Tag Archives: Minnesota author

Rare Unpublished Interview

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9 July 2014

Webmaster Stephen Kral (if you like elements of this site, he’s the one to thank) interviewed me last year, for possible publication in a West Coast journal. That never happened, so I figured I’d share it here:

SK: What books were in your home growing up? What stories first captured your imagination?

DG: Our home was stuffed with thousands and thousands of books from both my parents’ personal libraries. We siblings augmented those with our own growing collections built around trips to the Salvation Army store on Nicollet Island’s skid row out in the middle of the Mississippi, where books cost a nickel and once a year Grandmom would roll into town and take all us kids to buy as many as we could carry.

I can never remember a time when I didn’t love stories. The first to really capture me were Winnie the Pooh stories, which my mother read to me when we lived in London. When I was 10 or 11, my dad shifted all his childhood books into our house and I immediately dug in. Cursed Be the Treasure . . . The Black Liner . . . Treasure Island . . . Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Moving Mountain . . . names I’ve never forgotten.

In another way, the first stories to grab me were the ones told by my parents and grandparents about their adventures around the world. I knew that if I wanted to sit at the table and enter the conversation I’d need to head off and have some adventures myself!

SK: What kind of stories are you interested in writing today?

DG: Ones that won’t let the reader go. Ones whose influence works around in the back of your mind and reappears at unexpected moments. I tend to find my way into the stories by selecting the terrain (or setting) on which I’d like to work. Then I start mulling over the cultural specifics of the place, or which characters might be involved. Plus I’m always looking for converging themes that can be developed. I want to reshape my readers’ expectations and understandings of life.

SK: You have described yourself as “a lifelong vagabond traveler,” as someone interested in life’s side turns and its trails into the unknown. In what ways do you think this vagabond sensibility influences your writing?

DG: The world is a large and wondrous place. As Kipling said, “The wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Kathmandu.” I’m interested in creating and exploring characters who are willing to step out towards the edge of the map and keep going. I also view my passage through life as a series of twists and turns, following unexpected bends in the road.

I think the vagabonding approach has also helped me to hold the world’s demands at arm’s length. I’m a deeply Bible-believing Christian, and one of the messages of that book is that we are but wayfaring strangers, traveling through this world but never at home in it. Our true home awaits elsewhere. I’ve been on the road (spiritually, as well as physically) my entire life. Any demands made by a particular culture, or state apparatus, or whatever, are mere ephemera compared to eternity.

SK: Herman Melville could also be described as a vagabond of a kind and he considered the education he received as a young man on a whaling ship to be more valuable than what he might have learned at a Yale or a Harvard. As someone who has also worked on the deck of a ship, do you share Melville’s sentiment?

DG: I was very successful in academic settings, so I wouldn’t want to act as if they have no value. But I was always restless sitting in the classroom. Real life seemed to be going on outside the windows, while we were being presented sanitized and compartmentalized versions of the same thing. Truth be told, I’m not all that fond of working as a deck hand (Worst job ever? Trimming grain . . . especially for someone with severe hay fever), but the characters we encountered, the ports we explored, and the endless series of mad-panic crises we faced gave me more depth of insight into the thrust and meaning of life than anything a professor could choose to impart.

SK: To what extent is your writing autobiographical?

DG: Much of it is heavily autobiographical. I realized early on that what drove me to write was the same impetus as Jack Kerouac had—to mythologize my life. Of course, I’ve written pieces that are a long way from reality, but most of the time I’m drawing heavily on personal experience.

SK: When and where do you write? What is your writing routine?

DG: I do best in the mornings, especially when working on first drafts. Back in the day, aside from my writing partner (the late, great August Wilson), I seemed to be almost the only writer around who worked in restaurants and cafes, but with the rise of coffee shops and laptops, that’s become a commonplace. For me, the public settings provided a “white noise” background that kept me energized, but nowadays there’s no bustle, just a lot of silent people tap-tapping away. As a result, I’m now most likely to work in my tiny study at home.

Revising often goes well at night, when I can stretch out in a comfy chair and let another side of my personality take over, so that I feel as if I’m revising somebody else’s work. I’m still such a cut-and-paste guy that I’ll often chop out bits and pieces of the story I’m working on and slide them around on a table to see how different sections might work in alternate spots.

SK: As someone who has worked many odd jobs throughout his life, would you consider the work of a writer as much different than that of other lines of work?

DG: As I tell my son Evan, who has a burgeoning writing career, every job provides “material.” As a writer, you’re not just doing the job, you’re also observing who else does the job, and why they stick it out, and what specific techniques or interaction patterns are involved. You may end up finding just the slightest sliver of useful material from a specific job, but anything that gets you out of your ivory tower and into the big wide world is valuable. I wrote an entire book (Tales From the Tinker’s Dam) built around the misadventures of running a country pub in Wales.

SK: I understand you regularly take part in an annual youth writing workshop, how did you first get involved with these workshops?

DG: I joined the COMPAS Writers & Artists in the Schools Roster in 1986. This made me a Teaching Artist, who would travel throughout the state doing short term residencies in schools and helping kids discover the joy of writing stories. (A few years later, I took over the administration of that program and have continued to this day.) In 1990, another group wanted to start an annual Young Authors Conference, for kids in grades 4-8 who were already excited about writing. I helped them plan the event and participated as one of the teachers. I’ve been at that Conference every year since—and will be back at it again next spring.

SK: What advice would you give to a young writer?

