This week I sat in the world's geekiest cinema. All it was showing was a continuous strip of thermal images from Mars, which looked like the grainy, grey image you get from photocopying a blank page. Minute after minute after minute.
The good news is that is cost nothing to watch, courtesy of the ever-generous American taxpayer (ie me!). It was on the regular tour of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, in the mountains at the northern edge of Pasadena. JPL, as it is inevitably known, is part of Caltech (California Institute of Technology) and is one of ten mainland US outposts of NASA (National Aeronautical and Space Administration), which is responsible for non-military spaceships and scientific projects. Just thought I'd get the nuts and bolts out of the way, because most people are a little hazy about how it all fits together.
JPL is part of daily life in Pasadena, symbolised by the 267 bus which trundles through the town with its distinctive JET PROP LAB route terminus indicator. So it seemed remiss not to have paid the place a visit.
The biggest hassle is booking onto the tours, which take place weekly on alternate Mondays and Wednesdays. No, I don't understand either. Bookings only by phone, no voicemail, email, snail mail or any other form of communication - oh, and take official ID to get through the checkpoint on the road to the campus.
This apparently high security is just a charade. Sure, the man in uniform wanted to see our passports, residents cards, driving licences or whatever else we could sling at him. But there was no attempt to frisk the car for explosives, guns, knives or any other unfriendly implements. A friend who used to walk his dog in the hills above JPL assures me that there were plenty of vantage points from which to fire a rocket launcher or a rifle.
And, although there was plenty of opportunity to slope off to do some snooping - numbers weren't counted as we entered or left buildings, let alone having ID checked - in truth there weren't many secrets to snoop unless you broke into an office and rummaged through a computer or a filing cabinet.
The main problem with a tour of such a technical facility is that the guides have to connect with such a wide variety of knowledge and interest among the public, especially as there were quite a few young children who were quickly bored by the descriptions of what the various probes were up to in outer space.
Plenty of scrap metal to drool over, if that's your thing, and the geeky cinema as well as a genuinely informative film narrated by Harrison Ford. Lots of photos of Moon and Mars landscapes, plus JPL alumni celebrating major events - including a certain Wernher von Braun, who was behind the first launch, Explorer, in the 1950s, and later the Apollo space programme. The guide enthusiastically described him as the father of modern rocketry, omitting to mention that he cut his teeth on rocketry by helping to design the V2 (Vengeance 2) German rockets which killed thousands in Britain, Belgium, the Netherlands and elsewhere during World War II. He was a member of the Nazi party and the SS, but later claimed he joined only to further his rocket research. Once Von Braun realised defeat was inevitable he decided he preferred to surrender to the Allies rather than to Russia. As soon as they got hold of him the US invasion force spirited him away across the Atlantic. He died a garlanded US citizen in 1977.
In terms of what was available to see of JPL's live activities, the tour came down to the mission control room and the assembly hall where spacecraft are built: not a lot, in a three-hour visit, but I suspect that there isn't much more to see.
Mission control is the area where TV always shows shots of JPL executives hugging and kissing when a craft lands. Naturally, none of that was happening while we were there. News to me from the displays on the wall was that the space industry uses Greenwich Mean Time as its clock for scheduling launches and landings - with a difference. On the spurious grounds that they wanted a non-terrestrial name for their flash-sounding atomic clock, GMT has been rechristened UTC - Universal Time Coordinator or Clock. Luckily, Brits aren't quite as childish about such snubs as the French were in 1884 when they lost out on the right to 0 degrees longtitude and therefore the basis of all time zones. They refused to recognised GMT for years afterwards, silly frogs.
There was more activity in the assembly hall, which was supposed to be ultra-hygenic to prevent earthly bacteria being transported to other planets - we tourists were in a sealed-off viewing gallery. But, while the workers were in all-over suits, they weren't fitted with goggles, let alone wraparound helmets, so thousands of bugs a second were falling from their eyes, noses and the rest of their upper faces. But it was fun to see a bit of machinery that will be sitting on the Martian desert in a couple of years. This new craft will be powered by a nuclear battery, technology which must surely have implications for earthbound electric cars.
I referred to JPL as a campus, and it does have a university feel. The inmates all seem very relaxed, as if their jobs are not likely to come under threat and everyone knows what they are supposed to do. It looks a very pleasant place to work, with nice long deadlines and a customer - the US public - which is nowhere near as demanding as it used to be when manned launches were all the rage. JPL has cornered the market in robotic space probes, which don't generate nearly as much interest. Until the day comes when their metal shovels scoop up a pile of dust that turns out to contain a living creature. But there are no little green men or women in out solar system, and I learned that the nearest neighbouring system is 40,000 light years away. Now I wonder if that has a planet as restless, argumentative, questioning and generally ill-behaved as the third rock from our sun?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Bill Kay goes downtown LA
Every community can be judged by its attitude to its past. Naturally, before people realise they have a past, things are discarded as they are finished with. We nearly all do that in our daily lives, dumping stuff without too much thought about whether it might turn out to have historical significance. A few people are squirrels who cannot bear to throw anything away, and end up living in homes piled high with stacks of newspapers, photographs, knick-knacks, old clothes and other memorabilia. Very occasionally, as in Lanterman House which I blogged at the start of this month, furniture and kitchen utensils are stored in an attic and form a snapshot of a moment in time - for which the rest of us are grateful but thankful that we didn't have to put up with all that junk.
