Larry Kart

Love her Little Rock accent.

Take a wild guess.

Jim -- More and and more your 21st Century sounds like a slightly modified version of the '60s, minus the psychedelic drugs.

Apologies to Dave Chapelle for that one, btw. No problem. As Freud (among others) said, All humor is based on hostility.

You use the "freeway" image, the "fast lane" image, and the phrase "lest you do get run over," and you don't see why a reasonable person might feel that "the 20th century is over now" sounds fairly pissed-off and not like a simple statement of fact? There's no connection between "is over now" and "get run over"? You've told several stories about being justifiably pissed-off by various annoying old farts (e.g. that club owner); the desire to visit violence on people who won't get out of your way is natural enough.

Dr. Phil's mouth often moves at least one clause too far into the realm of the quietly absurd self-serving. Here, for me, it's "longer than you can imagine." Beautiful in its puffed-up snootiness. And "Somebody needs to step up" is nice in the same vein. Actually, I think it's Roger Clemens who could use some help from Dr. Phil right now.

All right, Jim -- and excuse me, Chuck, while I engage in further public "self-abuse" -- but isn't there a good-sized gap in tone between your "willing to accept chronology as an perpetually ongoing entity" and your "the 20th century is over now." No, not really. Recognizing that yesterday was Tuesday, today is Wednesday, & that tomorrow is going to be Thursday doesn't seem too big a reach... I do like the notion of ignoring chronology when it comes to getting late fees waived though. The tone of "willing to accept chronology as an perpetually ongoing entity" says, "We're all in this together"; the tone of "the 20th century is over now" pretty much says, "Got out of the way, you old dying fart."

Mark: For me the "if you're not part of the solution in classical music, you're part of the problem" approach is a problem in itself, because it tends to equate novelty (as in "we've got to do/hear something different") and quality. The Carter Quartet No. 5 is to some extent of value because it is a new work in several senses (recent and, in Detroit at that time, and in many other places, not yet performed in concert), but it's mostly of value because it's such a damn fine piece of music; it would still be of great value if it had been written 30 years ago and were played as often as, say, one of the Bartok quartets. By contrast, while I'm not familiar with the work of all the composers on that Kronos program, with the exception of Nancarrow, I can't imagine that any of them whose work I do know could ever produce a piece that had a smidge of the musical value of the Carter -- or of the Dvorak, Hindemith and Mendelssohn pieces that the Pacifica played, for that matter. Yes, the cowardice, or whatever you want to call it, on the part of that chamber music society was vile, but the only real answer to the "modern music" problem is modern music that grips you musically, not gestures toward "adventure and relevance."

All right, Jim -- and excuse me, Chuck, while I engage in further public "self-abuse" -- but isn't there a good-sized gap in tone between your "willing to accept chronology as an perpetually ongoing entity" and your "the 20th century is over now."

Thanks. I was thinking what Chuck said. It's a nice reminder of the kinship between Brahms and Elgar, especially their shared inclination to disguise or even half-bury some of their hairier harmonic thinking. The blend of rest and unrest in this passage might be downright terrifying if it weren't so ... I don't know, cloaked. Schoenberg was really keyed-in on this aspect of Brahms; I wonder if S. heard much Elgar and what he made of him.

Ok (as in "Oh-kay"). Now I finally understand what you're talking about. And I couldn't agree more. As I said at one point in Ye Olde Book: "History is always happening, and it's happening to us."

For further evidence of the underlying principle I'm trying to bring to the surface here, I'll add that while I can recall enjoying Fred Allen's radio show as a child, when I recently heard a vintage, representative Allen broadcast, I could hardly believe how lame it was. Minus the original context of broad cultural molasses that made vintage Allen's lemony-ness seems refreshing, there was little left but lack of energy and sheer laziness.

