Colossal Clump

I was listening to 101.9 THE END in the car today. In between songs, Mr. Radio Voice comes on and says we're in the middle of a set of songs. I mean, usually thay call it a set on the radio, right? Mr. Voice seemed to be in doubt, actually. He said, "Call it a medley, call it a bunch, call it whatever you like. We call it a colossal clump of songs."

When I think of a "clump" of songs, a sunday school lesson comes to mind. The teacher presented a beautiful chocolate cake, and asked if anyone wanted some. An eager volunteer raised his hand, and the teacher plunged his hand into the cake and presented a lovely "clump" of cake to his student. (The teacher then wiped his brow with his cake hand and taught the rest of the class with smaller clumps of chocolate cake on his forehead.) The point of the lesson was that, instead of presenting gospel doctrines to others in appealing ways, sometimes we just blurt out a clump of random facts and expect them to like it. So maybe that's the way Mr. Voice chooses songs at the END.

Interestingly, the relationship between colossal clumps and food doesn't stop there. When I lived in Brazil I ate lunch at friends' houses several times a week. Lunch is the biggest meal of the day in Brazil. The wives, who with such love had prepared the food, sometimes prefered to serve me themselves. That means they placed a colossal clump of food on my plate. In the case of the first serving, that was fine, because I worked 12-hour days. Frequently I wanted seconds, however, and the same colossal clump of food was served up again. I still don't know where I put it all sometimes.

Actually, yes I do know. But I don't want to write about it because it has something to do with weekly bouts of diarrhea. And nothing to do with clumps.

Karaoke

Karaoke was my worst nightmare when I was in Brazil. I lived there for two years and I thought I would never touch a karaoke machine after hearing what some people did to those things down there. Usually it was somebody who was a little drunk, to start with. Then I have this theory that maybe only one or two Brazilians has a sense of pitch. So as we walk past these bars and hear some wailing and yelling... I had a hard time not plugging my ears.

But to my surprise, last night I was holding the mic and singing Billy Joel's "Just the Way You Are" with my brother. He couldn't hit some of the high notes, so I had to take over, but he knew the sax solo in the middle, so he sang that. We make a great team. But that doesn't mean I like Karaoke. Even Justin Timberlake is better than karaoke.

Like an Idiot

I left my jump drive in the computer lab like an idiot. I was running off to class and to finish some assignments, and I jsut left it there. It didn't even occur to me that I was missing it. So I'm in the museum, checking out some photographs for an analysis I have to write, and I notice I have a voice mail. "Hi, uh, this is Jason Lamb, and I found your jump drive, and it probably has a lot of important stuff on it, so give me a call back and we can meet somewhere so you can get it back." (Which I thought was really funny because how did he get my cell number? Maybe he opened my resume or one of my files to get my name and used the directory to find my number. But then, he wouldn't have to say I "probably" have a lot of important stuff, since he would know. ha ha) I couldn't believe he actually called me first instead of taking it straight to the lost and found or just leaving it with the lab assistant or something. The guy took responsibility for getting it back to me himself, and I actually just wanted to give him a pat on the back. But I didn't know him, and physical contact beyond a handshake between guys on the first meeting is a little weird.

Pancho Sanchez, "Do It!"

There's something about Latin and Afro-Cuban rhythms that makes your
muscles start to twitch to the beat. It's like a disease where you
can't stop tapping your foot or bobbing your head. Sometimes there's
words like on "Tin Tin Deo" and "Yo Quisiera," and sometimes it's just
the congas and a repeating piano line like on "Together." Still
dancing. Poncho Sanchez and his ensemble masterfully spread the
infection themselves, and when they join funk group Tower of Power on
two tracks, it's just as contagious. "Short Dog" feels like a
streetside jam session, with musicians randomly calling out throughout
the performance. Not all the songs fit the same mold, but they're
variants of the same germ. You probably won't be humming the quick,
jumpy instrumental lines once the songs are over, but there might be a
few lingering twitches. Take a listen and call me in the morning.

Getting Started

I heard the way to develop a 'voice' in reporting is to practice using a blog as a sort of journal. I want to become a music critic, so I'm gonna post what I'm listening to, what music I'm checking out, and what I think of the latest bands and the music industry. Wish me luck.