DG: Stay nimble—everything will change. Stay committed—everybody will offer conflicting diversions. Dig deep enough within yourself to find pain or confusion that can be spilled onto the page. Lower your ego; raise your observation skills; ignore trends. Most of all, learn the joy of revision. You’ll be doing it forever.

SK: Are you working on anything currently?

DG: I’ve recently wrapped up the latest version of a short story collection that I’ve been reworking for years, called Wrestling with Angels. Trying to find a publisher for that and a coming-of-age novel called Paradiso.

I’m also working on some travel articles from recent trips, but the market for those has changed dramatically. I may transform some of them into a book-length manuscript I keep fiddling with. Hard to tell what shape that will end up taking, but that’s part of the joy of the process.

 

FLASHBACK: “L.A. Update: Darlene Love—a Hungry Heart”

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18 June 2014

The Blossoms—Darlene Love at lower left

The Blossoms—Darlene Love at lower left

Her voice is unexpectedly large and full-throated, her face unmarred by time. Darlene Love is onstage at the Roxy swooping her way through her classic early ’60s “girl group” songs and one wonders what happened to the intervening years.

Darlene may well be the finest voice Phil Spector ever worked with. Twenty years ago he discovered her singing with an LA group called the Blossoms. He took her out of her backup role and put her right up front—singing a defiant lead on the Crystals’ #1 hit “He’s a Rebel.” She next fronted Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans and began to build a solo career. Within a year, half a dozen songs with Darlene Love on lead vocals had become chart hits.

Then came the British Invasion and attention turned elsewhere. Love returned to backing vocals (with the Blossoms and later Dionne Warwick).

If all this sounds like a setup for an evening of nostalgia—forget it. Love has lost nothing to time. She opened with a potent rendition of the Crystals’ “Da Doo Ron Ron,” then chased it with two of her solo hits, including the cascading “Today I Met the Boy I’m Gonna Marry.”

Audience enthusiasm led her to comment ironically, “I didn’t know so many people liked these ‘Phil Spector’ songs.” Despite Darlene’s jibe at Spector’s dominant reputation, it’s still true that his approach to the three-minute single has never been surpassed.

This became quickly evident when Darlene assayed tunes beyond the Philles’ catalogue. Her rich voice remained in full control, but her supporting cast suddenly had nowhere to go: the arrangements couldn’t handle the personnel. The double drumming became superfluous and even the sax lost its focus.

Darlene’s uncertain choice of covers served her well only once: “Hungry Heart” done in honor of Bruce Springsteen and Miami Steve—who were applauding enthusiastically from a back table.

By the time she hit the end, her voice rippled and scorched. “He’s a Rebel” was soul stirring—as appropriate in ’82 as in ’62. She closed with a majestic “Not Too Young to Get Married.” A gospel medley encore showed some footstompin’, but the point had already been made. The talent remains—now is there a producer out there to tap it?

This piece was previously published in LA Weekly, March 26-April 1, 1982

NOTE: This particular gig proved to be a life changer for Love. In the early ’80s she had been reduced to working as a maid and singing on cruise ships. To quote from her Wikipedia entry: “In 1982, record mogul Lou Adler offered to host a Darlene Love showcase at the Roxy nightclub in Los Angeles and invite a few friends. Among the audience members knocked out by her performance were Bruce Springsteen and sidekick Steve Van Zandt.

The two convinced Love to move to New York, where the singer heard on such favorites as the Crystal’s “Da Do Ron Ron,” Sam Cooke’s “Chain Gang,” the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” and Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life” was rediscovered as a solo act.”

 

Tribute to Fess: New Orleans Says Goodbye

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4 June 2014

This isn’t a Flashback, since this piece was never published—but it is from deep in the vaults.  Let’s step back to New Orleans, 1980. . . .

The flash and flair of Congo Square lives on.

The flash and flair of Congo Square lives on.

Professor Longhair is no longer with us. There’s nothing more to be said. But this year’s Tribute to ‘Fess at the New Orleans Armory helped his mourners share their grief.

The Armory sits just north of Congo Square, once the site of weekly African drum and dance festivities by slave and freedman alike. Raucous, joyful and threatening, Congo Square symbolizes the rich cultural mixing that took place on the bayous and deltas of the deep South: a gumbo stew of musical traditions from the African coasts, the Caribbean islands and yes, from the European courts and countryside as well. A stew both potent and heady, with offshoots and influences even today.

Few people know how to stir that stew just right—so the tastes don’t all run together. One who did was Roy Byrd, AKA Professor Longhair. They say in New Orleans that every musician on the street has a little bit of ‘Fess somewhere inside him—a rhythmic approach perhaps, a half-forgotten melody, or maybe just the memory of his gold-toothed smile.

Professor Longhair bending those blue notes

Whatever it is, New Orleans’ finest came to the Armory to pay their tribute to the Professor. The acts reeled past in fifteen minute bursts: Lee Dorsey ponying up to “Ya Ya”; Snooks Eaglin—old and on the nod—calling up his last shards of strength for a taste of the peculiarly urban brand of delta blues that found its way to the Crescent City. The Neville Brothers sweetened the mixture with streetfunk soul, and The Golden Eagles gave a powwow in their Indian headdress outfits; a bittersweet memory for most. Mardi Gras continues, but will “Tipitina” ever sound the same?

And so they came and went: black, white and brown; Cajun, Creole, or just plain cracker. There was a camaraderie among the performers that extended to the audience. We wandered and danced and sat on the stage. There was no climax, no end to hurry towards. It was Friday night and the good times—whatever they might be—were here at hand.

