DanielSonenberg.com

At present, Philip Roth is the only writer whose every new work I await with baited breath, and for whom I'll run to the store to grab a full price hardcover on release day. Okay, maybe also J.K. Rowling, but I'm not admitting that here. Upon counting I realize I have not read 8 of his 27 books, mostly early ones (before my breath was baited, or even extant), so I'm not ready to dissertate, but I've done that already anyway (for a singer, about 8 of whose albums I don't own, but that's not admitted either - this entry will self destruct). I think what interests me most about Roth is his ability to render complex and at times unpleasant emotional landscapes with razor sharp prose and formal daring. His his best book (unless that's one of the 8 I haven't read), is The Counterlife - and it also may be his most unconventional. Other edgy masterpieces include Operation Shylock, American Pastoral, and Sabbath's Theatre, which begins with the great line: "Either forswear fucking others or the affair is over." He can also be good by being outright hilarious, and probably the best examples of this are the ultra-famous Portnoy's Complaint, and the less well-known The Great American Novel (in which a pathetic, homeless minor league baseball team plays against the team of an insane asylum, and the kleptomaniac shortstop continually disrupts play by stealing second base). Most of his books concern Jewishness, and he has been charged w/ self-hatred (the Jewish kind), perhaps because some of his characterizations seem to have their foundation in Jewish cliche. I don't think it's a fair charge. His Jews may often share his own personal weaknesses, but I believe these are presented in the sprit of empathy, rather than mockery (which may make you wonder just what the author considers normal). And if these Jews are at times over-sensitive to anti-semitism to the point of caricature, he has also portrayed the genuine article with searing accuracy (again, see The Counterlife). Charges of misogyny probably hold up better, and this is a trait I fear that, by all accounts, he may share with many of his hyper-flawed protagonists. Roth doesn't write women with much sympathy or understanding. His strength is the unexpurgated male perspective, in all its ugliness, and the shock of recognition men such as myself feel in turning Roth's pages comes invariably with a tinge of embarrassment and even shame. And yet I urged my big and more literate sister to stick with The Counterlife (faithful readers will recall I suggested it for her book group) and to accept its misogynist elements as a significant tarnish on an otherwise brilliant work - I'll let you know her verdict.
Lately Roth has been inconsistent. American Pastoral (1997) won the pulitzer and is generally regarded as a heavyweight - critically lauded far and wide, and rightly so. It's a great and debilitatingly upsetting novel. Then came I Married A Communist, which was okay (in some ways a work of revenge fiction, payback for Claire Bloom's tell-all memoir Leaving a Doll's House), and The Human Stain, which is the worst book of his I've read - cartoonish, shallow, even somehow poorly written (good story, but even that stolen from the real life of the critic, Anotole Broyard). The Plot Against America, his 2004 entry about what if Charles Lindbergh had beaten Roosevelt for the presidency in 1940, is frightening and vivid, and breathed cachet into a genre (historical fiction) that is generally not taken very seriously. But only for the first half does it maintain power. Roth runs out of steam and cops out, unable to live up to the epic scope of his tale, or to really project the potential long-term consequences of his central premise.
Alongside the epics and the Americana have come two thinner, slighter volumes, dealing unquestionably with Roth's own contemplations on mortality. The Dying Animal (2001) was the last of the David Kepish books, a short and moving account of a dirty-old-man professor's affair with an amply endowed female student (the endowment is a central part of the story, actually - if ever a woman was objectified, it is this one). Now comes Everyman, similar in size and shape to the earlier book, it works quite well as a companion volume. It begins with a funeral, proceeds with a life, and ends with a death, so that it is wonderfully circular in its construction. The events on page 1 follow immediately the events at the end of the book, and one can go round and round infinitely. I stopped at about page 15 of the second go (and the second pass makes a lot more sense).