Wow -- "Vic and Sade." That show is a nice example of what I mean. Utterly unfamiliar with it while it was still going on (I believe there was a slight possible overlap between it and my pre-school self, but that didn't occur), I knew nothing of "Vic and Sade," not even the name, until Studs Terkel on his own radio show (BTW I mostly can't stand Studs) did an hour-long interview some time in the late 1970s or early '80s with the widow of "Vic and Sade"'s creator, Paul Rhymer. In the course of this, maybe two whole "Vic and Sade" episodes were played, and listening to this in the car, I almost drove off the road I was laughing so hard. And I was not, it would seem, laughing out of any sense of "those were the days" nostalgia -- because again the show was new to me, and besides the days it arguably spoke from to some considerable degree were days I'd never experienced anyhow, let alone felt sentimental about. Instead, "Vic and Sade" felt wholly "new" to me in aesthetic terms and seemed likely to become, for me, close to permanent -- its soft-shoe surrealism might be compared to that of another arguably nostalgia-free product of American popular art of the 20th Century, George Herriman's "Krazy Kat" strip. Of course, many fans of "Vic and Sade," and "Krazy Kat" too, are prey to nostalgia, but I'm saying that's what really good about "Vic and Sade," and "Krazy Kat" and (fill in the blank -- the list isn't endless but doesn't stop there) is basically nostalgia-free. "Kukla, Fran, Ollie" -- probably not so much, but that was something I did take in as a child.

Jim, with all due respect I think you need to step away for a while from this "the 20th century is over now" thing. Literally true in terms of the calendar, but in terms of particular arts and artists, I think we need to put away this broad brush. Some things of undoubted value that arose in the 20th Century had their day and are now, as they say, "historical"; other things that arose then are still full of vigor and immediate meaning. It's not as though everyone agreed to draw a curtain on things on Jan. 1, 2000. For instance, I've been reading or re-reading some Joseph Conrad lately. Born in 1857, Conrad wrote, among many other things: 1895 Almayer's Folly 1896 An Outcast of the Islands 1897 The Nigger of the 'Narcissus' 1899 Heart of Darkness 1900 Lord Jim 1902 Typhoon 1904 Nostromo 1907 The Secret Agent 1909 The Secret Sharer 1911 Under Western Eyes 1913 Chance 1915 Victory 1917 The Shadow Line 1919 The Arrow of Gold 1920 The Rescue Are we -- now, or back in say, 1965 -- going to tell the author of, say, "Under Western Eyes," "Hey, get out of here, 19th-Century Man." Or are we, conversely, going to ignore the ways in which the tremendous power of, say, "Nostromo" or "The Secret Agent" depends on their author having had experiences that it would be difficult to imagine anyone having had who was born much later than Conrad was, even though though those experiences would virtually explode in works that are very much part of the century in which they actually were written. Let's not pretend that the rhythms of art and artists in time are simpler than they are.

From that chapter in Stark's "Ask the Parrot": "The parrot saw things in black and white. He knew about this place of his, that it was very strong, and that he was very strong within it, and that whenever he thought he might be hungry, there was food in his tray.... "There wasn't much in this world, but not much was needed. With his strong talons and his strong beak, gripping to the metal bars, a taste like inside your brain on his tongue from the bars, he could move around and control everything he needed.... "Sometimes the parrot slept. He slept on the swinging bar, talons gripping tight, large button eyes closed, coarse green feathers slightly ruffled upward and forward. Whe he woke, he always knew he had been sleeping, and that, now he was awake, it was time to eat and shit, drink and piss, so he did. "Now it was now...." To come to write that last sentence -- mmm. Toward the end of this chapter, the parrot, never having spoken before because his owner doesn't speak much, encounters a stranger who does speak: "The parrot had never spoken. The parrot had never been in a social situation where it seemed the right thing to do was speak. The main Creature who lived with him, in his cage outside the cage, almost never spoke. It had never occurred to the parrot to speak. "But now this Creature, some unknown foreign Creature, was yelling the same sounds over and over again, and it came to the parrot that he could make these sounds himself. It might be satisfying to make these sounds. He and the Creature could make these sounds together." He does, or they do, and stuff happens. Also, I really like "in a social situation."