At last, Allen Toussaint sat down at the piano. he talked a bit first, passing along a message from Dr. John (longtime disciple of Professor Longhair) who was tied up in an LA recording studio. Allen didn’t say much about ‘Fess—just a few quiet words about his spirit still hovering over the show. Then he played.

The hall was silent. The notes rippled forth like an eddying stream, wending through our midst, and lingering in memory long after the last note was played. Just like ‘Fess.

 

Cartagena By Moonlight

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30 April 2014

Cartagena de Indias sits right on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, along the western end of the Spanish Main. Encircled by thick stone ramparts topped with guard posts and enfilades as protection against the depredations of pirates and quasi-legal buccaneers like Sir Francis Drake (who sacked the city in 1584), the city once saw half the gold of the New World flow through its port, to say nothing of countless thousands of Africans condemned to be sold in the slave market.

Many local citizens got rich, leaving the city a living museum of Spanish colonial houses and public buildings. Elaborately carved wooden balconies overhang narrow streets. Bougainvillea drips down the sides of windows and gateposts. Mansions, warehouses and monasteries have been converted into museums or boutique hotels and restored to the glories of the original builders.

The balconies of Cartagena are a particular delight—a neverending series of variations on a theme.

The balconies of Cartagena are a particular delight—a neverending series of variations on a theme.

But besides the antique beauty, Cartagena revels in the modern-day human element. As the sun dips towards the horizon beyond the Caribbean, the blanket of daytime heat begins to lift and the life of the city flows into the streets. After dark, the lanes hum with palpable joy. Street musicians and performers claim nooks and crannies, sending out tango and vallenato sounds, breaking into impromptu cumbia dances, devising statuesque poses to attract the passersby.

The old walled city is cut into neighborhoods, each focusing around a public plaza or two. Near the outer walls is Getsemani, where the artisans once lived. Still a ragged collection of crumbled walls and partly renovated homes, Getsemani’s inhabitants cluster in Plaza de la Trinidad, with its little neighborhood church (which featured, when we were there, a side storage room with a temporary international art exhibit on the migration and decline of the birds and the bees) and a trio of larger than life statues of Pedro Romero and friends. It was here that Romero first declared short-lived Colombian independence in 1811.

The old Plaza of the Inquisition (where a dozen citizens once burned in a mass trial) has been transformed into Plaza Bolivar, complete with majestic statue of horseman Bolivar and circling cart vendors offering ice cream, Cuban cigars, pigeon crumbs and beer. At the Plaza San Pedro Claver and adjacent Plaza de la Aduana, metal sculptures by Carmona depict scenes of men playing chess, women working sewing machines, a butcher preparing to chop meat, and the like. Children can’t resist joining the scenes themselves. Plaza San Diego is the humblest inside the inner walled city. There’s nothing much beyond the cooling night breeze to draw folks to its benches, but for locals it feels as if the plaza still belongs to them, rather than the city’s many visitors. On Plaza Fernandez Madrid we encounter street dancers, two sidewalk cafes, and a corner bottle shop that supplies the plaza’s wanderers with all the inspiration they need and more.

The plazas belong to everybody; here in Fernandez Madrid a fresh set of stories are unfolding with the night.

The plazas belong to everybody; here in Fernandez Madrid a fresh set of stories are unfolding with the night.

We move like slithering ghosts along the edges of crowds, past clusters in sidewalk cafes, diverging down any side street that beckons. At last, in Plaza de Santo Domingo we pause at an outdoor café, letting the vendors and the street musicians drift past. A plump Botero nude—sculpted body gleaming with a warm metal sheen—lies along a corner of the plaza, facing off against the heavy stonework of Santo Domingo church. The moon is above the rooftops, lighting long street corridors down towards Casa de Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the Nobel-winning novelist who will die in Mexico City the following month, and never again see the view out over the ramparts—churning now with an impromptu street dance—and the choppy waves of the sea beyond.

Botero's work is celebrated throughout the city, with sculptures popping up in various spots.

Botero’s work is celebrated throughout the city, with sculptures popping up in various spots.

Around us the bustle of the city ebbs and flows, until at last we succumb to romantic temptation and board one of the waiting horse carriages for a clip-clopping ride that circles around and past the spots we’ve been navigating on foot. Snatches of tunes drift up from random street corners and cafes. At the far end of the ramparts, where the Baluarte San Francisco Javier rises, we stop and listen to the final set of the cumbia performers working the open air setting of a café. The moon is high, the breeze is light, and the long dark span of the Caribbean seems to go on forever.

[See also “Street Art of Cartagena, Colombia 2014” on my Travel Photos page. I’ll be posting a further set of more general photos in May, titled “Cartagena Scenes.”]

FLASHBACK: “Little Big League”

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2 April 2014

The Dunning Dragons tee off on the pitches of their coach, Daniel Gabriel.

The Dunning Dragons tee off on the pitches of their coach, Daniel Gabriel.

During a preseason scrimmage against the Reds, we came down to the last inning, with my son Alex catching. I was standing a few feet behind the catcher as I typically do when the Dunning Dragons are in the field. Alex was dirty, sweat-streaked, and still hustling on every play: yanking off the heavy helmet mask, getting into position in front of the plate, arms raised, calling for the ball. He’d done this throughout the game, but the team threw so wildly that he rarely had a chance to reach the ball and couldn’t handle it when he did.

On the last play of the game (the Reds had batted around for the inning, which in our league is the limit), they sent their runners home. Alex hollered for the ball, and it came on the fly. “I was sure I wasn’t going to catch that ball,” he said later, but he stepped into foul territory and reached up high to his left, and there it was, stuck in his mitt.

“Tag her! Tag her!” I yelled from behind him.

