Ahmed Abdul-Malik - La Ibkey

a find for all you enthusiasts of 78rpm recordings of world music

and my man at Excavated Shellac makes them available for free download!:

It’s been my philosophy that good music is best when it is shared. Of course, nothing beats that feeling, say, when you alone break open that box from Turkey or Indonesia, place the fragile platter on the turntable, only to feel your hair stand on end when the music begins. The feeling that you’ve never heard anything like this before in your life; it transports you to a place where words are irrelevant. But part of that feeling is thinking how you’d want to share that with others, to have them feel exactly the same way. This music – old music – never sounds “old” to me, personally. In fact, I believe that it is music of THE FUTURE. Our future.

Record collectors are eccentric people. I don’t even like the term “record collector.” They’ve been parodied far too many times. Accurately, I might add. But I could not live with myself as a “collector” without at least one person I could share sounds with. So this blog is for my friends, and for you, stranger.

If you like what you’re hearing, drop me a line. Yes, yes, it’s okay to download everything and then leave, but seriously – if you feel so moved, give me a shout out!

The Rebirth of Uni-tasking

I definitely can be accused of occasionally sipping from the multi-tasking koolaid ( I type all this up as I have 25 tabs open on my Chrome browser and interrupted my cultural Anthropology reading to post this.). But seeing the futility in such an approach, I'm determined to convert to uni-taskism. As Steven Aitchison and the Frontline special "Digital Nation" * forcefully argue, multi-taskers are less efficient and productive then folks on the straight and narrow path of task completion.

The Death of Multitasking and Rebirth of Unitasking - by Dumb Little Man

*btw, you can not only watch the full episode online for free (and watch it on netflix), but you can download the podcast, and the podcasts to most former

"Only the British could get away with something like this "

Black licorice throat lozenges



Hat tip: Tim C

James Baldwin on Writing

...which could easily apply to anyone who considers him or herself an artist.

Baldwin opens his tribute of sorts on Richard Wright in his collection of essays Nobody Knows My Name with these apposite observations on the writing process and a writer's personality (of course touching on the bipolar psyche of the writer that craves human/social connections while simultaneously allowing those connections to fuel his or her misanthropic isolationism).

In "Alas, Poor Richard":

"Unless a writer is extremely old when he dies, in which case he has probably become a neglected institution, his death must always seem untimely . This is because a real writer is always shifting and changing and searching. The world has many labels for him, of which the most treacherous ins the label Success. But the man behind the label knows defeat far more intimately than he knows triumph. He can never be absolutely certain that he has achieved his intention."

"The writer's greed is appalling. He wants, or seems to want, everything and practically everybody; in another sense, and at the same time, he needs no one at all; and families, friends, and lovers find this extremely hard to take. While he is alive, his work is fatally entangled with his personal fortunes and misfortunes, his personality, and social facts and attitudes of his time. The unadmitted relief, then, of which I spoke has to do with a certain drop in the intensity of our bewilderment, for the baffling creator no longer stands between us and his works."

On the Khaleej

3/24/09, Abu Dhabi

"Be steadfast in your devotion to God, bearing witness to the truth in all equity, and never let the hatred of others to you make you swerve to wrong and depart from justice. Be just: (for) that is closest to piety. . .God has promised forgiveness and a great reward to those who believe and do deeds of righteousness." The Noble Quran, 5:8-9

There is so much that you can’t learn from a book or a phone conversation, so much learning and understanding that requires you to just be, be present. Although I have strongly held this belief in the past, it is nice and necessary to be reminded of this axiom in my travels. From Beirut, to Cairo, to Muscat, and finally, to Abu Dhabi; it has been the conversations in Toyota Prados, wondering looks at a coffee shop in downtown Beirut or out of a cab in Cairo, and questions posed walking through Marina Mall that have greatly enhanced my understanding of the cities I have been visiting and the people I have been meeting.

It’s interesting how Abu Dhabi, by virtue of it’s association with the yogurt cup Las Vegas of the Middle East, has garnered an international reputation that regards its accelerated expansion as indication of a diluting of culture and distancing from tradition. Some how culture has died, been cremated and had its ashes spread across the rubble that remains from skyscraper construction. Yesterday morning proved otherwise.

My aunt took me to the Mena first thing in the morning. The intention was to shop for some fresh seafood at the fish market by the bahar. Before we did this, she drove through the adjacent fruit and vegetable market, some imported, and some organically grown on neighboring farms. Next, at the fish market we selected from Sultan ahmar and shrimp, had them cleaned and left them to be grilled while we touring around the plant and flower market. Oversized Tunjaras and stirring spoons were piled on top of each other and varying spices were stuffed into label-less plastic bags on top of each other. Was this the same Emirates much derided for its “plastic-ness,” for a hollowed out soul filled with skyscappers? 

On Family

3/27/09, Abu Dhabi

Today I missed my family-not even in a collective way-but each one during separate moments. I thought about my mother as I prayed jummah at the mosque in Abu Dhabi today. What was it about the khutab about youth, the garden of heaven and the mamluks that reminded me of her? I don’t really know. Maybe it was seeing all the women there together that stirred an emotional reaction from me…probably my subconscious sneaking in a wake dream from a thought earlier in the morning. As I was getting ready for the mosque today, I thought about how khalo insisted that I say hi to mom, in the same way that my ummo, Allah yarhumwho, on his deathbed emphatically reminded dad that he had a good wife. It made me think, my mom is a good woman, and I need to honor that. She was put through hell with her extended family and her own family, her brothers and sister don’t understand her. I am very lucky to have my mother.

Hatta, I even really missed my dad last night and I can’t recall when it was, but I know it was a specific trigger that engendered a specific thought. And as I was watching home videos with ummo's family in the family room after lunch, I thought about his namesake, my brother. One of my cousins explained that when his dad even tried filming his brother back in la during the break, he wouldn’t listen as he was too distracted by the laker game. Then I said out loud, “well, yeah, they are obsessed. They watch every Laker game that is on.” That’s when I thought about the organic ritual that sprouted out from a skyview lane family room: all of the family gathered around our cloth covered leather coaching, dad on in master sofa with ottoman attachment throne, my mom’s tiny frame squeezed into any available space in one of the two couches crocheting the same sweater from last year, my brother bobbing his head and body off of the couch- slinging their amateur commentary onto the flat screen. I thought about my brother’s reaction to a missed free throw or last second 3 pointer shot. I missed him deeply. And even talking to my sister on the phone earlier today-for as much as it was too much about my brother’s dubious life choices, I missed having her there. To run to her, to find someone who understood the lunancy of the situation and also one who really knew all dimensions of it.

 I missed middle brother as I explained to one of my male cousins about his hidden talents. As I write this, I think about a mantra that I promulgated to all on my trip: that boy, man, is the kindest hearted human I have ever known. This is not said lightly, in any respect. When you are around people 24 hour/7 much is illuminated and little of their character can be cast in shadows. I say this because I have been able to see parts of people in my life that were not too obvious before this trip. So, to confidently maintain this opinion about my brother is further corroboration of his benignity.