About five years back
we got an electric bass, a simple electric keyboard, some mics, for the house,
down in cellar where there are guitars and a trap set and a collection of
percussion instruments. Create a jam
room. I can remember just playing along,
over and over with one song in particular: ‘Shango’, by Peter King. Youruban funk, on which the bass is
irresistible. Something about the way
that the rhythm guitar locks in with the drums keeps it moving at this odd
angle that tightens up and releases. It holds
you while it moves. Best of all, my little
girl who was only five or so then, got into singing the chorus with me on the
mic. So we’d be down there yelling
“Shango! 1, 2 3” and making up other
Yoruban words to go along. We haven’t
done make believe singing loud and silly in a microphone like that in a while.
I asked her if she remembered the cut at breakfast this
morning and she did. I had to repeat the
word in a fairly ridiculous way, over and over but eventually she remembered.
“Shango” is apparently the Yoruban for god for thunder, lightning and
fire. Zeus, perhaps, by another name.
I’m digging the whole 1974 Afrobeat album now on Rdio and
its fabulous. He’s playing tenor sax,
double bass and the drums on this. The
drums make the date on each song and I can understand better now, his
role. Similarly the sax fills are characteristically
tasteful. But Arthur Simon the guitar
player is just adding rhythmic color like Monet at Giverny. I want meet this guy. He’s locked in to the
drummer in way that’s outrageous.
Like his countryman Fela, Peter King left Nigeria for
England as a young man, got to play with visiting soul bands, traveled to the
U.S. where he attended Berklee School of Music in Boston. Returning to Europe he played with jazz
luminaries like Sonny Rollins and Art Blakey.
Listening now to other cuts I’m drawn to how consistent the sound is
across tracks. The tempo is pared way
down on, “Prisoner of Law,” and the drumming is the same infectious angularity,
driven sharply forward. The guitar still
cutting, filling the open spaces.
Beautiful.
Shango struck here North Asia over night. Skies parted and a real 雷厉风行[1] was laid down on our neighbors. I woke up this morning and my mom had
shot me a skype note saying “Wow. Kim
doesn’t mess around.” I wondered if she
was referring to the regent’s arrest from a few days back, but figured it was
probably something current. Mr. Jang had
probably been killed. I went right to
the Times, and sure enough, Jang Song-thaek had been executed at a special
military tribunal. Woe to the hapless prince
regent. Dangerous stuff to dance so near
the throne like that. It makes you think
of famous regents who dutifully kept the seat warm only to take power, like
Wang Mang in the Han or Dorgon in the Qing.
And all the lesser figures whose names aren’t so easily remembered who
were, like Mr. Jang, eliminated when the prince became old enough.
Yes. I
tried to find some. I searched and
struggled to come up with a good example from Chinese history that matched
closely to circumstances in North Korea. I mentioned it to my gal, who normally doesn’t
have much time for this sort of diversion and she said I wasn’t the only one
talking “regents” this morning. There
were a bunch of articles this morning in the Chinese press about the same topic. The Chinese it seems, are just as captivated by
the raw, medieval power play. Suddenly
we have a real life version of the televised historical soap operas broadcast
incessantly. What was the turning point
for Mr. Jang? Did he over reach? Was it someone’s revenge? Was it even the young Kim Jong-un’s
call? One day the Koreans, united, will
make a wonderful soap opera rendition, no doubt. My wife had read this article on Baidu that
traced the history of regents, not only in China but from other locations in
the region like Japan or this historical Tibetan kingdoms as well, which
translated, is intersting: http://baike.baidu.com/view/482846.htm
I was out picking up my daughter, once again,
very late from her school. I was there
in the cold at 9:50PM. She was still
working. They’re incessant. The wind howled but I had my big puffy winter
coat on so I didn’t mind. Ropes were
whipping against the seven or so lonely flagpoles, clanging out, loudly. I took my camera out and tried to photograph
the night scene. Normally it would be a
waste of time with a simple phone on your camera, but with Camera Plus app and
some of the features resident it is easy to manipulate nighttime photos into
something at least reasonably interesting.
Up above me were the enormous towers, which I’ve
spoken about before. A new village for
40,000 people or so has been put up suddenly on a field, across from my daughters’
school. Some buildings already have
inhabitants. Most are still
abandoned. Enormous ships, docked, never
to sail. A world of activity and small
cities worth of lives, triumphs despairs, all unwritten. Uninhabited apartments piled on top of one
another just waiting for people to come and watch soap operas within them. Slam.
Slam. The ropes on the flagpole,
bring me back over to the main gate. One
last photo of a car approaching. I’ll be
back here in eight hours for the drop off.
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