I've gone on long, and don't want to make this a huge book review, of which I'm sure there are hundreds already. What happens is that we see a snapshot of Roth's nameless Everyman's life through the filters of his love affairs and hospital stays, each of which are fraught with suspense and uncertainty, and each of which plays a role in his gradual undoing. In the end, there is no recovery from the final hospital stay, and the last significant affair turns out, in retrospect, to have been the great mistake of our hero's life. Everyman's themes are the peril, even the terror, of old age, and the long-range consequences that actions born of our human frailty have on those in our orbit. The main character - irresistibly encountered, as almost always, as a Roth stand-in, is sympathetic and intentionally normal, at times petty, but always unexceptional. His fears and passions are visceral and moving, and his sad little story makes for a short, contemplative read (or two) with some lasting resonance. It's neither the first nor the fifth Philip Roth book you should read, but also not the last, and an estimable offering from a writer who has, for quite a few years now, turned out a book each and every year. That said, I would actually be willing to wait until 2008 for something a bit more substantial to sink my fangs into.

Enough with the literary bluster. I'm going to get back to that New York trip soon, even though it's quickly fading from memory here in breezy and lovely Portland.

In documenting this trip I'm relying more heavily than usual on stock photos - our camera is barely hanging on, and while I did manage to squeak a few shots out of it, most of the time I was recording only with me eyes. So I pulled this photo from Google image search, and if you search images for "Arepa Lady" you'll find it, and only it, too. The Arepa Lady, so dubbed by Chowhound's Alpha Hound, Jim Leff, is a veritable institution, offering perhaps the greatest street food (some would say food period) in New York, but only on Friday and Saturday nights starting at 11:30pm, on the corner of 79th Street and Roosevelt Avenue. For all you folks who live in "the city," and for all of you who visit "the city," and never venture out of Manhattan or the fashionable sections of Brooklyn, you're sorely missing out on the best eats in town. How to find about these? Well, shame on you if you're clutching a Zagat's Guide. First step: throw it away. Really. I know it's convenient having all those listings of hours and locations and phone numbers, but you'll be tempted to read the reviews, which are invariably out of date, and generally just plain wrong. Zagat's, last I checked, still raved about Ubol's Kitchen in Astoria, which was actually the worst of the four Thai places in town (I hear it was good about 10 years ago). Switch to the message boards at Chowhound.Com, and your world will begin to open up. It's not only New York, but the New York coverage is best. (For Portland, Maine, the same six or seven people - I'm one of them - post over and over with much of the same info - worth an occasional glance, but you have to filter through a lot of other New England info). After you've been reading the Outer Boroughs message board for a while, you'll come to learn what the most exalted spots are. For years it's been Difara - the godly pizzeria in Midwood, Brooklyn, Sripraphai, probably the best Thai restaurant in America, in Woodside, Queens, and perhaps above all else, the "sainted arepa lady," out in Jackson Heights. Is it worth the trek by train or car, later than your bedtime, risking that she might not even be there? I suppose it depends on what you're looking for on this world. I don't think I can better Jim Leff's description of exactly what it is she sells: "The arepas themselves are snacks from heaven. Coursely ground corn, fried in pancakes about 6 inches in diameter and an inch thick, slathered with butter and topped with shredded white cheese, they're brown and crunchy, chewy and a little bit sweet, the butter and cheese imbuing the whole with salty dairy meltiness." In addition, she is a lovely, nearly transcendent presence, who gazes on her arepas as they lay on the grill with deep, maternal care and spiritual contentment. In the best of all possible ways she reminds me a little bit of Yoda. As the lone non-Spanish speaker every time I've been there (and this latest trip makes twice) I always feel a bit like a dork, but she emanates so much love it makes it okay. Jackson Heights at that hour pulsates with music and activity, depending on what cross street you're at the vibe is Colombian, Indian, Ecuadorian, or an endless array of alternatives. It is a joy to behold - but the arepas are the real miracle.