Alex stepped back to the plate, put on the tag, and as the runner tried to twist past him, they both fell down in a heap. He held the ball for a second and then it rolled free—but the runner still hadn’t touched home. He grabbed the ball and dove back for the tag just as she half-slid onto the corner.

Safe or out?

It was my call, but either way, somebody would be very disappointed. I just grabbed them both up, yelled “Great play!” in two directions, and the game was over.

Alex recounted the play several times, amazed that he’d actually made a tag and catch at the plate. So was I—and I couldn’t have had a better spot to share the moment.

Dunning Dragons gather around their coaching staff during the post-game recap ritual.

Dunning Dragons gather around their coaching staff during the post-game recap ritual.

After our games and practices, my sons and I sometimes watch games at Dunning Fields. On a summer day in St. Paul’s Midway neighborhood, baseball’s appeal is passed on to kids running bases, chasing balls, and taking big batting-practice swings on dust-covered diamonds. At one end, a ballpark that features high school and amateur league games lets kids dream of heroics beyond their Little League years. Watching the adults, Alex, my nine year-old, puts on his catcher’s mask and mitt and squats against the backstop screen, imagining that those rocketing fastballs and sharp-bending curves are being called by him. Five year-old Evan, the Dragons’ batboy (and occasional right fielder), climbs the bleacher steps, or chases down foul balls.

As Dragons coach, I often plot out team lineups or rethink my handling of the just-concluded practice. At times, I relax, enjoying the sight of my sons reveling in the game.

We are together, hot and dusty and heavy with a delicious muscle weariness. The moment that joins father and sons is made possible partly by the St. Paul-Midway Little League, which transmits the skills, teamwork, and dedication needed for baseball to boys and girls.

For me, watching continues a lifelong commitment. I pitched and played the outfield in various leagues myself growing up, and never really quit. After high school ball, I went on the softball circuit and there I remain, slower, wiser, yet still dreaming of game-saving catches and hook slides into third.

Wanting to share those joys with my own kids, I find myself back on the pitcher’s mound after a thirty year absence (ours is a “coach-pitch” league), only this time I’m rooting for the batters to hit the ball. For some, it’s daunting. I’ve had kids who spent most of the season getting up the nerve to swing the bat hard. On the other hand, two years of Brian McIntosh’s line shots up the middle have taught me to stay nimble. Brian is built like Kirby Puckett, though his lethal hitch-swing calls to mind hometown boy Dave Winfield, who played at Dunning while growing up.

Players’ concentration varies as widely as their skills, and, at times, my attempts to balance discipline and fun feel as precarious as a high-wire act. For every Jimmy Shoemaker or Sam Palosaari who bounces in place in his eagerness to hit the field, there are kids who need to run to the bench for a drink every five minutes or who show up wearing slip-on shoes and skip along the base paths.

As a coach, I emphasize thinking and attitude, so after every game we give out awards not only for the traditional PLAY OF THE GAME, but also for HUSTLE and FOCUS. Even the most inept player can win these, and the sudden lift of shoulders or brightness in the eyes rewards me too.

My greatest joy in coaching, of course, is working with my sons. While Evan is still so young that he tends to wear down early (“Dad, can I go to the playground now? Please, Dad?”), Alex obsesses with catching and all other aspects of the game. Some nights he comes home from practice and sits at the kitchen table, laboriously devising lineups and defensive rotations for the following game. He’s learned that it’s the catcher’s job to keep the team alert, so he’ll lead “Let’s go!” chants on the bench and, from his position behind the plate, regularly yells out situations: “Two down! Get the easy one!”

Future All-Star Alex Gabriel learns his chops behind the plate.

Future All-Star Alex Gabriel learns his chops behind the plate.

Last summer, after our final game, we had a team party under the trees beyond the left field fence. Alex instigated a sandlot game. One of the players was line-shot-up-the-middle Brian, so I suggested they make him bat left-handed; the pitching mound was barely 20-30 feet from home. My caution was laughed off.

A minute later came a shout and I turned to see Alex, the pitcher, bent over and holding his face. Brian had hit a line drive straight at him; Alex had gotten his glove on it, only to deflect it into his nose. There was blood everywhere—on his face, shirt, glove—but Alex never even cried.

The next day, as I was coming home from work, my son greeted me at the door wearing a big grin beneath his puffed-up nose and carrying an armload of gloves and bats. “Well, who’s up first?” he said. Our season hadn’t ended at all.

Originally published in MPLS ST.PAUL magazine, March 1997.

Refl-fl-fl-flections on SCRATCH Tour 03

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12 February 2014

DJ X-plore battles on stage at First Ave, 2004.

DJ X-plore battles on stage at First Avenue, Minneapolis, 2004.

Ten years on I still remember getting blown away at Minneapolis’ Fine Line by the turntablists on this tour celebrating the release of Scratch, a retrospective documentary on hip-hop DJs. 

I never would have been there except for my son, Evan (AKA DJ X-plore), a dedicated Battle DJ who’d already self-released his first CD, Genesis of X-plore. Thing was, Evan had barely turned 13. Only way into the club was going to be backdoor, which was why I came along. Evan had met Rob Swift, leader of the X-ecutioners, at a Walker Art Center event the previous year—had even gotten to play with him—and our strategy was to slide in through the performers’ entrance and see if Rob would get us into the show.

Rob Swift performs on the roof of Walker Art Center, 2003. DJ X-plore joined him for an impromptu lesson and joint performance.

Rob Swift performs on the roof of Walker Art Center, 2003. DJ X-plore joined him for an impromptu lesson and joint performance.