Here they all are: The Hunter The Man With the Getaway Face The Outfit The Mourner The Score The Jugger The Seventh The Handle The Rare Coin Score The Green Eagle Score The Black Ice Score The Sour Lemon Score Deadly Edge Slayground Plunder Squad Butcher's Moon Comeback Backflash Flashfire Firebreak Breakout Nobody Runs Forever Ask the Parrot I've read every damn one (all about a very professional and very convincing professional criminal named Parker -- no first name) and liked them all, found many astonishing. The main thing is that Westlake took a long break between "Butcher's Moon" (1974) and "Comeback" (1997). The later Parkers are at best almost fiendish in their writerly intensity, as though Westlake-Stark were setting traps for himself and Parker to see if they could be wriggled out of. In "Ask The Parrot," for example, there is a chapter that is quite convincingly told from the point of view of the bird. Also, Parker's world in the later books is of course not quite the same world of the earlier books; society changes, and a pro like Parker has to adjust. This is done quite convincingly, though a nagging little voice tells me that the Parker of "The Hunter" (I believe it's said in passing that he's a young World War II vet) would be too old by the time of the later books to do what he does in them. The first two Parkers, and probably the next one, are essentially books that set Parker into place and get him up and running -- without them, there are important things about him that you won't have experienced directly (though they will be alluded to), but later books in the first bunch probably are better. "The Seventh" IIRC is particularly brilliant, as are "Slayground" and "Butcher's Moon" (which are linked IIRC). All of the second bunch are topnotch. Among the things I love about the Stark books is that much of the "poetry" is in the plotting. Time and again, you're about 10 or so pages from the end and you can't believe this is going to be wrapped up, and yet that's what happens. Interestingly, perhaps, Michael Connolly does just the opposite; you're maybe 60 or even 90 pages from the end, and it all seems to be over, but it isn't. I like Connolly, but Westlake-Stark is the better writer by a large margain IMO. On the other hand, I don't care for most of the stuff that Westlake does under his own name. Crime plus humor and/or whimsy is not my thing.

Peter, I definitely like some of the composers on your "branching out" list -- Berwald, Chausson, Lekeu, Stenhammar, have what I feel is a bit of a weak spot for Stanford (I think because I like Brahms so much), have a delightful disc of flute and piano music by Kuhlau, and the flavor of Field is unique, though I can't take much of it at a sitting. Heard some nice Svendson too. The others I don't care for or are just names to me -- and Holter and Kiel I've never heard of before. So it would seem we can talk. Another question, though, if I may: What's the most modern (not chronologically but by your own standard of what that term means stylistically) piece of music that you've viscerally liked or come to enjoy? Larry, That's a tough question that would take a fair amount of time to research. What is the reason for the question? Taste is a personal thing. I recall that not too long ago a prominent poster indicated that he did not have any real affection for opera. He had given it a try, but it was not something that grabbed him. Different strokes ... I'm just curious, certain that you're a genuine music lover with a good-sized sense of curiosity, about where your stylistic cut-off point is. What I'm trying to do is get as specific a picture as possible of what a particular genuine, curious music lover doesn't like about (painting with a broad brush now) modern music. So if you've heard, say, some Stravinsky that pleased you but have no taste for any Berg, that info, plus your previously mentioned likes, would suggest or hint at one direction, while if you liked some Berg but no Stravinsky (or neither of those but only, say, some Nielsen or whomever), that would suggest or hint at something else. Again, I'm not trying to nag at you in particular or at anyone else. What I'm hoping to do is be a little more precise, think more precisely and specifically myself, about a subject -- the relationship between listeners/concert-goers and modern music -- that's often dealt with in terms of injury, conspiracy, utopian thinking, propaganda, dislike of being propagandized, etc. Certainly no need to answer, though, if you don't want to.

Larry, I think you told that story on some other thread (forget where, but it's buried inside an ulta-long thread). IIRC, it concerned Higgins submitting a book review when he had clearly not read the book in question. A nasty exchange ensued. You're right, T.D., I did tell that story a while ago, though I don't recall on what thread. Probably there's not much left in my brain that I haven't posted here by now.

EDC, Remind me to tell you a strange and somewhat chilling story about George V. Higgins. Not tonight, not enough time -- maybe tomorrow. In any case, I would say that a much better example, in a related area, would be Donald Westlake when he's writing as Richard Stark.

I hate it when the dagger happens.

Dr. Phil will be talking about his little hospital visit to Britney on CBS-TV's "The Early Show" tomorrow morning. No surprise, but there's something so sublimely whorish about this whole episode (on all sides), that you'd think the celebrity culture would just freakin' explode.

Probably from 'Very Saxy."

If you include radio, the obvious answer is Terri Gross. Just ask EDC.

And I forgot to mention the arms half-raised in a gesture of ... what? Ecstasy? Submission? Surrender?

For me it's not so much the "rack" itself as the totality of Marilyn dressed (or undressed) that way -- on the beach, with the wet sand, and the waves, and her kissy-face expression. All that seductiveness and sadness in one package.