“Louis Cole and Genevieve Artadi” was released Oct. 1, 2010.  Louis recently released his second solo album, “Album 2″.  Check them out.

Though she greets me at the door with her usual smile–the corners of her mouth rising to reveal her teeth without, somehow, moving the rest of her face–Genevieve doesn’t seem herself tonight.  She tells me that she’s working on a piece of music for her grandfather.  He’s sick, and she worries that she won’t be able to finish it in time.  While she works, I occupy myself with a foam ball and the basket affixed to her living room wall.  I’m trying to bank a shot off the opposite wall when she closes her laptop and joins me.

She asks if I’ve made one yet.  I reply that I haven’t, and hand her the ball to try the shot herself, but she hands it back.  Her smile returns, and she demands that I keep trying.  Even though I’m pretty sure I can’t make the shot, I try again.  And again.  And again.  A hundred shots later, I feel bizarrely invested in this once pointless venture.  I’m beginning to think that I can make the shot after all, that I’m going to make it.  Sure enough, the ball finally finds its target.  Genevieve shouts her approval and high fives me.

I wonder out loud how long we’ve been at it.  She shrugs.  My question suddenly seems silly to me.

*

Pop musicians are in the business of showing people a good time.  One occasionally detects a note of desperation in their theatrics, though, a nervous compulsion to look over their shoulders as they shake their asses in our faces and silently plead from behind steely eyes: “are you having fun yet?”  Therefore, when I say that I don’t consider Louis and Genevieve to be pop musicians, I mean it neither as a compliment nor a slight, but rather to distinguish their particular brand of fun from what normally passes for fun these days.

It is often taken for granted in today’s musical culture that musicians must choose between being serious and having fun.  Young musicians seem either manic to the point of insanity, or so sad that one wonders where they find the resolve to pick up an instrument.  Louis and Genevieve have artfully carved a niche for themselves someplace far from both extremes.  Theirs is the fun of an absurd idea carried through to its conclusion, whether it be comic, tragic, or some combination of the two.  Fun, in this context, is not so much the continual exudation of happiness as it is an attitude towards ones life.  It is the ability to open oneself to the strangeness of the world without fear.  Fun is a model for courage.

If that seems too dramatic, I wonder: have you ever heard anything like this?

*

Louis comes by later, and he doesn’t seem himself either.  He’s been working on music all night.  As we discuss the album over Genevieve’s kitchen table, neither of them seems quite sure what comes next.  ”We’ve spent a year of our lives on this album,” Genevieve says, “and I don’t know if anything will come of it.”  An uncomfortable silence follows, which Genevieve breaks by asking me if I want to make brownies.

No ordinary mix will do.  The three of us peruse the selection at the local grocery store for what seems like half an hour before settling on double fudge.  But perhaps triple fudge would be even better.  And why is there no quadruple fudge brownie mix?  A lengthy discussion of why no such option is available ensues; would that be too much chocolate, or is the word ‘quadruple’ too inelegant to be printed in sweeping cursive letters across a box?  No definitive conclusion is reached, but the matter seems terribly important, to hear Louis and Genevieve talk about it–a sensation oddly similar to the way their music makes me feel.

What really won me over, though, was your sheer competence.  Your interface was so simple, I could navigate it without looking, and your slim frame belied your impressive durability.  Everybody else seemed to salivate over the newest phones, but I turned down every upgrade; and each time one of my friends complained about glitches, I was thankful to know you had my back.

It’s been a good six years.  I didn’t want to leave, but reception became so spotty that I could hardly make a phone call.  My new phone is pretty flashy, but I want you to know that you’ll always have a special place in my heart.  I’ll be by later for my contacts.

they care about lots of things-

but if you don’t ask?

Krishna and Radha dancing the Rasalila, Jaipur, 19th century.

*

My housemate enters our living room to the sound of a furious drum solo.

["Amnesia" by Robby Marshall, from his album, Living Electric.  Robby Marshall - saxophone, fx, samples; Andrew McKay - guitars; Danny McKay - bass; Zach Harmon - drums; Romain Collin - Rhodes.

“What are you listening to?”

I consider telling the truth.

It’s a Miles Davis record.”

Maybe next time.

“Fuuuuuck yeah,” he moans, collapsing into our papasan for a listen.  After a minute or two, he asks which Miles Davis record it is.

I consider lying.

“It’s not a Miles Davis record.”

Another person might be annoyed, but we’re a couple of jazz musicians, and this is our favorite game.  “The drumming sounds like early Jack DeJohnette, but tighter.  Terri Lynn Carrington?”  Strike one.  “Jim Black?”  Strike two.

A pause.

“Are these New York cats?”

“No.”

“European cats?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“LA cats?”

“Yes.”

The realization comes too late to save him from striking out, and so it is with resignation that he concludes, “oh, this is Robby’s record.”

Left to right: Robby Marshall, Danny McKay, Andrew McKay, and Zach Harmon. Photo by Jason Kramer.

*

Robby likes to make coffee with filtered water.  I once asked him if he could tell the difference, and he shot me the same look of mild annoyance as when he sees his name spelled “Robbie”.  But today, he fills the coffee maker with tap water.  The coffee pot recently met its end on the kitchen floor, so he places his mug beneath the drip instead.

He hasn’t been sleeping well.  Somewhere between organizing a big band to perform with Dave Douglas at the Hollywood Bowl, hustling gigs for his own groups, and grinding out a living in the LA music scene, the summer has slipped away.  And with a recording session for his band Root System fast approaching, he can ill afford to rest.

