Jordan Hoffman Dot Com

As soon as the Suburu with black tape all over it to mirror EVH’s guitar pulled up I knew we were in for a good time.

I love Van Halen. The *real* Van Halen, that is. Sure, they had one or two good songs with Sammy Hagar (and maybe with Gary Cherone, who knows?) but the Diamond Dave years are where it’s at. VH with DLR was one of the first bands I ever got into. And every one of those tapes (TAPES!) I knew inside and out. Van Halen, Van Halen II, Women and Children First, Fair Warning, Diver Down and 1984 - not a bunk track in the collection.

I went to the concert on a whim - as much an excuse to hang out with two good friends I really don’t get the chance to see as much as I’d like - and, frankly, had very low expectations. Maybe it was the Miller High Life talking, but I thought it was terrific. Eddie was sharp as ever (best was the intro into Mean Streets - no, it was the Eruption–>Cathedral–>Eruption solo - no it was the licks on Hot For Teacher - who can narrow it down?) Alex was kickin’ ass even though he had a gong and never used it and Dave in his stupid hats and General coats was a load of fun. Even the pudgy kid was good.

Dave did some decent kicks, not quite what he could do in the Jump video, but pretty good for a man his age. He also took his shirt off, used some big words, saluted the slutty women of New Jersey and made some dumbass jokes that, as I had confirmed for me from someone who went to the MSG show, were the same jokes he’s been telling on the whole tour.

I can’t remember the last time I went to a hockey arena to see a concert and don’t see it happening again any time soon, but when I wore my Van Halen T-shirt the next day and total strangers in the street pointed at me and said “Awesome!” I knew, somehow, I’d been somewhere special.

Here’s something that they don’t tell you when you poke around and learn about Celine - he’s really effing funny. Misogynistic, racist, a probable Nazi sympathizer (if not full on collaborator) yes - but also really funny. The horrors on WWI are on full display starting with chapter two, but the vibe I got is much more P. J. O’Rourke than Erich Maria Remarque.

The first 250 pages are a plotless screed as “Ferdinand” looks down his nose at war, then the homefront, then Colonization in Africa, then New York, then the Ford factory in Detroit, with nothing but scorn for society and its inhabitants - those disgusting humans. Ferdinand is not above it, though, loaded with semen and feces and the barbarous human need to expel both of these at regular intervals.

Finally a return to France and setting up shop as a physician in a low-rent part of Paris where the focus is more on the bottom line than Hippocrates. Here something resembling a traditional plot comes in with a cast of despicable characters all screwing each other, literally and figuratively, to pass the time. Ferdinand finds himself, at the end, the head of a local insane asylum, the only natural place to be.

Every page of Celine’s book is like a punch in the eye of horrible, humorous depravity - and endless bon mots. Snuck between the nihilism, usually in ellipses, are short phrases of remarkable beauty. Celine was a hero the Beats and it is obvious why - nearly everything he writes is quotable (I’d give you some examples, but then I wouldn’t know where to stop) and, surely, if spake with the right cadence (or French accent) will make you sound real, real deep.

A very entertaining, although ultimately depressing book.

In 1997 Lou Reed released what I consider his greatest achievement other than 1989’s New York, Set The Twilight Reeling. I went absolutely batshit for this album and still dig it out from time to time. In 2000 he followed it up with the just-okay Ecstacy. It is no Twilight so after a few spins it went straight into the library.

I dug it out recently and while I agree with my original assessment that it is lesser Lou, there is still a great deal to enjoy on it (other than the money shot cover art.)

Tunes like “Paranoia Key of E” and “Future Farmers of America” have a really good groove and are very hummable.

The masterpiece, though, is the incredibly purple “Modern Dance” - a song that actually has the audacity to rhyme “Moon” and “June.” The lyrics to “Modern Dance” are so absurd they achieve a sort of brilliance; the song itself has the chord progressions of a classic showtune, but with Reed’s fuzz guitar and, um, unique vocal delivery. Everything that is awesome and awful about Lou Reed (he may be a fool, but he’s our fool) can be found on this track. It is, in its own way, absolutely fucking perfect.

Here it is on YouTube. He dresses like a chicken.

I will not deny that three hours and forty-five minutes is a long night at the opera, even at the swank and prime people-watching venue The Metropolitan Opera House. I consider myself a full-fledged Glass fan, but I also think that the first act of Satyagraha is the strongest, the second act opens strongly, and third is a little dull. So when 11:45 rolled around, I sighed a scale-trilling, repetitive sigh of relief. It’s not like I could follow anything resembling a story; not that I was looking for one.

But, generally speaking, I loved it. I really do dig Glass’ music. The “repetitiveness” is actually deceptive. When he’s in a groove, nearly every run is a slight permutation on the one prior. And trying to follow the course of one instrument line feels like isolating a cell under a microscope.

Anyway, here’s what the NY Times had to say.