It is a different matter with buildings in cities. In the centre of most cities space is naturally limited, and in the rush to make obvious improvements homes, stores, offices, factories are torn down to make way for the new. We don't mourn factories that much so much as the machinery they contain, although there were a few beautiful factories built in the 1920s and 1930s.
It was easy for European cities such as London, Edinburgh, Paris, Amsterdam or Rome to stop the clock and preserve streets that are soaked in history - so much that, for me in London at least, it felt like living in one huge museum crawling with tourists peering at this and that as if we were stuck in glass cases for our curiosity value.
On the other hand, commercial buildings in American cities were regularly pulled down because new techniques made it possible to wring yet more profit out of them. It was with great difficulty that conservationists persuaded the city fathers to stay the wrecking ball.
In the case of Los Angeles this has resulted in a hotch-potch of old and new, good and bad, gleaming glass rubbing shoulders with art deco or beaux arts. Nowhere is this starker than in the downtown district, a square mile or so stuck in the north-east corner of the city. Its theatres and cinemas were abandoned as the Hollywood studios took root, and its Victorian mansions on Bunker Hill disappeared after the wealthy decamped west to Beverly Hills, Bel-Air and other fashionable spots.
Although Bunker Hill was colonised by banks, offices and - more recently - public buildings such as the Walt Disney Concert Hall and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the shops down Broadway and Main, Hill, Grand and Olive Streets have been taken over by Latinos and the whole area bustles with clothing, trinketry and jewellery shops, with stalls selling newspapers, magazines, cold drinks, nachos and fruit snacks. While the Broadway theatres are used from time to time they preside over the area like so many grades dames who have seen better days and cherish hopes that their day will come again.
I spent Easter Saturday morning having my first close look at downtown, after a series of nibbles over the past 18 months, snatched impressions that didn't hang together in any coherent shape. But Los Angeles Conservancy, a not-for-profit organisation, is dedicated to raising consciousness of downtowns preserved charms and to that end runs a series of walking tours around the area (see www.laconservancy.org).
Chief among these is the historic core tour, which barely touches the theatres but from Pershing Square gives a thorough grounding in the principal buildings, putting them in historical and social context from the arrival of the first settlers in 1781 and explaining why each style of architecture gave way to the next.
The desire of the Disney and Chandler families to immortalise Walt and Dorothy is a long established tradition throughout the world, simply because most buildings survive longer than most people. In the case of Los Angles we know the custom dates back more than 100 years because the Bradbury building was erected by mining millionaire Lewis Bradbury in 1893 with precisely that thought in mind. It is the oldest commercial building in LA and from that date we can say that buildings were put up with a degree of self-consciousness, not to say an eye on history. More recently Richard Riordan, a former mayor of the city, has had the central public library named after him. Of course, such grandiosity was possible only because building techniques increased the likelihood that structures could be made to last an impressively lengthy time.
But I came away from this comprehensive tour, lasting more than two hours and covering more than a dozen buildings from the Biltmore Hotel to Grand Central Market, with a feeling of frustration, of opportunities lost. LA has been a city of stops and starts - it is, after all, only as old as the United States itself - and it still needs to find an identity. Many plans have come and gone, and the latest envisage restoring Broadway to its former glory at the expense of the Latino traders who have in truth prevented it from turning into a dustbowl. There is an undeniable racial undercurrent to this, because it would involve ejecting the Latinos and reclaiming the land for the Wasps - ironically at a time when Latinos have become the dominant ethnic group.
It is hard to tell, from reading the newspapers, what will come of this debate but I have a feeling that it will become another compromise. Los Angelenos may want the elegant boulevards of a Paris or a Washington DC, but they find it hard to stomach the price - of many people's dreams being trampled on.
After the tour, Lynne, Roger, Ian and myself went down Broadway to Clifton's Cafeteria, an institution almost as old as the Bradbury. We queued to pick from a wide choice of good, solid comfort food at a cost of about $7 a head. Will that too be swept away when the whirlwind sweeps through downtown?
It is a different matter with buildings in cities. In the centre of most cities space is naturally limited, and in the rush to make obvious improvements homes, stores, offices, factories are torn down to make way for the new. We don't mourn factories that much so much as the machinery they contain, although there were a few beautiful factories built in the 1920s and 1930s.
It was easy for European cities such as London, Edinburgh, Paris, Amsterdam or Rome to stop the clock and preserve streets that are soaked in history - so much that, for me in London at least, it felt like living in one huge museum crawling with tourists peering at this and that as if we were stuck in glass cases for our curiosity value.