 

He was happy to oblige, although it took a bit of fiddle and dance to convince the Fine Line staff that this would be cool. I promised to watch over my charge, and melted into the side wall where I could keep an eye on young Evan working his way up to the edge of the stage. I expected to be entertained sure enough, but I hadn’t anticipated how much I would dig being force fed huge slices of hip-hop history.

Jazzy Jeff kicked things off with an avowedly Old School approach, while flickering videos of 80s era Wild Style flashed on the walls behind him. He was slick and sure, but my main focus was on trying to identify the back-in-the-day samples he was dropping. Plenty of early Soul, R&B stuff, and always the hardest working man in show business, Mr. James Brown.

Then we were on to the X-ecutioners, a trio of New Yorkers who could cut and spin on a dime, and managed to create a full dance atmosphere just by the table-changes they kept running. With six turntables rolling, Rob Swift would pop up here, now there, now back again, but the beat never stopped flowing. Little Rock Raida (RIP) kept bouncing in between and moving the pace. Mesmerizing showmanship . . . and I was beginning to get my head fully inside the sounds.

By the time the announcer was calling in the third act, Evan had established a spot dead center and right up against the stage. He knew what was coming next. This time it was a white guy from Phoenix—Z-Trip—and when he dropped the first needle it came straight out of left field: “Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz . . .” Janis Joplin’s signature a cappella piece! No sooner was it familiar than Z-Trip’s fingers went whoo-whoo-whoo and we were riding some whole other kind of rhythm. “Mercedes Benz” bled into an Otis Redding piece, and then into heavy metal, and then some strange church choir. This guy was running deep crates for real.

As the mosh pit swelled and churned at his feet I watched Evan buffeted by the bodies, but still holding his spot, and somewhere in my head I heard the opening to the early 80s English soul hit “Geno,” by Dexys Midnight Runners:

“Back in ’68 in a sweaty club.
Before Jimmy’s machine and the rocksteady rub . . .
. . . the lowest head in the crowd that night,
Just practicing steps and keeping out of the fights”

When Z-Trip’s last screech went silent on his tables, I was sure we’d had the evening’s climax. But then out came a little Filipino guy with a single turntable, who just sat down at the edge of the stage, set up between his legs and started to riff. How, I thought, was he going to compete with the double-barreled full-coffin gear everybody else had been working?

Ah, but this was the mighty Q-Bert, the slickest DJ I’ve ever seen, before or since. The man spent 40 minutes working one single record, on that one single turntable, and taking us all over the map. He could sound like drums, like trumpets, like violins—or, somehow, all three at once. He could run hard and loud, or soft and surprising. Best of all, he seemed to sense the crowd mood and build it through his cuts and stabs. Flat out amazing stuff.

At the end of the show, as sweat-drenched revelers poured out the door, Z-Trip ran out from backstage and grabbed Evan. I could see them talking, and then a moment later, watched Evan reach into his pocket and pull out a copy of his CD. Z-Trip looked stunned.

I figured I’d best make an appearance, so I wandered over. Z-Trip was gushing—“Man, this is so cool—I can’t wait to put this on, see what a thirteen year-old’s been listening to—you did this yourself?” Evan was nodding and smiling.

“Hey, Rob!” Z-trip called Rob Swift over. “You got to meet this amazing kid.”

Rob grinned. “Hey, I already met the dude last year.”

Z-Trip pulled Evan out the door to the tour bus, now idling at the curb. “Hold on,” he said. He climbed aboard, then reappeared, arms loaded with promo copies of his latest CD, a matching set of his battle vinyl LPs, Z-Trip slip mats, tour stickers—“Here, man. Enjoy. I’ll catch you next time I come through town.”

Back inside, adrenalin still running high but starting to bleed, we spotted Q-Bert holding court in a secluded corner. His handlers kept the masses at bay, but at a word from Q-Bert we were ushered into his presence. “I saw you on the stage there, youngblood. Way to hold your corner.” Evan pulled out another copy of his CD and offered it up to Q-Bert. He held it up to his forehead, like tipping his cap, and then set it off to the side. Nothing further was said. But when we finally left the club, loping along the street with the sound echoes still ringing in our ears, it felt as if a torch had been passed.

Note: The DJ X-plore moniker has since been retired. Check out EGdoesit or Mandatory Bounce for the latest sounds from Evan Gabriel.

 

DJ X-plore slaps down the end of his battle performance at the annual Twin Cities Celebration of Hip Hop, 2003.

DJ X-plore slaps down the end of his battle performance at the annual Twin Cities Celebration of Hip Hop, 2003.

 

FLASHBACK: “Machismo Rules at Gaucho Fair—Or Does It?”

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20 January 2014

Held every week, the Feria de Mataderos links Argentines to a potent symbol of their nationhood.

Held every week, the Feria de Mataderos links Argentines to a potent symbol of their nationhood.

The crowd edges in, nearly touching the narrow, sanded raceway in the middle of the street. It’s time for the climax of the weekly Feria de Mataderos, here in a far-flung barrio of Buenos Aires. The dances, the drinks, the posturing and preparation are all put aside. Each rider has a chance to prove himself in the Carrera de la Sortija (Race of the Ring), a competition dating back to the Spanish conquistadores and still played on the pampas.

The horses paw, and the proud, dressed-to-the-nines gauchos make their final adjustments. Belts are resettled, hats tipped just a bit more jauntily. At the far end of the street, a signal is given, and the first horse and rider kick into action, pounding down the pavement with the crowd yelling and moving closer and the gaucho flicking his whip from side to side on the horse’s flanks, then standing high in the saddle at a full gallop. Ahead of him is an archway, with a single red rope dangling from the top of the arch. On the bottom of the rope is a tiny metal circle, perhaps twice the size of a wedding ring.

