Shit like this always freaks me out, but also fills me with a pale, sickly sort of hope for a better (if creepier) future.

The blob of nerves forming the brain of the robot was taken from the neural cortex in a rat foetus and then treated to dissolve the connections between individual neurons [excerpt taken from here].

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Though it only made #16 on the charts in 1958, Link Wray’s “Rumble“ holds a special place in my heart (and not just for its iconic status). I was born in DC, and grew up in Maryland, close by. When I was between the ages of about four and ten, my barber was a gentle, unassuming man named Doug, who owned Doug’s Barbershop in Waldorf. His last name was Wray, he was Link’s brother, and the drummer on Rumble (and most of Link Wray’s music for most of his career). I only discovered this fact a few years ago when I brought up the song at a holiday dinner only to hear my dad say, “Yeah, and the guy who cut your hair when you were a little boy was the drummer on that track.”

After the band’s halcyon days, Doug “retired” from music (do you ever really retire from music?) and opened the barbershop, which he ran pretty much right up until his death in 1985. Doug was a hell of a drummer—they once played a show at a used car lot in Waldorf and people could hear the drums three miles away (apparently someone reported “gun shots” to the police, who tracked the sound to the used car lot, and Doug Wray’s drumming).

By the way, the Wikipedia article linked above is a little inaccurate. The song was performed in Fredericksburg, VA for the first time, but “hot-miked” (Ray Vernon Wray, Link’s other brother, jammed the microphone he’d been singing into right into one of the amps), which produced that really loud, distorted, buzzy sound that hadn’t been heard outside of basements and bedrooms with busted, cheap ass amplifiers of a certain vintage.

Link had a practice “studio” (usually called “The Three Track Shack”) in Accokeek, MD., where I grew up (about five miles south of DC). The studio didn’t have the best equipment, so when they later practiced Rumble, as it came to be called (the song was originally called Oddball), that trademark proto-grunge sound was still there, a result of some pretty blown high-end response. When they went to record it at Cameo Records in Philadelphia, (the song was eventually picked up by Cadence, in NYC, release number 1347), they couldn’t quite get the sound right. Link solved the problem by walking around the studio with a pen, stabbing holes in tweeters (but leaving the woofers unmolested) until the guitar sounded about right.

Link would have been seventy-nine today.

I’m watching the editor’s commentary track for the The Conversation and it’s shit like this that will make me spend six hours getting through the latest installment of my netflix queue. Hackman’s character, Harry Caul, is based on a real guy, Hal Lipset, who was brought in as technical adviser. He explained that people at the top of their craft often made their own equipment with whatever they had lying around—not relying on commercially available products, even those catering to their specific trade, because they were often too coarse or didn’t precisely do exactly what they wanted them to do.

As someone who’s always been fascinated by surveillance and intelligence, this is a good flick. Obvious nod (or rip off) to Antonioni, and would make a good “double-feature.” Maybe. Blow Up might be one of those things you need to see and then go do something else for a while.

Conversation’s great, though. I’m not sure if I’ll listen to the Coppola track, I just can’t stand him sometimes.

The title of this entry is the definition of the Portuguese word saudade, evidently considered one of the hardest words to translate. It’s one of my favorite ways to feel, because that faint hope of something lost which “might return in a distant future” is how I view all unpleasant finalities. From the referenced wikipedia article:

Some specialists say the word may have originated during the Great Portuguese Discoveries, giving meaning to the sadness felt about those who departed on journeys to unknown seas and disappeared in shipwrecks, died in battle, or simply never returned […] The state of mind has subsequently become a “Portuguese way of life”: a constant feeling of absence, the sadness of something that’s missing, wishful longing for completeness or wholeness and the yearning for the return of that now gone, a desire for presence as opposed to absence—as it is said in Portuguese, a strong desire to “matar as saudades” (lit. “to kill the saudades“).

I’ll be a bit indulgent here (it’s my blog, I’m allowed). I love the word because it neatly encapsulates my view of so much loss. Death (I’m sorry you didn’t get my letter in time, A.—I think you have it now. Thanks again for the books, rest well, and keep an eye out for my cat, if you don’t mind), lost youth (the perfect functioning, natural comfort and ease of use we have in our bodies when we’re children), disillusionment (everyone likes me and the world is my friend!), and about a thousand other things I can see in the shadows but can’t call out by name at the moment. And I don’t feel like waving a flashlight around, I’ve only had one cup of coffee today.