On the other hand, commercial buildings in American cities were regularly pulled down because new techniques made it possible to wring yet more profit out of them. It was with great difficulty that conservationists persuaded the city fathers to stay the wrecking ball.
In the case of Los Angeles this has resulted in a hotch-potch of old and new, good and bad, gleaming glass rubbing shoulders with art deco or beaux arts. Nowhere is this starker than in the downtown district, a square mile or so stuck in the north-east corner of the city. Its theatres and cinemas were abandoned as the Hollywood studios took root, and its Victorian mansions on Bunker Hill disappeared after the wealthy decamped west to Beverly Hills, Bel-Air and other fashionable spots.
Although Bunker Hill was colonised by banks, offices and - more recently - public buildings such as the Walt Disney Concert Hall and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the shops down Broadway and Main, Hill, Grand and Olive Streets have been taken over by Latinos and the whole area bustles with clothing, trinketry and jewellery shops, with stalls selling newspapers, magazines, cold drinks, nachos and fruit snacks. While the Broadway theatres are used from time to time they preside over the area like so many grades dames who have seen better days and cherish hopes that their day will come again.
I spent Easter Saturday morning having my first close look at downtown, after a series of nibbles over the past 18 months, snatched impressions that didn't hang together in any coherent shape. But Los Angeles Conservancy, a not-for-profit organisation, is dedicated to raising consciousness of downtowns preserved charms and to that end runs a series of walking tours around the area (see www.laconservancy.org).
Chief among these is the historic core tour, which barely touches the theatres but from Pershing Square gives a thorough grounding in the principal buildings, putting them in historical and social context from the arrival of the first settlers in 1781 and explaining why each style of architecture gave way to the next.
The desire of the Disney and Chandler families to immortalise Walt and Dorothy is a long established tradition throughout the world, simply because most buildings survive longer than most people. In the case of Los Angles we know the custom dates back more than 100 years because the Bradbury building was erected by mining millionaire Lewis Bradbury in 1893 with precisely that thought in mind. It is the oldest commercial building in LA and from that date we can say that buildings were put up with a degree of self-consciousness, not to say an eye on history. More recently Richard Riordan, a former mayor of the city, has had the central public library named after him. Of course, such grandiosity was possible only because building techniques increased the likelihood that structures could be made to last an impressively lengthy time.
But I came away from this comprehensive tour, lasting more than two hours and covering more than a dozen buildings from the Biltmore Hotel to Grand Central Market, with a feeling of frustration, of opportunities lost. LA has been a city of stops and starts - it is, after all, only as old as the United States itself - and it still needs to find an identity. Many plans have come and gone, and the latest envisage restoring Broadway to its former glory at the expense of the Latino traders who have in truth prevented it from turning into a dustbowl. There is an undeniable racial undercurrent to this, because it would involve ejecting the Latinos and reclaiming the land for the Wasps - ironically at a time when Latinos have become the dominant ethnic group.
It is hard to tell, from reading the newspapers, what will come of this debate but I have a feeling that it will become another compromise. Los Angelenos may want the elegant boulevards of a Paris or a Washington DC, but they find it hard to stomach the price - of many people's dreams being trampled on.
After the tour, Lynne, Roger, Ian and myself went down Broadway to Clifton's Cafeteria, an institution almost as old as the Bradbury. We queued to pick from a wide choice of good, solid comfort food at a cost of about $7 a head. Will that too be swept away when the whirlwind sweeps through downtown?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Bill Kay says 4 x 80 is more than 320
Dylan Thomas put his finger on it, well before the current obsession with defying mortality took hold.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
That is the anthem for a generation of people heading towards what used to be called old age, and is in the literal sense of being the final phase of our lives, however defined, but before infirmity sets in - better termed terminal decrepitude.
These musings are prompted by a coincidence which has led me to have a good look at four prominent figures now over 80 years old. Two I have blogged about already - the composer Maurice Jarre and tenor sax player Big Jay McNeely. The third, stock market billionaire Charlie Munger, I have referred to briefly in my column in the London Sunday Times. And last night I was at an evening in honour of, and featuring a career justification by, the prolific award-winning author Ray Bradbury.
That Bradbury needed to justify himself is in itself revealing, although he did so in the guise of advice to the rest of us, especially the young, to do whatever you love doing and never mind whether it brings you money or not. It crossed my mind that, while this was excellent advice to encourage everyone to aim high, in the end someone has to do the menial jobs, cleaning and so on, and few cleaners see it as the fulfilment of a life's ambition.
Never mind: I suppose the moral is that we can't all be winners, hard pill though that is to swallow. What links this quartet is that their lives have been characterised by an intimate intertwining of energy, determination and success. I am not saying that energy and determination guarantee sucsess, although I believe they are the qualities to ensure that you make the most of yourself, whatever that may be.