Left to right: Robby Marshall, Damon Zick, and Dave Douglas. (Gary Friedman/Los Angeles Times)

It’s been two years since Robby released his debut record, Living Electric, but the trials involved are still fresh in his mind.  “Holding the finished product in my hands was great,” he says.  “But designing the packaging and pressing the CDs was expensive and time-consuming, not to mention recording, mixing, and mastering the music.”

Those difficulties, however, haven’t dissuaded him from doing it all over again—writing and rewriting music, scheduling and rescheduling rehearsals, relentlessly writing emails and making phone calls to corral the musicians he wants into the studio on the dates he’s reserved—on the contrary, he’s more determined than ever.

But what if everything falls apart?  Or what if it comes together, and no one listens?  And what about the hundreds of copies of Living Electric still packed in boxes next to his desk?  If these thoughts ever trouble Robby, he isn’t letting on.  He finishes his coffee and disappears into his room.

*

The Blue Whale is an oddity among Los Angeles jazz clubs, a reasonably priced venue that regularly features young local jazz musicians.  On this cool July night, about a hundred people have packed themselves into the small space, drinking and loudly conversing as the Los Angeles Jazz Collective’s Summer Jazz Festival unfolds.

By midnight, when Robby Marshall and Root System take the stage, the crowd has thinned out considerably.  Those who remain, however, are quiet and attentive.  Over the next hour, they will experience a whirlwind tour of Robby’s influences; which is to say, the music of people around the world having a good time.

Eastern European folk song, Peruvian lando, and New Orleans 2^nd line all have a place in Robby’s conception of the rasa lila, a Hindi phrase which means “dance of aesthetics”.  The concept inspired an original composition by Robby, and is reflected more generally in Root System’s diverse book of music.

Before the night is over, Robby will shake every hand in the audience, exchange numbers with every musician, and chat at length with the management.  It isn’t an act; he really loves this part of the evening.  And who can blame him?  As high as he took this audience tonight, he’ll be back to the grind tomorrow, broken coffee maker and all.

Perhaps that’s why, upon returning home late, he doesn’t collapse into bed.  He must be tired, but he kicks off his shoes and turns on the television.  By morning, the dust will have settled on his ambitions again, and he’ll spend the whole day polishing them.  Tonight, they shimmer before his bleary eyes, so close he can almost touch them.

For more information, click here.

Brad opened his solo concert at Largo a few months ago with this song, and it took my head right off my shoulders.  If you see it rolling around, let me know.

Grim news, to be sure.  But let’s not waste this opportunity to expand our vocabulary, with an assist from Dictionary.com.

jazz – [jaz] – noun

5.  Slang . insincere, exaggerated, or pretentious talk: Don’t give me any of that jazz about your great job!

jazzy – [jaz-ee] – adjective

3.  Informal . fancy or flashy: a jazzy sweater.

jazzed (up)

2.  mod . alcohol or drug intoxicated. : Dave was a bit jazzed up, but not terribly.

4.  mod . forged or altered.  (Underworld.  See also tinseled.) : Better not try to cash a jazzed up check at this bank.

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.”

“There is a constitutional provision in the 14th Amendment that has been interpreted to provide that, if you are born in the United States, you are a citizen no matter what."

Let me be the first to say that I couldn’t agree more.

Too long have immigrants flocked to our shores, infecting us with their diverse skills and experiences.  In our magnanimity, we have allowed them to clean our toilets and pick our fruit, even paying them salaries in the hundreds of cents so they don’t go hungry.  But we just can’t allow ourselves to be taken advantage of any longer.

“That’s how you get the credibility to deal with other aspects of the problem.”

But while my Republican friends seek only to deny citizenship to the children of Mexicans, I think we could stand to go a lot farther.  I didn’t have to do a damn thing to become a citizen of this country.  My parents, on the other hand, had to work toward that goal for years – and even now, as naturalized citizens, the PATRIOT Act provides for their indefinite detention without cause.

"Regardless of how you feel about the various aspects of immigration reform, I don’t think anybody thinks that’s something they’re comfortable with.”

So instead of making kids sign up for the draft when they turn 18, why don’t we give them the USCIS exam that all prospective immigrants must pass before they are granted citizenship? I’m quite certain that the prospect of exile would have inspired the kids in my high school government class to put down their dipping tobacco and pick up their textbooks.

Go get ‘em, Mitch.

If there’s one thing we’ve learned over the last year and a half, it’s that you need a filibuster-proof majority to get anything done in Congress.  But since it seems neither party will have such a majority next year, why not call the whole thing off?

Members of Congress earn—I’m using the word somewhat loosely—$174,000 a year.  Leadership positions pull in $193,400, and Speaker Pelosi’s take is $223,500.  Combine their salaries with their considerable health-care, pension, and other benefits, and we stand to save a couple hundred million dollars a year by adding these fine citizens to the ranks of the unemployed.

Of course, even that kind of cash will barely make a dent in our considerable financial obligations, so perhaps we should invest the money.  If there’s one thing we’ve learned over the last year and a half, it’s that gold is a swell investment.  Give it a decade or so, and our money troubles will be behind us.  In the meantime, we could employ some sculptors to craft that chunk of alloy into something beautiful.

Without Beltway shenanigans, the 24-hour news media will surely collapse.  What can we do to save our talking heads from the mean streets?  If there’s one thing we’ve learned over the last year and a half, it’s that television journalists feel right at home in war zones.  So let’s draft them into military service.  They never miss an opportunity to declare their admiration for our troops, and I’m sure our armed forces could use the recruits.

Without a news media to entertain us, perhaps we’ll take to reading.  Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned over the last year and half, it’s that we haven’t learned anything.

Anyway, I fully expect that those who were so disheartened by Mr. Bell’s experiment will jump for joy when they see this:

But I’m not holding my breath.

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