It's funny how it's taken leaving the city for me to understand how much I love it, and just what it is I love. After you've been gone awhile, you wander back in and let longing be your guide. Chinatown, for instance, was never a very central part of my existence in NYC, but every time we go back I feel this desperate desire to visit - walk amidst the dried shrimp and writhing fish, streets propulsive with kinetic sparkle. Sure I love to eat there too - despite all the new-fangled $4-a-scoop "gelato" places (yes, those are derisive quotes - there's never been convincing gelato outside of Italy, he said, snootily) the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory is the best scoop shop in this ice cream deprived town. This time we checked out Joe's Shanghai, and were generously treated by my aunt and uncle. I snuck a soup dumpling - just ate around the pork - and we also had soft shell crabs, spicy whole yellow fish, baby bokchoi, and pan fried noodles. The place has a rap for being overhyped and overpriced, but I thought it was just peachy - especially sitting at the big round tables with strangers, passing eats around on the lazy suzan. Afterwards picked up some sweet taro buns at one of the fab new bakeries that seem to have sprung up everywhere. There is no better pastry in the world than Chinese buns (and I don't even eat the pork ones - what's with this obsession of sticking pork into every type of consumable? I haven't come across any pork drinks...yet, but I bet they're out there). All this yumminess aside, it isn't so much the food I miss as the exilharation of being bounced off bodies, sailing down the street past the karaoke bars and bubble tea parlors, past the hucksters and the teapot shops and umbrella men, past the carts of various munchables and the pigs hanging in a window. It's the population density and the profusion of hard fast culture...more people on a single block than in all of Portland, Maine. And certainly more unidentifiable dried fish products.

Our NYC trip is over - and in 3 days Alex and I packed about a month of livin'. Will need to blog multiply and often, lest my widespread readership feel neglected. Here's but the first installment.

On Friday night I made it out to Freddy's Bar and Back Room in Brooklyn to hear the M Shanghai String Band. I've had them on my links page for quite some time, and I've been a fan since I first saw them at the M Shanghai Bistro, the Chinese restaurant in Williamsburgh from which they take their name. In fact, the group started as an informal monthly jam session at the restaurant, which drew a bunch of ex (and current) rockers interested in trying their hand at bluegrass. I like bluegrass music, although I'm pretty illiterate when it comes to the genre, and my general impression has always been that there's an emphasis on instrumental virtuosity and energy while sometimes maybe less of an emphasis on originality in songwriting (I don't mean this as a criticism, it just hasn't always seemed to me that the songs are equal in importance to the performances - and there's often a focus on traditional material). Early on the M Shanghai String Band decided that they probably didn't have the instrumental chops to do battle with established bluegrass acts (but based on the other night's performance, this is absolutely no longer true, if it ever was), and that their best hope was to emphasize original, rather than traditional, songs. With such major songwriting talents as Austin Hughes (formerly of Very Pleasant Neighbor) and Matthew Schickele (formerly of Beekeeper), drumming up material never seemed to be a problem, and according to Matt the band now has more songs than they know what to do with (at the Freddy's gig they did about 5 songs from their first album, the rest all from forthcoming releases). Anyway, don't mean to ramble so much - I wouldn't waste my breath or your time if this band weren't breathtakingly phenomenal. They now consist of two banjos, multiple guitars, two fiddles, string bass, mandolin, harmonica, and multiple vocals (several songs featured everybody in the group singing - all ten of them - to soul-shuddering effect), as well as various occasional miscellany. The band radiates pure joy (partly because Austin Hughes, the front man, and Rose Thomson - an incredibly overqualified bit player here - are the most joyful performers I've ever seen), and excels with both foot stomping hollers and plaintive ballads that are always remarkable for their intricate and tight construction. These folks never just plug into a traditional form and let it work for them - they write, thoughtfully, melodically, rhythmically, and generally brilliantly. And a newish addition, Glendon Jones, fiddler, has added the requisite bluegrass virtuosity - the night I saw them he was almost literally on fire. I could go on all day. There might be one or two better country singers than Philipa Thompson in New York, but do they also play the fiddle, spoons, and musical saw? Is there a musician in the world more fun to watch than "Shaky" Dave Pollack? Is there a better songwriter than Matt Schickele (whose April November is the best album you've never heard, or I'll give you a dollar). They've got a record deal now, and will soon be on itunes, but if you can you should see them live. They're at the Knitting Factory later this week, and at their traditional M Shanghai perch on Saturday. Go.
More NYC news from me coming very, very soon.