What is striking is that these four all still have high energy levels, emotional and mental in particular, although McNeely could not have played sax for well over half an hour at the age of nearly 81 without being physically fit, bowed as he was. Jarre was I suppose the nearest to what we might generally consider retirement. He may still be composing but his last entry on the Imdb website is for 2001 and when I heard his Q&A before Doctor Zhivago at the Egyptian Theatre he seemed be looking back on his career with the tranquility of one for whom it is complete. He was serene.
McNeely is clearly working. Munger will never retire, because the stock market, economics and world affairs clearly are his life and much of the time he is simply thinking about it and discussing it with his partner Warren Buffett and others. It hardly counts as work, so he is obeying Bradbury's edict, but he is still making plenty of money. He exuded the serenity of being in control and having no financial worries, rather than of regarding his career as over.
Bradbury is the oldest and most infirm, 88 years old and in a wheelchair, a victim of diabetes. Yet he was still thirsty for recognition, taking a series of illuminated addresses from the representatives of Arnold Schwartzenegger and other minor Californian politicians - only the Mayor of South Pasadena paid homage in person. And when Bradbury spoke he did so with an energy that was startling. He looked back on his career, all right, but with the air of a man for whom it is still a work in progress. As he said, he still writes every day. He was perhaps the least self-aware, not on the surface at least realising what a driven person he still is. And I believe that that is keeping him alive. He arrived at South Pasadena High School's auditorium in a stretch limo - whether his own or sent by the event organisers I don't know, though judging by his plain clothing I would guess a limo would not be his personal style.
The survival and flourishing dynamism of these men reminded me of a fact thrown away in one of the recently dead Lynda Bird Johnson, 30-year widow of President Lyndon Johnson. I think it said that she swam every day, until a few years ago. Whatever stopped her, and whether she realised it or not, that was the day Lady Bird began to die. Once activity becomes boring or somehow not worth the effort, that is when we start to give up. We can't do everything all the time, of course, and we certainly can't keep up strenuous physical activity. But you have got to keep plugging away or, as the great British journalist Rod Gilchrist put it, you've gotta keep on trucking.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
That is the anthem for a generation of people heading towards what used to be called old age, and is in the literal sense of being the final phase of our lives, however defined, but before infirmity sets in - better termed terminal decrepitude.
These musings are prompted by a coincidence which has led me to have a good look at four prominent figures now over 80 years old. Two I have blogged about already - the composer Maurice Jarre and tenor sax player Big Jay McNeely. The third, stock market billionaire Charlie Munger, I have referred to briefly in my column in the London Sunday Times. And last night I was at an evening in honour of, and featuring a career justification by, the prolific award-winning author Ray Bradbury.
That Bradbury needed to justify himself is in itself revealing, although he did so in the guise of advice to the rest of us, especially the young, to do whatever you love doing and never mind whether it brings you money or not. It crossed my mind that, while this was excellent advice to encourage everyone to aim high, in the end someone has to do the menial jobs, cleaning and so on, and few cleaners see it as the fulfilment of a life's ambition.
Never mind: I suppose the moral is that we can't all be winners, hard pill though that is to swallow. What links this quartet is that their lives have been characterised by an intimate intertwining of energy, determination and success. I am not saying that energy and determination guarantee sucsess, although I believe they are the qualities to ensure that you make the most of yourself, whatever that may be.
What is striking is that these four all still have high energy levels, emotional and mental in particular, although McNeely could not have played sax for well over half an hour at the age of nearly 81 without being physically fit, bowed as he was. Jarre was I suppose the nearest to what we might generally consider retirement. He may still be composing but his last entry on the Imdb website is for 2001 and when I heard his Q&A before Doctor Zhivago at the Egyptian Theatre he seemed be looking back on his career with the tranquility of one for whom it is complete. He was serene.
McNeely is clearly working. Munger will never retire, because the stock market, economics and world affairs clearly are his life and much of the time he is simply thinking about it and discussing it with his partner Warren Buffett and others. It hardly counts as work, so he is obeying Bradbury's edict, but he is still making plenty of money. He exuded the serenity of being in control and having no financial worries, rather than of regarding his career as over.
Bradbury is the oldest and most infirm, 88 years old and in a wheelchair, a victim of diabetes. Yet he was still thirsty for recognition, taking a series of illuminated addresses from the representatives of Arnold Schwartzenegger and other minor Californian politicians - only the Mayor of South Pasadena paid homage in person. And when Bradbury spoke he did so with an energy that was startling. He looked back on his career, all right, but with the air of a man for whom it is still a work in progress. As he said, he still writes every day. He was perhaps the least self-aware, not on the surface at least realising what a driven person he still is. And I believe that that is keeping him alive. He arrived at South Pasadena High School's auditorium in a stretch limo - whether his own or sent by the event organisers I don't know, though judging by his plain clothing I would guess a limo would not be his personal style.