The gaucho’s task? To spear that metal ring on the end of his lancet—a small stick about the size of a pencil—while passing underneath at a full gallop. It requires a centaur-like creature, horse and rider working as a single body. The pace of the gallop is key: the fiercer the approach to the sortija, the more macho the rider.

Gauchos demonstrate skills they use every day on the great estancias.

Gauchos demonstrate skills they use every day on the great estancias.

When his horse is merely strides from the archway, the gaucho reaches along his hip, pulls out his lancet and raises it alongside his right ear, ready to strike. The horse thunders on, the gaucho stabs forward and . . . no, the rope trembles but the metal ring remains intact.

The crowd sags visibly. The gaucho turns, shrugs and trots back, head high, to retake his place in the line of waiting riders.

Now comes another and another, each one obeying the dynamics of the ride: horse at full speed, hands to the whip, then to the reins while standing, then to the lancet and, at last, the plunge.

On the first round, every rider tries and every rider fails. But now they’ve measured the course, settled their timing. While they wait to go again, the young gauchitos, will get a try.

First, a longer metal wire is put on the archway and the ring set low enough that the younger riders on their smaller horses can reach it. For the youngest ones (aged seven and up), merely staying on the horse and making any sort of stab with the lancet brings applause, sprinkled with laughter, from the crowd. The older youth, in their mid-teens, who are desperate to avoid such laughter, mimic their elders and make a credible run at the ring.
Again, on the first run, nobody succeeds, but there are still several more runs to come.

Now, as the men gather, more serious than before, we realize that honor is at stake, s well as bragging rights and perhaps a wager or two. The winners here will ride tall through the crowds, feigning unawareness of the eyes following their every move.

Gauchos have no fear of dressing up. Around his waist each gaucho wears a wide belt decorated with embroidered patterns or silver coins. Tucked into each belt is a facon, a long, curved knife, which is a gaucho’s proudest possession other than his horse.

The second round of competition begins. One by one, the riders whirl into attack, their rhythmic whip-slap inciting the crowd. The first to spike the ring is an angular blue-eyed Adonis in a narrow-brimmed hat. Then there’s a younger man wearing a woven vest and carrying his lancet in his teeth. Finally, the crowd parts further to welcome a weather-beaten older man with the inner authority of a foreman—his elegant ride and thrust bring loud applause.

With a final lunge, this gaucho captures the ring, to great applause and honor.

With a final lunge, this gaucho captures the ring, to great applause and honor.

At last, the youth prance out for another turn. Again, the youngest struggle to stay upright, fumbling their lancets. In this twilight of the macho world, there is one young girl with long dark hair almost to her waist. She rides a squat, fat pony and appears to have little hope of keeping up. Yet in her final ride, with the crowd applauding in sync, her pony trots her straight down the middle of the street and she rises up and spears the ring! The crowd goes wild, and the girl beams. When she wheels her pony back around to return the ring, it is waved off and given to her to keep. She won’t forget this day.

Aside from the sarteja, the most symbolic part of the Feria is the street dancing. This young girl knew all the steps, and was thrilled to be chosen as a gaucho's partner.

Aside from the sortija, the most symbolic part of the Feria is the street dancing. This young girl knew all the steps, and was thrilled to be chosen as a gaucho’s partner.

Originally published in Verge (Canada), Fall 2009

From a People Old as Time: Inside the Musee Basque

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23 December 2013

The Basques are the most ancient people in Europe; their language still unrelated to all others.

The Basques are the most ancient people in Europe; their language unrelated to all others.

Housed in the Maison Dagourette, a quayside mansion in the fervently Basque district of Petit Bayonne in southwestern France, the Musee Basque has become one of the finest ethnographic museums in the world.

The museum houses a variety of collections—including special rooms on the history of Bayonne and its connections to the sea. Bayonne is the cultural and commercial center of the French Basque region. Set on a pair of rivers just inland from the Atlantic, Bayonne has long been home to piratical and legitimate sea trade. Evidence of both endeavors is amply provided in the Musée Basque. Besides scale models of the city in 1805 and numerous ship artifacts (both miniature and full-size), the Bayonne History section utilizes video to great effect—at certain locations the visitor watches a soundless screen that shifts from scenes of the present to those of the past and even blends the two to evoke the passage of time and the endurance—or obliteration—of landmarks and lifestyles.

But it is beyond these, in the Basque culture rooms, that the museum really shines. One section, organized around the almost-mystical Basque concept of exte, or “home,” walks the visitor inside the house gates and down under heavy wood-beamed ceilings through the rooms and furniture that typify the Basques. Distant music plays; a storyteller’s voice recites hearthside tales . . . It might almost be time for supper around one of the great carved wooden tables.

There are also key cultural accoutrements on display, cleverly lit and majestically displayed—strange musical instruments, ceremonial costumes, collections of the walking/sword sticks called makhilas which are family heirlooms. It is said that a Basque would no more part with his makhila than he would sell his mother.

Depending on one’s interest, there are many other sections in the museum to explore as well: farming, maritime activity, mourning in the Basque country, the role of the Separdic Jewish community in Bayonne life.

One skylit room features a collection of flat stone tomb markers, often incised with symbols of the Christian era or the peculiarly Basque laubura, which looks something like a wavy cross with the wooden heads of golf clubs attached to each end.

