The Germans Are Coming! The Germans Are Coming!

When I arrived at Akiko’s #1 Best Buddhist Bed & Breakfast, it was very late, but she brushed my apologies aside with a smile. She told me that she'd known when my flight was coming in and, given the various pains in the ass provided by long distance travel, (my words, not hers,) she hadn't expected me much earlier.

From the stuff I'd read about the place, I'd expected her to be more animated—a sort of joyful Buddhist sprite that did the hula. (She mentioned studying hula dancing at her website.) I don’t mean that she was entirely sedate. More that she had an air of peacefulness around her that seemed genuine enough, though sometimes a bit self-conscious. She had this slow, measured way of speaking, and given the sleepiness of her eyes, her lazy grin, and the pointedly mystical/spiritual turn of her speech, I wondered briefly if she was high.

She wasn't, (I don't think,) but she was very nice.

She welcomed me warmly, and the cats watched as she led me up the street and away from the two buildings. The rain had let up. Along the side of the road was a web made up of enormous ferns and other thick, leafy vegetation. Akiko produced a flashlight and used its beam to pick out the head of a trail. It occurred to me that it must take a lotta work to keep it so visible and easy to follow.

She led me for a hundred or so winding yards before we came to a clearing. Two smaller buildings were here. The first was made up of screen walls around a single, large room. This was the Mango Cottage, where I would be lodging. A quick glance at the enormous tree that grew behind it made it clear how it had come by its name.

The second building had—you guessed it—clapboard walls without screens. Inside were two small rooms—one containing a toilet, and the other, a shower. There was a propane water heater that you could light when you wanted to wash yourself.

The Mango Cottage is also environ- mentally friendly. The place is wired for electricity, and Akiko is (and should be) very proud of the fact that the current is generated by a solar converter that a friend set up for her. The furnishings are very simple— a couple of comfortable wicker chairs, a small dresser, a glass table and some smaller end tables to go with it.

The lacy canopy that hangs over the futon I’d be sleeping on seemed out of place, until Akiko explained to me that it was mosquito netting. As you might imagine, the little fuckers love the local climate.

At the door, Akiko explained that she asked guests to observe the Japanese custom of removing their shoes before going indoors.

“Most of us wear flip-flops, so we can just kick them off when we come inside."

I had brought some flip-flops, but they were, predictably, in my missing bag. So Akiko gave me a pair to use in the meantime.

I noticed that the door had no lock. Akiko assured me that there was never any crime in this area and that nothing had ever been stolen from her bed and breakfast. Though it wasn’t with me at that point, I thought of my flamenco guitar. And I wondered about those powerful motion sensor lamps that I’d seen back by the main buildings. But I was so far outside my usual frame of reference that I decided to just go with it. Besides, I was too tired to care at that point.

After I’d thrown my luggage on the floor, Akiko handed me a flashlight, and we headed over to the second building. When she showed me the shower, I overlooked a very healthy-sized wasps’ nest that hung up near one corner of the ceiling. I noticed it in the morning though, right about the time the water started to flow.

The insects weren’t the only animals hanging around the Mango Cottage. Akiko told me that a litter of wild boar piglets sometimes wandered into the grove. Their mother, who was substantially huskier, would accompany them. (The father pig, who was said to weigh over 300 lbs., did not move around much and was never seen.)

She said that the boars were playing hell with the potatoes she grew and that I might hear them snuffling about in the dark. She didn’t seem to think there was any cause for concern, though I think she assumed that I had enough common sense to avoid confronting a protective wild sow.

Ha, so, pretty exotic, right? Some people might’ve found it too much, but I gotta say that aside from the wasps, the whole scenario appealed to me. It was quieter than Chicago, but equally weird in its own way.

Akiko and I headed back to the cottage. I slid into a chair by the table, and for the first time that day, I really relaxed.

I could see her better now in the light. Her complexion was like coffee with cream. Her face was furrowed, but not in a way that suggested age or weariness, just accumulated life. Her arms and legs were long and thin, but well muscled. She wore baggy shorts and a loose sleeveless t-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a simple fashion. It was black, but threaded with silver here and there. Her eyes were heavily lidded, but often they'd open wide, and you would see these very large, very lively black irises. (Especially when she was amused.) Her teeth were very white.

She must’ve noted my sorry state, because she smiled sympathetically and said that long distance travel was very difficult.

"You have to be careful not to get dehydrated," she said. "I'll go get you some water, while you get comfortable here." She headed back toward the main buildings.

