at the base of my scalp, but the rest are too short to gather up in back properly.
Tricky: … from a July 2001 Remix magazine interview.
What effect would you like your music to have, and how do you see yourself as an artist?
I think I’m more about emotion than about being a head-rocker. Some music makes your head nod, and that’s good; I love those drumbeats that make you go [bangs his head]. I’d like people to listen to my music with headphones by themselves rather than go out to hear it in a club. Sometimes I’d like to make a bangin’ track, but I’d rather be there with the emotion. I want to touch people’s souls. That’s the one thing I wanted to do at the beginning of my career, and it’s the one thing I want to do now. I’m really in it for that. You get all the good things that come along with it — the traveling, people treating you good — but I want to touch people’s souls. And I don’t think it’s worth me doing music if I can’t do that. I want to go a bit deeper than the ears. I want to touch you inside there. I want to make you feel something. I’ve still got that now. That’s what keeps me going.
A woman once came up to me after a concert. She was telling me all this beautiful stuff, and I didn’t want to hear it, y’know what I mean? I was just about to walk away, and she says to me, “Look, I don’t want to seem to go on, but I mean what I say: you’re in my home and you’re in my children.” And that blew my mind. That was the heaviest thing anyone’s ever said to me. She plays my music to her kids. That’s heavy, and that’s what I want. That is better than a royalty check — and a royalty check is good!
Cover stories: That’s funny. The twins on the September cover of this magazine are wearing saris and jeweled bindis. And September’s cover of this magazine has a headline for their cover piece taking readers “inside the city’s wild new music scene — a tour through rock, hip-hop, and house to the genius of DJ Qbert.” But that curly-mopped lanky dude with the Led Zeppelin T-shirt, that couldn’t be Qbert, could it? Nah. It’s Stephan Jenkins of Third Eye Blind instead.
Thank goodness Sheerly Avni’s article is worth the two months she says she spent living on C— Lights, screwdrivers and coffee to write it.
And I give Jenkins cool points for discoursing on cred and the Invisibl Scratch Piklz: “I made music to make my own world. I didn’t make it to create borders and exclude others — which is what having cred is all about. … Qbert is the Dalai Lama of scratching. And their recognition is coming, don’t worry. But then what will happen to their cred? Oh no! Fuck you, cred motherfuckers.”
And Qbert has something to say, too: “I just like to dig up new sounds, find new things — you have to continue growing. And I don’t mind being sampled by others. I believe in Karma, and I think music should just make people happy.”
A letter from Cuba: … Noy Thrupkaew recalls healthcare, jiniterismo, race and labeling as belonging.
I am called “china” quite often during the trip. But it doesn’t really feel like people have an idea of what personality traits a china has or a stereotype in mind (i.e., hot geisha chick, godamn foreigner, come do my laundry and make me chop suey, etc.) when they say the word. It would make me feel quite different, I suspect, if I were to be called any one of those other words. But instead of sounding like a commentary on my personality or an ethnic slur, “China!” seems more of an astonished observation-a “look at that pink elephant” exclamation.
And for that reason, I start to feel much freer in Cuba than I have in my travels in Asia, where the clash of my appearance, clothing, behavior, language skills, and people’s ideas about me cause much confusion and consternation for them, and oppressive feelings of being inescapably foreign and “off” for me. Not to mention the resentment I feel at the white people who claim to have found their spiritual home in these countries where I feel so strange. But in Cuba, if I explain what I am, I am never doubted. I am never expected to act a certain way (in contrast to “not Thai enough,” “not really American, either,” in Thailand; in Japan, “How much are you, baby?”; “Why do you speak English?”). Nor do I feel people scrutinize my behavior to make sure I conform to their ideas about me.
I don’t really speak Spanish, however, and I am only here for twelve days, so perhaps ignorance is bliss. But this ignorance has been liberating in many ways-I am in no position to indulge my Virgo Gone Bad tendencies to be an expert, flog myself for not knowing everything, or plan my interactions with people down to the last detail like I’ve too often tried to do in Thailand and Japan. I’m a fish completely out of water, a “china” out of “China,” finding out that charades are fun when language fails, that when you are lost you often find good food, and that chaotic uncertainty and gnawing fear can give way to a sense of spontaneity and discovery that is, well, brand new for me. I remember a Buddhist term I learned in school-shosin, or beginner’s mind-a state of newness and egoless, clear perception that the beginner has and that an expert should strive towards, a state that I have only started to explore in Cuba because I have no other option.
So even if it is ignorance, it is amazing to feel free of my face even if someone chooses to remark on its difference. And it is yet more unbelievable on those nights when I am walking in just the right light, when I am with just the right dark-haired travelers, when I am wearing just the right clothes, and a Cuban person will speak to me in Spanish, asking the time or how to get to a certain place, and then say, puzzled at my nonverbal answer-“You aren’t Cubana?” When this happens, I am tremblingly happy, ashamed of daring to think that I could be free of my hyphenated self and my privileged American life-a stranger eavesdropping on someone else’s story of home who can just barely, guiltily picture herself a part of it.
Chocolate Genius: … the musician also known as Marc Anthony Thompson in an interview with Vivien Goldman, talking about how music is still his passion: “Art is an effort to gather your tribe. Hopefully, mine will come with me.”
Changing hosts: … I’m doing it, so I may slow down a little bit on the posting-every-day pace for the next week. But what do you guys care, anyway? You’re moving into dorm rooms, driving to Burning Man, making plans for the long Labor Day weekend or just laying low, aren’t you?
In case you care, I’m heading from here to over here. Double the room, half the cost, slightly less data transfer per month — and all the stuff I know nothing about, but intend to try on (CGI-BIN, MySQL, PHP, etc.).
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back down to B-and-N’s cafe at Jack London Square. I want to try out new site layouts and play with a couple of articles, and Ankita wants to do other stuff. This was us on Sunday:
George: *catches The Wife ogling a black-and-white photo of Vin Diesel bare-chested in the shower in the new InStyle magazine* Turn the page! Now!
The Wife: But you can’t see his face!
George: Oh, yeah. It just increases the mystery for you, huh?
The Wife: *big smile*
Mondo Grosso: … Ernie, weren’t you listening to this a couple of weeks ago?
But I shouldn’t care because above all, MG4 is a statement about the aspirations of the person who buys this disc. Such a person will watch “Sex and the City” to verify which shoe boutiques are currently en vogue. Such a person will look out for which West Village restaurants are the talk of the town. Such a person will not have read A Man Without Qualities, but will own and prominently display an import boxed edition. If these are your aspirations, here is a perfect album for you. But those of us who feel underdressed when shopping at Target can also enjoy MG4, as long as we’re not paying too much attention.
Keba Konte: … I got a copy of one of his prints at a fair in Berkeley a year ago. It depicts a little boy leaping over a graveyard, and it’s on our kitchen wall.