The survival and flourishing dynamism of these men reminded me of a fact thrown away in one of the recently dead Lynda Bird Johnson, 30-year widow of President Lyndon Johnson. I think it said that she swam every day, until a few years ago. Whatever stopped her, and whether she realised it or not, that was the day Lady Bird began to die. Once activity becomes boring or somehow not worth the effort, that is when we start to give up. We can't do everything all the time, of course, and we certainly can't keep up strenuous physical activity. But you have got to keep plugging away or, as the great British journalist Rod Gilchrist put it, you've gotta keep on trucking.
Monday, March 10, 2008
snakes alive
Last night I finally struck what many non-Angelenos would regard as quintessential California: a poetry reading evening in an edgy district of downtown LA. It turned out to be both more and less wacky than I expected.
We were on Olive Street, between 7th and 8th, in the highly talented Gary Leonard's photographer's gallery opposite a parking lot. Derelicts slouched or laid around. Shopfronts were boarded up and overlaid with graffiti and outdated posters that were beginning to peel. I parked nervously, but looked around and saw plenty of other cars parked on the street, mostly in good condition.
The gallery was part of a well-maintained condo building that was entirely occupied by Koreans, according to the residents' directory by the elevator. Outside the smartest parts of Bel Air or Beverly Hills, LA seems to specialise in juxtaposing the architecturally dapper and derelict.
About ten of us sat facing a lectern from which most of us took turns to read out our own or (in my case, as I hadn't brought anything) others' work. The standard was mixed, and that was fine as this was an occasion for experimenting, seeing a cross-section of reactions to your writing. Everything merited polite applause, and there was no critical debate; the mood was too gentle for anything more aggressive or invasive.
Undoubtedly the strongest piece was an edited version of an army veteran's recollections of gunfights in Vietnam, encounters where he was close enough to see his opponent stare into his eyes at the moment of death. Ann, the writer, clearly struggled to control her emotions as she read this, which made its imp
act all the more powerful. So much so that I almost forgot about the python sitting on her head and wrapped around her neck.
When I had first sat down and looked across at Ann, I thought she was wearing a scarf with a snakeskin pattern - until I saw it move independently, and the red tongue darted out from its mouth. The effect was startling.
Draco, as it is called (the gender has not been determined), moved around from time to time and sat on or between Ann's two thick wooden hair pins. She paid it no attention, although she admitted later that she did like to stand in front of a mirror so she could see was Draco was up to. He was certainly a conversation piece which Ann must be well used to discussing by now, from how often he needed feeding (7-10 days), what he eats (thawed frozen mice), and whether he bites (apparently not, having a docile nature). Ann did admit that not everyone enjoys the experience, or even the mention of Draco: one man, with whom she had "made a connection" recently, cooled noticeably on hearing about the snake and its role in her life.
But that is surely to be expected. Snakes, along with spiders, rats and fierce dogs, are among most people's pet hates. Some of us can go along with such creatures, as everyone did last night, but it wouldn't take long to find someone who would run a mile at the sight of a live snake round someone's neck.
After the readings, we broke up into general chat over snacks and drinks. I will definitely go again, and bring some of my own scribblings next time - maybe I could read out this blog, as it wasn't all poetry. Or perhaps it's time I found a rhyme.
To finish the evening, Jim Dawson took Lynne and me round the corner to a splendid pub called the Golden Gopher, all black marble and subdued lighting with a small courtyard outside where it was just warm enough to sit. It was an oasis of activity in an otherwise silent stretch on 8th, between Olive and Hill. The pub had a lively atmosphere. A few prostitutes seemed to be on the lookout for Sunday night business. Oddly, there was a photo booth in the corner. Some of the tables harked back to the 1980s, with Pac-man games inlaid in them. An interesting place to end an unusual evening.
We were on Olive Street, between 7th and 8th, in the highly talented Gary Leonard's photographer's gallery opposite a parking lot. Derelicts slouched or laid around. Shopfronts were boarded up and overlaid with graffiti and outdated posters that were beginning to peel. I parked nervously, but looked around and saw plenty of other cars parked on the street, mostly in good condition.
The gallery was part of a well-maintained condo building that was entirely occupied by Koreans, according to the residents' directory by the elevator. Outside the smartest parts of Bel Air or Beverly Hills, LA seems to specialise in juxtaposing the architecturally dapper and derelict.
About ten of us sat facing a lectern from which most of us took turns to read out our own or (in my case, as I hadn't brought anything) others' work. The standard was mixed, and that was fine as this was an occasion for experimenting, seeing a cross-section of reactions to your writing. Everything merited polite applause, and there was no critical debate; the mood was too gentle for anything more aggressive or invasive.
Undoubtedly the strongest piece was an edited version of an army veteran's recollections of gunfights in Vietnam, encounters where he was close enough to see his opponent stare into his eyes at the moment of death. Ann, the writer, clearly struggled to control her emotions as she read this, which made its imp
act all the more powerful. So much so that I almost forgot about the python sitting on her head and wrapped around her neck.
When I had first sat down and looked across at Ann, I thought she was wearing a scarf with a snakeskin pattern - until I saw it move independently, and the red tongue darted out from its mouth. The effect was startling.