The traditional laubura design is woven into this ubiquitous Basque scarf on sale in the gift shop.

The traditional laubura design is woven into this ubiquitous Basque scarf.

If your feet tire, sit down and watch the slide shows and videos of traditional village dances. What is most astonishing about them is the traditional festival clothing and dance styles of the men. Hulking fishermen and shepherds prance and mince with intricate foot patterns while wearing frilly tutu-like skirts, wild hats and tights. There is one especially notable figure—an apparently standard man-horse costume which appears frequently—where the participant appears to be wearing a wide oval lampshade around his waist and a very unfortunately-placed skinny wooden horse head sticking out of the front from his groin.

Sports fans will gravitate towards the pelota wing. Here, the Basque love of the game—or games, really, as pelota has at least a dozen variants—is displayed in paintings, sculpture, and artifacts. Even to a non-participant, the pelota area resonates with cultural identity. Some of the paintings feature individual players—often pre-20th century, including some with hair down to the middle of their back and a priest in full cassock. Other paintings are of village scenes such as a procession from the church, or a wedding, or farmers at harvest. In all these communal scenes there are games of pelota going on in the background, like an eternal backdrop to the everyday.

 

The artifacts in the Musee Basque dwell heavily on traditional Basque life, like this exquisite wrought-iron gateway that honors the sport of pelota.

The artifacts in the Musee Basque dwell heavily on traditional Basque life, like this exquisite wrought-iron gateway that honors the sport of pelota.

The feel is akin to that of the Baseball Hall of Fame. This sensation is heightened by the game-tested artifacts. Blackened balls (slightly smaller than a baseball, but with the same raised seams and leather covers) are inscribed “Ainhoa 50, Bilbao 23, 1888 Border Championship,” and the like. The development of the lachua (a leather scooped-shaped glove which is worn on one arm), is traced from crude calf-skin mitts, to tightly woven rawhide, from flat to curved, and on up to examples of lightweight metal mesh design. Scoreboards, softball-sized balls, an entire career’s collection of lachua belonging to one of pelota’s famous early 20th century players . . . the Hall of Fame motif rolls on.

Whether in sports or celebrations, music or art, the museum makes its point: We are Basques. These—the ballgames, the costumes, the cozy hearth of home—are what bind us together. We are too old a people to ever lose our way.

 

Hiking the Mississippi River Road

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11 December 2013

Saint Paul is first and foremost a river town. The Mississippi makes a great S curve through the western and southern stretches, isolating the West Side on its bluff and clutching the rest of the city in its sinuous curl. From our house, walking four miles in any of three directions (west, south or east) brings you to the river banks.

Yes, long stretches of those banks are shared with Minneapolis, but the enduring Twin Cities rivalry compels me to thumb my nose in that direction. Thus, for our purposes, the first evidence of civilization along the banks comes in the form of a sign: “SAINT PAUL/the Capital City/Desnoyer Park.” As we cross from Mill City to Capital City, another sign, embedded in a cut limestone wall, reads grandiloquently “Mississippi River Boulevard Parkway, Saint Paul, Minnesota.” To me, it’ll always be East River Road.

I looked back one final time at the bleak landscape behind me—the sterile towers, the fug of grain still clinging to the old mill sites, the sad diminished status of a city that was not the capital (yes, Minneapolis, I’m looking at you)—then turned and strode forward, keeping to the heights above the mighty river. Below was a hidden pathway along the river flats to Meeker Island, but this would end before the Marshall Avenue bridge. My destination lay far beyond.

Away from the river, an imposing string of stone houses—Georgian, Tudor, some Spanish touches—drowsed behind picture windows. Below on the right the river swooped beneath the line of trees that edge the bluff. Stretches of black iron fence outlined a decorative border and wooden benches set away from the path were aimed towards chosen views; home to amiable dalliances and half-dozing reminiscences. A memorial tablet here, a dip under the bridge there, and I was onto a long, rising stretch towards the Victorian mansions of Summit Avenue.

The hiker’s experience depends on weather and time of year. On fine weekends in summer, the path is thick with baby strollers, joggers, bikers and random sun-struck visitors being promenaded by hosts intent on correcting their flyover misconceptions. Pick a weekday at twilight, and the winding stones offer a day’s-end retreat for locals, grabbing an evening stroll before dinner. In December, the trees have been stripped bare, dark against the greying sky, and there’s a whip to the air. Far below the ice-chunked river still moves, but not for long. Only the occasional fresh air fiend or die-hard runner passes, bundled against the wind.

. . . Later, after circumventing the deep ravine west of Cretin Avenue, moving at cross purposes to the silent troops of University of St. Thomas students texting their way to class, I plunged on again, passing a beacon in the shape of a stone cross at the end of Summit Avenue, set on a promontory looking west across the river. I was in full stride now, with the pavement slapping the bottom of my boots, and the line of trees muting the sunlight slanting across my path.

Others had joined my perambulations—dog owners, ancient sun seekers, pairs of power walkers content to flail their arms high and exercise their lungs. Harsh Russian consonants came from an old couple seated on a park bench. Below us on the river, a barge moved downstream.

St. Mary’s Chapel and the St. Paul Seminary buildings fell away on my left. Daylight was fading. My path bent and curved along the bluffs. Over another ravine; past another memorial, this one recalling a drive-by shooting whose impact I remembered sadly: “Just a kid growing up.” South of St. Clair I passed the Temple of Aaron, with silent statues remembering lost loved ones set in the parkland opposite.