I really be gearing up to write some serious cultural criticism here. Been thinking a lot about the best book of the last 25 years, so I thought I might comment on that. I mean, it's hard, you know, because who among us has actually read every book written in that span? I guess some have come closer than others - and I'm afraid I'm probably one of the others, more than I'm one of the some. But my vote is for Philip Roth's The Counterlife, which I just successfully recommended for my sister's book club (and she's been a reviewer for the NY Times herself, so that's no small feat for me). I've also been meaning to mumble something about the three television series we just finished watching: Battlestar Gallactica, 24, and just two nights ago, Six Feet Under. But at the moment I'm not sure what I can really add to the dialogue. And there's PLENTY of dialogue if you're looking for it. And then it occurred to me, what good is it speaking out for all the overly heralded artifacts of our culture when they don't need my hucksterin'. And through some tangled process of thought that would only frighten you if you could glance upon it, I ended up with dear old Captain Caveman. Now THAT's culture. This was without a doubt my favorite show when I was about 8, bar none. But I didn't realize until I did some surfing that the voice of the Captain himself (and yes, I know he bears a striking resemblance to yours truly) was played, or rather voiced, by the immortal Mel Blanc, who is of course most famous as the voice of Bugs Bunny (and who was, you'll learn when you follow that link, himself allergic to raw carrots).

Anyways, I'll sleep tight tonight dreaming of the captain and his buxom accomplices. And I'll wake frantic cuz we're headed for NYC in the PM. Watch out big city! (I'll try to blog a bit while I'm gone, I know how desperate you all get).

I've been thinking a lot about how I'd like to earth some more deep thinking here, you know - not so much a blog about the current events of me, for all that's worth - I want to put up my response to this New York Times article about the best American novel of the past 25 years (the winner was Toni Morrison's Beloved, which I shamefully haven't read. But runners up were Philip Roth's American Pastoral (yay) and Don Dellilo's Underworld (boo)). But also want to post some thoughts about the new Paul Simon CD, and about the new Philip Roth book. So please stay tuned. But meanwhile - here's a snapshot from the video of the Truth About Daisies gig last night - a brief video is up now at the bottom of my video page, albeit in stripped down web-video format). And while I haven't thoroughly ditched the current-events-about-me format, I had my very first surprise party today. Alex had me totally fooled, it was almost kinda freaky (if she's capable of this...)

What, you may wonder, do the two of us have in common? We were both born exactly 36 years ago today. I learned this on Wikipedia, which actually has an encyclopedia entry for every day of the year!

Some other notable births on this wonderful (but rainy) day (all links are to Wikipedia - which is more fun than you realize):
1960 - Yannick Noah, French tennis player
1949 - Rick Wakeman, English composer and musician (Yes)
1946 - Reggie Jackson, baseball player
1937 - Brooks Robinson, baseball player
1920 - Pope John Paul II (d. 2005)
1912 - Perry Como, American singer (d. 2001)
1883 - Walter Gropius, German architect (d. 1969)
1616 - Johann Jakob Froberger, German composer (d. 1667)
1048 - Omar Khayyám, Persian poet (d. 1131)
And some notable deaths:
2004 - Elvin Jones, American jazz drummer (b. 1927)
1911 - Gustav Mahler, Austrian composer (b. 1860)
1909 - Isaac Albéniz, Spanish pianist and composer (b. 1860)
And lastly, who could forget these:
1980 - 1980 Mount St. Helens eruption: Mount St. Helens erupts in Washington, killing 57 people and causing $3 billion in damage.
Saint Eric of Sweden (his feast day)

In support of my point below - compare today's widget weather forecast to the one below. Nuff said?

Even the widgets are lying about the weather these days. The emergence of the sun remains perpetually in the forecast, but always slated for some future date, two or three days away. Yesterday's widget had sun for Wednesday. Now it's pushed back to Thursday. I'm betting June. And even the weathermen are in denial. They've stopped acknowledging that it's time to build an ark, and they greet each new low pressure system, each new storm, as if it's a novel occurrence. Actually, that's not entirely true. The TV news mentioned last night that we've broken the record for rainfall in May (in Portland, that is), and that we're very close to breaking the record for rainfall in any month. Ever. In Portland, Maine. Think about that.