And now for the mundane part of this entry to drag it down from the unbearably romantic to the stolidly ubiquitous. I was re-loading my MP3 player (link goes to the SanDisk e260, highly recommended despite the occasional weird firmware issue and reboot bugs, see this site if you have any kind of MP3 player) by crawling through my music files one at a time (using Winamp, also highly recommended), determining what makes the cut and what doesn’t, finding some temporarily forgotten favorites and some things I can’t believe I ever bothered to download. Er, buy. Ha ha. Right-click, remove, physically remove selected item(s), yes. I think some smart ass P2P user uploaded a lot of shit to my computer, because I seriously would never have downloaded Barbie Girl, for instance. Even as a joke. Or a Gregorian Chant version of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Actually, maybe that one was me.

I found an old song by Love & Rockets (is all this linking getting annoying yet?) called, as you may have guessed by now, Saudade, which I probably first heard when I was fifteen or sixteen, hanging out with Ken (I’d link here too, but he’d kill me) in his room or driving back from Tower in DC, listening to music, smoking cigarettes down to the filter (and probably drinking to excess). Can’t say I’ve got much saudade for smoking or driving around drunk (O, the things we do when we are still immortal), but I definitely wouldn’t mind being sixteen again if for no other reason than to hear certain songs for the first time. And OK, maybe I do have a sense of fond longing for the distant-future return of driving around drunk, at least.
Recent events alluded to in the first paragraph inspire a strong sense of saudade, and though the word may be impossible to translate, I think I’ve got a native speaker’s grasp of it. The wikipedia article goes on to say:

The same feeling is also found in Brazil, the destination of immigrants who never saw their homelands again. The feeling was so much ingrained into the Brazilian mind that virtually every immigrant settled there learned this notion and incorporated it (even people from radically different mindsets, like German and Japanese immigrants to Brazil, soon understood it). Another permanent source of saudades for Brazilians is the vastness of the country itself, still mostly jungle, which in the past caused people to feel alone almost everywhere.

Being the progeny of Irish immigrants, I can connect to that at least culturally, as the Irish seem to have a similar sense of “forlorn longing for homeland” embedded somewhere in a genetic sequence or two. There’s a great line from a Pogues song: “Wherever we go, we celebrate the land that makes us refugees,” and I’ve definitely seen that in my own third-generation, never been to Ireland, don’t know the first thing about Irish history (outside of the Famine and the Troubles) immediate family. Hell, we even celebrate the tiny coal mining town my father left, in search of work in the late forties when the mines were shutting down. My grandfather died of black lung. Some things don’t deserve celebration.

Oh, the song made the cut (even though it hasn’t particularly traveled well) at 3.87 gigs out of a possible 5.59. I’ve got 1.72 more gigs of music to choose, then the audio books and lectures for the two gig flash card, so it’s time for more coffee and less romantic moaning.

It’s almost as fast to download a song as it is to find it in my (pretty fucking big) music collection—and I’m pretty convinced it’s actually better to download than to find the local copy. I’m not quite convinced it’s better to download than it is to store—the internet does occasionally still go away for brief periods, and if I want to hear Joy Division’s first album right now to make me feel better about being offline (after all, it was 1983 when I first heard it, and the internet slumbered somewhere deep inside Defense Department hardware, waiting to be born), I’d be out of luck (unless I somehow found the unlabeled black cassette recording of this album I probably still own, somewhere). But as these things become more and more reliable (and uninterruptible power and always-on omnipresent wireless broadband are on the horizon of ubiquity), I can easily see a day where I’ve got a comparatively tiny hard drive and when I want to hear something, even something as rare as say Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s first release (thirty-three copies on cassette!) I’ll just open a window and pull it out of the net. I said better, too, right? Behold:

I know I have Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird” somewhere on my primary hard drive, but I don’t feel like looking for it (I’m still “unpacking” after my move from my old computer—it’s getting to be as protracted a process as if I had actually moved house, and I can easily foresee myself “living out of boxes” for some time yet). So I turn to my usual source for music I don’t yet own, and start searching for Freebird. Within thirty seconds, I’ve got the album version of Freebird downloading, a live version ostensibly from a bootleg recording (you never know with this shit until you download it and listen to it—I’ve seen stuff so mislabeled and fucked up that it makes all the “wikipedia is unreliable” arguments sing and dance in my imagination (same issue: ignorant sources substituting bad guesses or malicious erronity (!!) as definitive data)), another track called “David Cross — Freebird.mp3″ and a cover version (again, pending download, probably a cover version) of Freebird by Cat Power. I think the David Cross thing is a cut from one of his comedy albums. I’ll probably listen to it (again? I vaguely remember it) and discard it. But the Cat Power thing could be awesome. It could be my new favorite version of this song … and if I hadn’t been lazy and misplaced the copy of Skynyrd’s “Freebird” that I already have, I never would have found it.

Music piracy (uh if that was in fact what I was doing instead of uh legally purchasing copies of everything I’ve just mentioned through whatever website(s) you use for that) is an incredibly democratizing and liberating force, if you extend it in its natural directions (I have a huge library of books I’ve downloaded—and the bulk of the ebook material available through peer-to-peer networks is made up of instructional manuals).

I’m profoundly ambivalent about it, and I’m sure the dichotomy doesn’t escape those who regularly read this thing. I’m paranoid enough about my (shitty first draft) writing being ripped off that I hide it behind layers of passworded bullshit, but when I want to feed on the lifework of any recording artist, writer, film production crew, etc., past, present or future, I expect to be able to swing a machete overhead, cut a vine, and suck like an explorer in a Tarzan movie.

I’m not sure if there are any conclusions to be drawn. I’m just rambling. I sometimes try to imagine a world without currency or mortgages or rent, where musicians and writers and trash men and doctors and maybe lawyers (but I’m not so sure about lawyers) do their jobs without pay, and somehow still have nice houses, nice cars, excellent healthcare and opportunity for education and fulfillment … but I can’t make it work in my imagination. So even though it’s rewarding and enlightening for me to sit here and rip off recording artists (assuming, of course, that that is in fact what I was doing and not lawfully blah blah blah), it’s still (probably) immoral and wrong. Oh, and illegal.

But it’s so fucking cool.

I’ve spent the past few hours deciding which project to work on this morning, working on it, listening to music, watching the last half hour of Belle de Jour and most of Moby Dick (still playing in the background) with the sound turned all the way down, filling in holes in my music collection, and drinking decaf. Think I’ve got enough going on? I’m wondering what the chicken/egg relationship is between my chronic insomnia and the stuff I tend to do in the late night and early morning. At least I’m drinking decaf, right?

I finally decided to work on a “crappy science fiction” project with the pompous working title “The Ark in Ice.” It’s about a long-haul interstellar colony ship that suffers some sort of accident, which cripples a lot of its automatic systems, destroys most of its library, and kills about 90% of its population, both “waking” and those in whatever cliché for suspended animation I end up using. Lot of room there for all kinds of alienation and “search for a purpose in life” themes, which I appear to be harping on quite a bit these days anyway. If I can avoid writing shitty science fiction, it might be readable. I’ll post an excerpt later today (or I won’t, but will soon).

I’ve been listening to a real schizophrenic mix tonight. Some Elliot Smith (stuff off of From a Basement on the Hill) a bit of the Hedwig and the Angry Inch soundtrack, a bit of the Wig in a Box tribute album, Zero 7 (some Simple Things), My Bloody Valentine (a bunch of stuff), Laverne Baker (ditto), Massive Attack (Mezzanine, I think I’m trying to decide if I actually like them or just don’t dislike them), The New Pornographers (Electric Version), TV on the Radio (the Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes album, which is reminding me of The Doves’s Lost Souls a lot right now), Brian Eno (always a staple, Music for Films tonight), and right now The Polyphonic Spree (I forget which album this is, I think it’s Together We’re Heavy, which, considering there are a hundred thousand people in this band …). All of this music is connected by pretty clear lines in my mind. If you can guess what they are, I’ll burn my entire music collection to a series of DVDs for you.

Last but not least, the decaf isn’t bad, for decaf. I think I’m going to switch to tea, push on to a thousand words, and try to get to sleep. If I were ambitious and bold, I’d provide links for all of the bands I just mentioned. I’m sure there’s some way to select the text and have Google milk the internet’s honeyed teat for you. Be bold, be ambitious.