You are probably a fan of Daniel Lanois and don’t even know it. He is the pioneer of the unusual sound that has given U2, Peter Gabriel and the recent good work of Bob Dylan all of their better moments. Also The Neville Brothers, Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson and a bazillion others. He’s also the producer of his own occasional work. Since 1989 he has put out 5 CDs, one an instrumental. This, the fifth one, is actual the soundtrack to a documentary Lanois has made that I have not seen. From what I can glean of the scraps of dialogue in between some of the tracks, it is a film about art, inspiration and creation.

There are cuts on here as good as Lanois has ever done - one track may be the best lap steel solo I’ve ever heard. It is Lanois’ “Watermelon in Easter Hay” to put it in obscure terms.

Anyhow, I bought this about a week and a half ago and I can’t stop listening to it. If you like his other stuff, definitely check this out.

I’ve dipped my toe in the X-Men before - I’ve even seen one of the movies (the second one.) This is allegedly one of the most impressive story arcs (and one that’ll get referenced in an upcoming, you guessed it, Trek/X-Men crossover) so I picked up a copy of this in trade paperback for a song at Comic-Con to check it out.

The fact of the matter is that I’m just not that much of a fan of this era’s Marvel comics. While there is an inkling of actual hard SF time travel mindf@&i#ng going on here, it is mostly just fighting and horrible thought bubbles and narration. I know Marvel comics are as important to some as original Trek is to me, but I just can’t connect to this on any real level

I was in attendance - in the fifth stinkin’ row - during this week’s world premiere of Tan Dun’s Piano Concerto.

I’m hardly a scholar of contemporary classical music, but I thought it was fan-frickin’-tastic. It was loud and raucous in parts and slow and lovely in others. It had a slight “east meets west” thing that is Tan Dun’s stock-in-trade. It was also a mere 30 minutes. That’s a good move.

The Times has nice things to say, as does France’s ConcertoNet. The NY Sun kinda does, too.

From the author of Y: The Last Man comes a comic series that is a little less epic but, in a way, might be more enjoyable.

Mitchell Hundred - not that dissimilar from the protagonist of Y in his struggles to be GOOD and his near godlike ability not to abuse the inherant power in his situation - suddenly finds that he has dominion over machines. He is a second-rate vigilante until 9/11/01 when he is able to save the second tower from destruction. He suddenly finds himself mayor of New York on an independent ticket - and then the real trouble begins. Best way to pitch is DC comics meets The West Wing - but hardcore New York. The series is about halfway through its run.

It’s a little strange - but for some reason I can’t stop listening to The Who Sell Out. I think, right now, it is my favorite album by the Who. Would I rather listen to never ending instrumental jams from Quadrophenia or a thirty second “Things Go Better With Coke?”

My world is officially upside-down.

If you are like me, you are often fascinated by those 500+ novels of “hard science-fiction” that you sometimes see in junk shops. Every now and again I pick one up and I remember why I don’t read them too often. Poul Anderson’s “Harvest of Stars” (a book I’m sure you never heard of; I sure didn’t, and there’s little written about it online) is a rambling, babbling mess. I get the impression that an author like Anderson just sat at his typerwriter and shat out pages as quickly as he could and never went back and edited. Oh, there are cool ideas in there - and the opening (when you are first meeting the world of the story) is indeed fascinating. But when it comes time to, like, tell a story disaster strikes. I can not tell a lie - I stopped at page 300 when I realized that this wasn’t going anywhere (and when I learned there were THREE sequels.) And the damned thing wasn’t even written well. The style was just on the nose flat - and somewhat right wing reactionary. I don’t recommend this book, even if it does feature a Union-busting wise-crackin’ robot.

One album I’ve been listening to quite a bit lately is the most recent work by Vernon Reid. Remember Vernon Reid? “Glamour Boys?” Yeah, yeah. Well, he’s been doing edgy, avant-garde stuff for years. I saw him do a solo gig called “My Science Project” at the Knitting Factory maybe 10 years back that blew my mind.

Anyway, the new one, “Masque,” is a rock-jazz instrumental mindscrambler that is funky, tuneful, fun and, at times, beautiful. One of the highlights is a slow-as-a-dirge cover of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” with feedback and turntables. Quite extraordinary.

The new album by The Diggs is out (and streamable for free at thediggs.com) and it is by far their finest achievement. There are catchy, peppy, punky tunes and there are soaring, emotional, dense, “Death Cab For Cutie”-esque forays into the sublime. Also, much like The Police, there are wry lyrical references to earlier songs for longtime fans. There is also the sparing use of glockenspiels here and there. Who knew glockenspiels were sexy instruments? And speaking of sexy, did you know the bass player was voted hottie of the week?

Nathan Zuckerman, star of nine (or ten, depending) of Philip Roth’s novels, is out of hibernation. He’s come down to New York the week of the Bush/Kerry election to get some cartilidge inserted into his malfunctioning penis. While here he gets harassed by his past, tries to harass others into his future and spends most of his time either baffled picking the world apart or putting it together in his head. As is the lot in life for Nathan (and all real writers, it is posited) he spends more of his time creating slightly more interesting versions of reality in his head than what is actually going on around him. Now that his head is getting clumsy and forgetful, everything that means anything to Zuckerman is just about to fall apart.