The road, the river, the path—all began to wind more and more. At Highland Parkway urban reality imposed itself again, in the form of the misplaced 740 Tower, the Ford Parkway bridge and, just beyond it, the empty remains of the now-shuttered Ford Plant. Not far beyond it is an overlook, and around a deep U-bowl ravine, the first of two access roads down to the legendary Hidden Falls.

Here we shall halt, where hikers face a vital decision: stay along the bluff all the way to Prior, where the second Hidden Falls access road descends opposite the Korean-congregant St. Andrew Kim Catholic Church, or face the fact that it’s the river’s edge one wants, and drop down immediately? That upper stretch has some of the highest bluff views available, and an almost palpable quiet, deep into the far reaches of Highland Park. But if it’s sanctuary one wants, better to descend to the river’s edge and double back north to Hidden Falls, or onwards, south and east past the Marina and into the watery marshes of Crosby Park and its cross-hatched forest trails.

Ah, but what of the rumors of a fort? Another river? Or even a long, bending watery curl that leads on to mighty bridges and landscapes heretofore un-described? Might the marble palace of the Central Library truly be accessed from the river side? It will take another journey to find out. . . .

The High Bridge links the West Side with the rest of St. Paul.

The High Bridge links the West Side with the rest of St. Paul.

Despite repeated attempts, I have never completed a river hike to the end of Saint Paul, though I have reached the end of the blue metal railing that extends east from downtown and stood gazing upon the glowing spires of the water treatment plant below Mounds Park.

 

FLASHBACK: “Sometimes”

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Past and present lie trapped between the walls of Carcassonne.

Past and present lie trapped between the walls of Carcassonne.

6 November 2013

SOMETIMES

Sometimes he thought about the old days.

Sometimes, especially when he was walking along the river late in the day, with the afternoon sun splashed over the trees on the western bank, the light would change and capture something—a gold green glow reflected off the surface of the water—and suddenly it would be the Canal du Midi on a late summer day. A picnic on the banks. The boys skipping rocks and chasing each other along the tow path. His wife laid back in the deep grass that rose in waves up from the banks. A soft ripening round of Camembert and the broken crusts of baguettes with all the time in the world to be eaten. The boys found a dead otter, or maybe it was a river rat, but something suitably rank, fly-buzzed in the reeds. A barge moved past in the distance, wash flapping on a line and a pig standing on the deck.

Why had that moment frozen, and not some other?

Then he remembered the tramp. The man had emerged from under the line of beech trees between the tow path and the upper road, limping steadily south and east, as the Canal bent in its journey down to the Mediterranean. His face had been lined, a week’s growth of beard, eyes that looked everywhere and nowhere. A lumpy bit of pack on his back. He’d said nothing to the boys, just moved along steadily, limp, walk, limp, but the boys had stopped their inspection of the water rat to study his back as he passed.

As he approached the adults they could see the bulges in his pockets, the tatter to his coat. “Je viens a la mer,” he said as he passed. “Toujours la mer. Mais pourquois? C’est tout la meme chose.”

And then he trudged on. The boys wandered back, waving sticks and making faces over the smell of the dead rat. In the trees, a slight wind rustled leaves and then ran on across the far fields.

The light still held. But the moment slid on, and as they gathered up the remains of the picnic lunch, and his wife began to talk of Carcassonne and the evening ahead, he held himself apart, just the littlest bit, thinking of the tramp . . . Going to the sea, always the sea. But why? It was always the same thing.

A moment here. A moment there. What did it matter? Why not a full flow of events? It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember. If anything, he remembered too much. That night in Carcassonne, for example.

The boys had discovered a tiny television up on the wall of their room in the pension and, after the long day on the road and in the sun, wanted nothing more than to lie on their bed and watch a movie, even if it was in French. A round of croque monsieurs and a liter of Citron had been obtained, along with instructions on how to find Madam Girard should anything untoward occur.

And then the two of them had set out for the lights of the castle down the road . . . Carcassonne, the vast and imaginatively reconstructed bastion that brooded over all the countryside around. Yet it wasn’t the night inside the walls that slid into his memory banks—the crowds along the lanes, the unexpected conviviality of the cafe where they’d sat out in the square along with a mixed international host, the empty moat between the inner and outer walls where they’d walked, later, in near isolation—but rather the moment of returning to the pension. It was long into the night. They’d worried mildly about how the boys were coping. Then, as they stepped out of the car, she had inexplicably stood too close to her door as she went to close it, and managed to slam it straight into her forehead, eliciting a shriek and a curse, and the sudden scurrying of two sets of small feet onto the balcony outside their room. The boys, at least, were all right.

When they’d gotten her inside, there was a gash across her forehead and a line of blood dripping into her eye. Already the swelling had started. The worst of it was that an air of uncertainty seemed to hang over the event, as if he had been responsible for the accident; caused it even, or somehow provoked her into injury. They’d had a fine enough time in the soft city night, but now the end result was pain, and a bad memory of the brief moments snatched for themselves, as if they should feel guilty for momentarily abandoning the boys.

 

Sometimes, when he thought back hard enough, he wondered if that was the day it all went wrong. Or started to, anyway. Could you really single out a day? A moment? Was there a tipped point beyond which there was no going back?

Or was it just the memory of the tramp that sparked the connection?

He stood up then and shouldered his pack. The rest house was still several kilometers onward and he’d need his strength to start the climb through the Pyrenees tomorrow.

After that, the choice was his. Or so he liked to believe.

He wondered if the boys remembered that day along the Canal. He wondered if they still thought of him, at least from time to time. Then he moved off into the distance. Slow but steady. A la mer, he thought. Toujours a la mer.

Originally published in Pearl 46, Fall 2012