Draco, as it is called (the gender has not been determined), moved around from time to time and sat on or between Ann's two thick wooden hair pins. She paid it no attention, although she admitted later that she did like to stand in front of a mirror so she could see was Draco was up to. He was certainly a conversation piece which Ann must be well used to discussing by now, from how often he needed feeding (7-10 days), what he eats (thawed frozen mice), and whether he bites (apparently not, having a docile nature). Ann did admit that not everyone enjoys the experience, or even the mention of Draco: one man, with whom she had "made a connection" recently, cooled noticeably on hearing about the snake and its role in her life.
But that is surely to be expected. Snakes, along with spiders, rats and fierce dogs, are among most people's pet hates. Some of us can go along with such creatures, as everyone did last night, but it wouldn't take long to find someone who would run a mile at the sight of a live snake round someone's neck.
After the readings, we broke up into general chat over snacks and drinks. I will definitely go again, and bring some of my own scribblings next time - maybe I could read out this blog, as it wasn't all poetry. Or perhaps it's time I found a rhyme.
To finish the evening, Jim Dawson took Lynne and me round the corner to a splendid pub called the Golden Gopher, all black marble and subdued lighting with a small courtyard outside where it was just warm enough to sit. It was an oasis of activity in an otherwise silent stretch on 8th, between Olive and Hill. The pub had a lively atmosphere. A few prostitutes seemed to be on the lookout for Sunday night business. Oddly, there was a photo booth in the corner. Some of the tables harked back to the 1980s, with Pac-man games inlaid in them. An interesting place to end an unusual evening.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Bill Kay sees Big Jay let his hair down
As I write this tonight I am watching middle America at play. I am in a nightspot on
Sunset Boulevard, but not the Sunset Boulevard of the Strip or Chateau Marmont, Beverly Hills or Santa Monica. This is further east, in Hollywood - only just - and it is the Sunset Boulevard of discount stores, off-the-shelf religion and cheap motels. In a strip mall dominated by the garish lights of a 99c store, on the other side of the parking lot dotted with the almost obligatory 50ft high palm trees, stands an anonymous beige breeze-block wall with only the street number over the door. But inside is Safari Sam's, where for $23 ($3.50 extra if you pay by credit card) you can eat, drink, dance and listen to what I suppose is best described as retro rock and blues, covering a spectrum from 1930 to 1980.
The patrons were generally middle-aged, with a few kids. There wasn't a lot of money around. People emerged from beat-up cars wearing run-down jeans, utility shoes and t-shirts. Everyone seems either stick thin or superfat - and yes, I do know this
is America, so superfat is not a title conferred lightly.
In the circumstances, the menu was remarkably healthy. Salted edamame and black sesame, caesar salad, avacado citrus salad and vegan shepard's (sic) pie jostled with jack cheese quesadilla, Italian sausage, chicken curry and the obligatory Safari Burger. Simple stuff, cooked well, better than you might expect for a music venue.
After a warm-up from Big Jim Dawson and his pal Ravishing Ray on the CD system, followed by an hour of Mark Tortorici and the Hollywood Combo's R&B, most of the 200 or so people in the room rise to their feet. They are straining to catch sight of an totally bald 80-year-old negro, his back and legs bowed by age, as he makes slow progress through the throng from the back to the stage. His name is Cecil McNeely, and few would pay him much attention but for the enormous tenor saxophone in his hands, with a microphone peering into its mouth to catch every last spit and murmur.
Cecil changed his stage name to Big Jay McNeely all of 60 years ago, under the orders of a Savoy Records A&R man, when he embarked on a career as what is known as a honking saxophonist, playing blues at the high and low end of the register while dancing and throwing himself around. Strange to think that Big Jay earned the accolade of being banned by the LA County authorities for his ability to whip teenagers into a frenzy that was deemed dangerous to decent people. He still inspires frenzy, but music fans long ago broke every breakable rule without the roof falling in, so his no longer considered a threat to public order. He is a little too old to go throwing himself on the floor these days - he once played while crawling on his back the 30 yards from home plate to first base at an LA baseball stadium - but Big Jay still got the audience jumping around, in a controlled sort of frenzy. No legs or glasses were broken as far as I could see.
At one stage, pumping away in the middle of the dancers, Big Jay picked out a red-dressed, bare-shouldered blonde for special attention as he played Put on your high heel sneakers. She was delighted to realise that he was addressing her with his sax, and her friends gradually melted away to leave the floor to the two of them. At the end she gave him a grateful hug: I couldn't help feeling that 20 or 30 years ago she might have torn her clothes off for him.
But this was still a very different Big Jay from the silent, shuffling character, usually wrapped in coat and scarf, who occasionally visits our Monday night dinners at Conrad's diner in Pasadena. Then, the man who can galvanise a room sits quietly, rarely saying anything until he is spoken to. 'He likes to conserve his energy these days,' Jim Dawson explains.