I promise I will soon find something more interesting to do in this space then plug other portions of this very web site. But until that happens, go have a look and listen to this recent performance of "Sigh No More, Ladies" which can be found right here in the all new video section. Before this April 13 performance no-one had ever sung this song but me - but the opportunity to work with a REAL singer was too tempting to resist. My USM colleague Bruce Fithian captures the spirit in fine fashion. (Psst - late breaking news! Mejdoub is there too, but might not last - this website is bursting at the seams!)

I went to college w/ this guy! This little film is pure brilliance - have a look. I got the link from the great Muss My Hair blog.

As avid and repeat visitors to this site know, I have posted a rotating exhibit of songs from my youth up in the section called "From the Vault!" Thus far I am trying to choose recordings that won't embarrass me too badly (because my students will find these, download them, and pass them around as figures of fun). Take a sneak listen to "Subluxations," a song I performed only one time ever, back in about 1990.

No picture today friends - it's been raining and raining, and that doesn't really fit w/ my propaganda scheme (which is to get everyone in the world to move to Portland, Maine - I know, careful what you wish for.)

I want to alert you to two newish websites in which I've had a hand:

1) AlexSax.net - she's done it. It's up and running. Still beta and being worked over and amended etc., but there's a bunch more to see so go take a look. (for newbies to this venerable blog, Alex is my wife, and a fab-o artiste) (and here's a shout-out to the webmaster of Alex's site, Eric Forman - whose pic I haven't had a chance to post in this space, but just you wait).

[Edit of May 11 - it's back down and back in the shop. Stay tuned!]

2) SouthOxfordSix.org - A composers collective of which I am a founding member. And, it turns out, the webmaster - this is my second web-child - still very much in process. But have a look!

Here's why I'm not getting much work done this weekend. Plus, it isn't every day you see a little yellow man growing out of a tulip patch.

Some more great music was flowing tonight - this time in lovely Brunswick, inside Bowdoin College's music building, Gibson Hall. Flexible Music is a simply outstanding ensemble of committed virtuoso performers who came together a few years ago to play Louis Andriessen's brilliant snake-like piece Haut, and decided they wanted to keep playing together. That's tricky when the line-up is piano, guitar, percussion and saxophone. At least in the world of chamber/art music. So these folks have set about commissioning works from hot young composers. Tonight's concert featured pieces by Vin Shende - resident composer and professor at Bowdoin - and John Link, of Friends and Enemies of New Music (an old NY pal), Orianna Webb, and also the piece that started it all - Haut (you can listen to part of their recording of it here). Concerts like this need to happen more often up here!

Since I moved here I've lamented the fact that despite appearances to the contrary, Portland is a pretty lousy ice cream town (I say this having moved from that other pretty lousy ice cream town, New York City). But all that's changed now that Maple's Organic Ice Cream has opened up out on Forest avenue. This is genuine small batch ice cream made with care, love even. Flavors are simple, but pure and delicious. Although they make wonderful cones by hand, I've decided it is a mistake to have this stuff in anything but a cup. The flavors are delicate and multi-layered, and there's just no reason to drown them out w/ what is essentially high quality filler. The flavor pictured here is Maine Maple, although the store is actually named after Maple the dog, who is featured in the logo. The ice cream reminds me of a product that was made by a small company in upstate New York called Egg Farm Dairy (they've changed their name to Cows Outside and no longer make ice cream - only cheese). When I first met Alex, knowing that she was an ice cream fiend (that's her hand in the pic), I wooed her by sending six pints of Egg Farm Dairy ice cream, packed in dry ice and delivered next day air. I distinctly remember there was not one but two honey flavors (different types). Like that wonderful stuff, Maples' ice cream has a slightly grainy consistency, without an overwhelmingly rich (and slimy) concentration of milk fat, but definitely with a penetratingly honest and round dairy finish. I'll stop swooning. Go try the cappuccino, or the chai, or especially the ginger. You can pick some up at the Whole Grocer. And if you're out of town, like say in Brooklyn Heights, then go have a bagel instead.