Israeli Punk
The best band names are frequently found in hotel bathrooms. Mitzpeh Ramon, Sukkot, 2006.
Archived entries for Travel
American Oriental
The main supermarket in 29 Palms, California, home to the largest Marines base in the U.S.
Back from Iraq, the troops bring home a taste for middle eastern food, American-style.
The new desert couture: three keffiyehs, next to a U.S. flag in a surplus store down the street.
Cultural Imperialism That Works
By now, you’d think that a beats and Bollywood synthesis would be the stuff of nineties cliche. Indeed, it most certainly is. Witness all of the lazily titled ‘Buddha Beat’-style anthologies issued by exotica imprints on the one hand, and the ‘sitar and bass’ records once the province of boutique ethno labels like Outcaste on the other.
Finding a copy of this new Madlib disc for only four bucks, I decided to make the plunge. When this kind of work is done right, absolutely nothing beats it. Luckily, my intuition proved correct. Sampling both film dialogue and music, with Beat Konducta India, the legendary Oxnard DJ takes the idiom in an entirely new direction.
What makes this record work is how it inverts the experience of world music. Instead of making the listener imagine they’re somewhere else, it helps you figure out where you already are. Like my block, where sometimes I can hear Bollywood soundtracks blasting out of an Indian restaurant, while cars idling in front pump out loud hip-hop as they wait for the light to change.
Branding is Everything
As we disembarked from our flight, we noticed that the pretty woman in front of us had a rather large caliber, military-issue pistol tucked into the back of her trousers.
Minutes later, we stumbled upon this sign, making us wonder whether "a little too obvious" was the new catchphrase of the security forces. Oakland Airport, August 13th.
Desktop Rockers Be Gone
Can you remember what its like to just hang out and listen to music? Not at your desk, in your car, or on your iPod, but on the couch, on a weekend afternoon, with a friend, or a lover.
Imagine playing records back to back, for several hours, as your ears drift in and out of changes in albums, interspersed by comments about what you’re listening to, and long, deep yawns.
So we spent our Saturday, comfortably nestled in the living room of a sleepy vacation rental near the Pacific ocean, three hours north of San Francisco. No hippies, all reggae.
Utopia, UK
“Okay now,” Miss Kennedy finally said, “I want you all to be quiet and begin introducing yourselves, starting with the front row.” A short, fat boy wearing a beige cashmere sweater, with a head of thick, black, comb-backed hair began. “My name is Ahmed,” he said in nearly flawless English, smiling. “I just moved here from Saudi Arabia.” Next up was the dark, pretty girl to his right. “My name is Farnaz,” she said. “And where are you from?” Miss Kennedy asked. “Iran,” Farnaz replied. “I just moved here too.”
And so, based on my survey of how many Middle Eastern–looking kids were in the room, it was clear that Miss Kennedy—a young, blonde and blue eyed teacher married to an American serviceman stationed in London — wanted us all to confess our countries of origin. Following Farnaz was a boy from Syria, followed by an Iraqi, another Iranian, a kid from Lebanon, a girl from Libya and finally, me. “Joel,” Miss Kennedy asked, staring at my nametag, “do you want to introduce yourself?”
An enormous silence fell over the room. I was terrified. I just could not issue a reply. Miss Kennedy stared at me with a concerned look on her face. “What’s the matter Joel,” she asked. “Has the cat got your tongue?” My classmates began to giggle. Finally, seeing fifteen curious faces staring intently at me, waiting for me to say something, I finally blustered “Hi, my name is Joel. I’m from Israel. Can I go to the bathroom, please?”
In retrospect, there was absolutely no reason to be nervous. None of us was older than eleven, and besides, no matter what kind of ideology you inculcate children with, as I discovered that year in London, it appeared as though all vestiges of the Middle East conflict seem to disappear through the classroom collaborations and the friendships we inevitably fell into.
- From my editor’s column, Tikkun, September/October edition, 2005
He Loved Us, Too
My vinyl copy of Johnny Cash‘s now out of print 1969 account of his visit to the West Bank’s holy sites. Briefly reissued by Harmony records in the late nineties, right after Cash died in 2003, I investigated licensing it on behalf of my former label. From what I recall, the cost would have been far too prohibitive.
Needless to say, this thirty-eight year old half-spoken word, half-sung recording of Johnny & June getting off in places like the Garden of Gethsemane is at its peak of cultural relevance. Christian, Zionist, basking in the significance of Israel’s June ’67 victory, The Holy Land is in serious need of a critical revival.
Touch Me, I’m Sick
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a runny nose. As I pulled myself out of bed to make coffee, I began to sneeze. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, my sinuses felt like bricks had been stuffed inside them. Waiting for my coffee cup to fill up, I finally realized what was going on. I’d gotten a cold – the first one of the year.
Like most people, I have an established regime for dealing with these things. I dissolve an Airborne tablet in a small glass of water, and follow it up with Boiron’s Oscillo, numerous little white thingies that quickly melt on my tongue. Luckily we had both on hand, and by today, though not feeling absolutely fabulous, I’d dried up, so to speak.
Not surprised I fell ill. The last few weeks have been exceedingly rough for both of us. Running around Los Angeles for three days, attending a funeral, and doing all of the follow up emotional work has been hard. Factor in the traveling we’ve had to do down south and back, and voila. I’m looking forward to things slowing down a bit and becoming less serious.
Dub Me Healthy: King Tubby’s Special 1973-1976: King Tubby, The Observer Allstars & the Aggrovators.
Back in Black
We’re home. And already thinking about how we’re going to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Brazilian espresso, anyone? Its absolutely wonderful, makes a first-class crema, and only costs eight dollars a pound.
Word up to my homey Ron, who shouted me out today about the WBAI show getting posted. For folks interested in listening, click here. An MP3 will load up immediately, courtesy of the always amazing Doug Henwood.
I just listened to the program over dinner, and was really surprised that the background noise didn’t drown it the least bit out. Big up to the Bob Hope Airport intercom for being our friend.