Seeing him commanding the audience at Safari Sam's reminded me of the only time I saw the late, great James Brown, at a similar venue in east London half a dozen years ago. The reverence, close to worship, was evident, and that made the release of restraint all the more vivid. We had paid our respects when Big Jay entered the hall; now we could feel free to be unhibited. 'Let your hair down - or take it off!' Big Jay instructed, using a line that has been his stock-in-trade for at least half a century. He took his off years ago.
There was an innocence about that loss of control, with none of the drink-fuelled nastiness that you might see in Europe. No testosterone-led youngsters were trying to carve out territory, steal women, smash glasses or throw food. It was good, clean fun that took everyone out of their ordinary daily lives for a few hours, at a price most people could afford. And the music was very, very good.
Sunset Boulevard, but not the Sunset Boulevard of the Strip or Chateau Marmont, Beverly Hills or Santa Monica. This is further east, in Hollywood - only just - and it is the Sunset Boulevard of discount stores, off-the-shelf religion and cheap motels. In a strip mall dominated by the garish lights of a 99c store, on the other side of the parking lot dotted with the almost obligatory 50ft high palm trees, stands an anonymous beige breeze-block wall with only the street number over the door. But inside is Safari Sam's, where for $23 ($3.50 extra if you pay by credit card) you can eat, drink, dance and listen to what I suppose is best described as retro rock and blues, covering a spectrum from 1930 to 1980.
The patrons were generally middle-aged, with a few kids. There wasn't a lot of money around. People emerged from beat-up cars wearing run-down jeans, utility shoes and t-shirts. Everyone seems either stick thin or superfat - and yes, I do know this
is America, so superfat is not a title conferred lightly.
In the circumstances, the menu was remarkably healthy. Salted edamame and black sesame, caesar salad, avacado citrus salad and vegan shepard's (sic) pie jostled with jack cheese quesadilla, Italian sausage, chicken curry and the obligatory Safari Burger. Simple stuff, cooked well, better than you might expect for a music venue.
After a warm-up from Big Jim Dawson and his pal Ravishing Ray on the CD system, followed by an hour of Mark Tortorici and the Hollywood Combo's R&B, most of the 200 or so people in the room rise to their feet. They are straining to catch sight of an totally bald 80-year-old negro, his back and legs bowed by age, as he makes slow progress through the throng from the back to the stage. His name is Cecil McNeely, and few would pay him much attention but for the enormous tenor saxophone in his hands, with a microphone peering into its mouth to catch every last spit and murmur.
Cecil changed his stage name to Big Jay McNeely all of 60 years ago, under the orders of a Savoy Records A&R man, when he embarked on a career as what is known as a honking saxophonist, playing blues at the high and low end of the register while dancing and throwing himself around. Strange to think that Big Jay earned the accolade of being banned by the LA County authorities for his ability to whip teenagers into a frenzy that was deemed dangerous to decent people. He still inspires frenzy, but music fans long ago broke every breakable rule without the roof falling in, so his no longer considered a threat to public order. He is a little too old to go throwing himself on the floor these days - he once played while crawling on his back the 30 yards from home plate to first base at an LA baseball stadium - but Big Jay still got the audience jumping around, in a controlled sort of frenzy. No legs or glasses were broken as far as I could see.
At one stage, pumping away in the middle of the dancers, Big Jay picked out a red-dressed, bare-shouldered blonde for special attention as he played Put on your high heel sneakers. She was delighted to realise that he was addressing her with his sax, and her friends gradually melted away to leave the floor to the two of them. At the end she gave him a grateful hug: I couldn't help feeling that 20 or 30 years ago she might have torn her clothes off for him.
But this was still a very different Big Jay from the silent, shuffling character, usually wrapped in coat and scarf, who occasionally visits our Monday night dinners at Conrad's diner in Pasadena. Then, the man who can galvanise a room sits quietly, rarely saying anything until he is spoken to. 'He likes to conserve his energy these days,' Jim Dawson explains.
Seeing him commanding the audience at Safari Sam's reminded me of the only time I saw the late, great James Brown, at a similar venue in east London half a dozen years ago. The reverence, close to worship, was evident, and that made the release of restraint all the more vivid. We had paid our respects when Big Jay entered the hall; now we could feel free to be unhibited. 'Let your hair down - or take it off!' Big Jay instructed, using a line that has been his stock-in-trade for at least half a century. He took his off years ago.
There was an innocence about that loss of control, with none of the drink-fuelled nastiness that you might see in Europe. No testosterone-led youngsters were trying to carve out territory, steal women, smash glasses or throw food. It was good, clean fun that took everyone out of their ordinary daily lives for a few hours, at a price most people could afford. And the music was very, very good.
Monday, March 3, 2008
America's legacy by Bill Kay
Take a house that no one wants but no one wants to see demolished, add an accomplished 1920s band (yes, it's that Ian Whitcomb again), a clutch of people who love dressing up and the best collection of cakes in California and what do you have? You have the Ragtime Tea Party at Lanterman House in La Canada Flintridge, that's what.