This is, we’re told, the last Zuckerman novel and that’s fine. There’s no place left for him to go except the grave and Roth has already done the death trip twice: once as an observer with Patrimony and once as a participant with Everyman.

One of the many constant themes in the Zuckerman books (and the one, I think, that Roth most likes to tease us with) is the thin line between an author’s biography and the characters he creates. Basic knowledge of Roth’s life offer up many parallels with the life of Zuckerman, and yet Zuckerman’s central focus in Exit Ghost is that a writer can and should create things purely out of imagination. And those who go searching for real life parallels are lower than whale shit. He argues this in the face of today’s memoirist-tide of young writers, personified by an obnoxious guy named Kliman (not Kil-man) who wants to “revive” and also destroy (with a scandalous rumor) Zuckerman’s idol (and star of the earlier book The Ghost Writer) E. I. Lonoff (who may or may not be based on Bernard Malamud, if you wanna go that route.)

There are wheels within wheels to the point that I figured that Roth doth protest too much and, yes, this must all just be true. Which annoyed me, because Zuckerman boldly announces that he is completely apathetic to George W. Bush. Until I found this:

On the 40th anniversary of Trek (two years ago!) this collection of essays was released. Some are just history about the show and its impact, others are in depth philosophical examinations of the implications of the transporter. Or the Prime Directive. One essay examined the ENTIRE show (not just a few key episodes) in the context of Vietnam. Another argues that a Vulcan’s dismissal of emotion is, in fact, not logical. And there’s a funny piece trying to figure out why no one in the 23rd century knows how to wear a seat belt.

I eat this crap up. Very entertaining.

Jimmy Breslin invented the nexus of the mafia and humor with his Gang that Couldn’t Shoot Straight. Later he would write the only definitive novel of working class Queens with Table Money, quite truly one of the most shockingly pitch-perfect books I’ve ever read. He would follow that up with a wonderfully bleak look at New York’s homeless situation with He Got Hungry and Forgot His Manners. Before all this, though, is Breslin’s would-be epic about the Irish Troubles, World Without End, Amen. It is a mostly forgotten book - very much out of print and, frankly, isn’t worth hunting down.

The first third presents us with Breslin’s trademark New York City realism. An alcoholic Irish-American cop who thinks nothing of beating up blacks. Fate sends him to Belfast where he witnesses first hand the third world living conditions. He falls in with a group of Commnunists who may or may not be opening his eyes to injustices back home.

Breslin is an apt reporter and his scenes of Ulster country mayhem and poverty are well-written, but the narrative drive is very much on empty. Forget that it is near impossible to like our protagonist (stamping out a cigarette on a man’s eye just because he is black and gay is a tough way to win our love) and, although I give Breslin points for eschewing easy redemption, the “so what” factor of his Irish observations end us with a big, troubling question mark. I feel that maybe Breslin would have been better off with straight reportage if he wanted to discuss his take on Northern Ireland. Not recommended.

A quick story: Chris Radtke bumps into me as I am ordering lunch at Le Basket. “What are you having?” he asks. “A ham sandwich.” “That’s not kosher. What are you reading?” I hold up To Jerusalem and Back. “But that is.” (Maybe you had to be there.)

There’s nothing I find more fascinating then out-of-date current events. I probably know more politics about the 60s and 70s then I do about today. I don’t know why that is. Anyhow, 70s politics and Israel are both fascinating topics for me. When the Nobel Prize winning Jewish novelist Saul Bellow decided to go to Jerusalem in 1975 he took a lot of notes and then shat out a book. It is partial travelogue, partial dated wonkishness, partial history, partial screed against his enemies, mostly Jean-Paul Sartre. Bellow is, to paraphrase the Great Ed Koch, a Zionist with Sanity.

What I find most interesting about this book (other than Bellows’ writerly description of antiquities) is how similar the issues of 1975 are to today. There is one key factor missing, though: the good ol’ CCCP. It is amazing how much of a factor Marxist-Leninist thought was in the mideast back then. Bellow kinda sees through this (as the closest thing to Marxism you’d've found anywhere in the area was an Israeli kibbutz) but the spectre of Communism looms large and there is very little talk of fundamentalism or Wahabbism or any of that 72 virgins crap. In 2007 the Berlin Wall is down, and the Kabaa is King. Other than that, everything is basically the same.

This is hardly the most scholarly book about Israel. Nor is it the most fun (that will always be Philip Roth’s Operation Shylock, but this is certainly worth your time if you are into this sort of thing.

YouTube really does have everything.

Dear God, I love Biff Rose - anyone who can make Van Dyke Parks seem commercial is a fascinating beast.

For twelve years now I’ve been consistently playing the baffling and almost daringly unlikeable album Orange Crate Art by Van Dyke Parks and Brian Wilson. There’s something about it that fascinates me so deeply. It is both horrible and wonderful at the same time. I can’t recommend it flat out to just everyone, but to people with an open mind and patience, you might just find yourself with a new desert island classic as I have.

My interview with Van Dyke Parks from 1999.