Lynne and I tried the dancing, but it wasn't for us. No reflection on the lovely Regina, whose tuition would turn the clumsiest elephant into the most dazzling ballerina, but Lynne got an attack of the giggles and that was that. I wasn't sad. The tea and a tour of the house eventually yielded an insight into the twilight world of the sub-tourist attraction that arc-lighted a growing problem for America's heritage.
That heritage is becoming a thriving industry as the country becomes more conscious of its history and the passing years contribute more and more buildings and artefacts that may - or may not - be worth preserving. It is also creating a class of institutions, mainly universities, that acquire as legacies more of this memorabilia than they know what to do with.
Lanterman House is such a case. It was built in 1915 by the Lanterman family, who made it earthquake-proof with concrete walls a foot thick and filled it with contemporary furniture and kitchen equipment that has luckily survived, mainly because the house ended up in the hands of two brothers who never married but used the remarkable upper-floor ballroom to store what they weren't using. No brides ever arrived to throw out the junk or to paint over the hand-painted friezes.
So the house has been preserved in aspic. As one of the brothers was an alumnus of the University of Southern California he proudly left it to his old uni. Trouble is, his old uni has enough similar houses in the LA area to form a small town - much like Heritage Square down the nearby Pasadena Freeway. USC's pride and joy is Pasadena's Gamble House, a prime example of craftsman architecture preserved to the nth degree. Lanterman, while excellent, doesn't quite match up. So USC was going to demolish it but at the last minute the surviving brother traded some other property to keep the house in the family. He duly died and it became the responsibility of the local authority, which contributes $500,000 a year to restore it, with the help of an enthusiastic non-profit preservation society, the Lanterman House Foundation.
But they have an uphill task, because it is way off the main tourist routes and the council has imposed strict conditions which prevent the Foundation from maximising even the limited revenue they could land hands on, as they are not allowed to tout for commercial business such as weddings, birthday parties, or corporate brainstorming weekends.
Every so often, though, the Foundation is allowed to run events like the Ragtime Tea Dance, when people can pay $45 a head to pretend they are back in the 1920s and refresh themselves with a very impressive tea - which, starting at 1.45 pm, doubled as a late lunch for quite a few of the guests.
The occasion presented a side of America that most foreigners would not guess exists. TV and cinema give the impression that the country is unrelentingly modern, with nods to the Civil and Revolutionary Wars for the benefit of tourists. But there is a small but growing demand for dressing up and turning the clock back, and America has the opportunity and the settings in which to indulge that whim.
Lynne and I tried the dancing, but it wasn't for us. No reflection on the lovely Regina, whose tuition would turn the clumsiest elephant into the most dazzling ballerina, but Lynne got an attack of the giggles and that was that. I wasn't sad. The tea and a tour of the house eventually yielded an insight into the twilight world of the sub-tourist attraction that arc-lighted a growing problem for America's heritage.
That heritage is becoming a thriving industry as the country becomes more conscious of its history and the passing years contribute more and more buildings and artefacts that may - or may not - be worth preserving. It is also creating a class of institutions, mainly universities, that acquire as legacies more of this memorabilia than they know what to do with.
Lanterman House is such a case. It was built in 1915 by the Lanterman family, who made it earthquake-proof with concrete walls a foot thick and filled it with contemporary furniture and kitchen equipment that has luckily survived, mainly because the house ended up in the hands of two brothers who never married but used the remarkable upper-floor ballroom to store what they weren't using. No brides ever arrived to throw out the junk or to paint over the hand-painted friezes.
So the house has been preserved in aspic. As one of the brothers was an alumnus of the University of Southern California he proudly left it to his old uni. Trouble is, his old uni has enough similar houses in the LA area to form a small town - much like Heritage Square down the nearby Pasadena Freeway. USC's pride and joy is Pasadena's Gamble House, a prime example of craftsman architecture preserved to the nth degree. Lanterman, while excellent, doesn't quite match up. So USC was going to demolish it but at the last minute the surviving brother traded some other property to keep the house in the family. He duly died and it became the responsibility of the local authority, which contributes $500,000 a year to restore it, with the help of an enthusiastic non-profit preservation society, the Lanterman House Foundation.
But they have an uphill task, because it is way off the main tourist routes and the council has imposed strict conditions which prevent the Foundation from maximising even the limited revenue they could land hands on, as they are not allowed to tout for commercial business such as weddings, birthday parties, or corporate brainstorming weekends.
Every so often, though, the Foundation is allowed to run events like the Ragtime Tea Dance, when people can pay $45 a head to pretend they are back in the 1920s and refresh themselves with a very impressive tea - which, starting at 1.45 pm, doubled as a late lunch for quite a few of the guests.
The occasion presented a side of America that most foreigners would not guess exists. TV and cinema give the impression that the country is unrelentingly modern, with nods to the Civil and Revolutionary Wars for the benefit of tourists. But there is a small but growing demand for dressing up and turning the clock back, and America has the opportunity and the settings in which to indulge that whim.
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