I flipped through an assortment of books and pamphlets concerning Buddhism, New Age topics and the Big Island had been neatly stacked on one of the end tables. It was outside my usual literary interests, but I’m always curious about what other people are reading.

On another table lay a transparent plastic frame containing a printout. It described a man who designed personalized rock gardens, each with a feng shui sorta connection to the person buying it. The printout mentioned that for a little extra money, he would take you on an expedition to the beach, where he would teach you to find your own spiritually individual rocks! The guy had a non-Hawaiian name—I don't remember it now—but the printout noted that he had grown up on the Big Island and knew it like a cherished, infinitely repeated rerun of Happy Days. (Maybe one w/ a cameo by the Big Ragu. Hubba hubba.)

Akiko returned bearing a round wooden tray with Asian characters on its surface. A pitcher full of water and a black handleless cup rested on it. We sat down at the table, and I was already guzzling the stuff when she started explaining to me that the local water was safe and tasted good. (Not just acceptable, but good.) There was no need for filters or bottled water. As far as the taste went, she seemed to be right.

As we sat at the table, she gave my wrist a light, friendly tap—she did that a lot—and said that there was a certain synchronicity to things.

"We have a man and his young son staying here who are German: Stefan and Niko.” (Please note that I never confirmed the spelling of Niko’s name. If I got it wrong here, I hope he’ll forgive me.) “They've been here for about 10 days and will be leaving Thursday. Then on Thursday, another German man, also named Stefan, will be arriving. Do you see what I mean about synchronicity?"

I sure did.

She said, "Now this second Stefan works for Oracle technologies. Have you heard of them?"

I sure had. But aside from the fact that Oracle was some big shadowy internet corporation, I didn't know anything about it.

"On Thursday night, we will be having a pot luck dinner. And afterwards, this second Stefan will tell us about technology and how it affects us all."

She elaborated, and out of the air rose a nightmare vision of waning personal freedoms and of surveillance by massive dark governmental and/or corporate cartels. It all seemed a trifle paranoid. (Though less than it would have before the Patriot Act came home to roost.) Still, in my line of work, I’ve found that it's pretty fucking easy to invade someone's privacy. Even a simple consumer has plenty of surveillance resources available to him/her. You can, for instance, hire some asshole like me to follow someone else around. Or if you’re a do-it-yourself type who’s lookin’ for a new challenge, you can find lots of snoopin’ gadgets available for sale. (Some of dubious legality, depending on where you live, so be careful, kids!)

Fortunately, Akiko's Cassandra impersonation was too vague to keep me awake that night (or any other since). I needed my sleep.

She invited me to join them, and then waited silently but expectantly for an answer. I said, "Yeah. I'll try to make it." She didn’t seem entirely satisfied by my answer, but she accepted it.

Then she informed me that yet another kraut would be joining us on Thursday as well, and she might have offered more details about this guy, but I was frazzled and starting to overload on all this Teutonic synchronicity.

Akiko told me to get some rest and we would talk more over breakfast. "You're from Chicago," she said, "so you'll probably be up before all of us." Ha! She had no idea who she was dealing with!

After she left, I killed the lights and crawled into bed. It was very dark there in the grove. Outside, another downpour had started. There was nothing but screens and mosquito netting separating me from it, but I didn’t feel a single drop. On this night and most others, I found it very peaceful to fall asleep to the sound of the rain.

At some point, I woke up to a chill that surprised me, but I stayed quite warm under my blanket. Otherwise, I slept like a rock.

P.S. The first picture above shows the Mango Cottage itself. The second shows the building that holds the bathroom facilities.


See ya next time!

Into the Black

Hey you!

Yeah, you back there—the one w/ the noose! Don’t do it!

So you heard the bad news too, huh? It’s awful, I know, but we’ll all get through it somehow.

Whazzat you say? To what bad news am I referring exactly? What?! So you don’t know! What, were you gonna slough off this mortal coil over some mundane shit like the human cost of the World War between the capitalist west and Islamic fundamentalism? Or the hundreds of species that are dropping off the planet every day? Or AIDS? Or Scientology?

Snicker, hurm hum… Well, you’re sorta a pussy, aintcha? You’re really not gonna be able to deal w/ this bad news:

Now. In our most grim hour. The Reputation has disbanded.

Wait! Listen, buddy, there’s reason to live! You matter. I matter. We matter.

OK. Not really. Almost had you there, didn’t I?

No! Don’t do it! I’m sorry. That really was a bad joke—the one about us mattering. But seriously. Put down the noose. You’ve got so much to live for.

Well one thing, anyway. And you… How could you have forgotten it?! You ungrateful lickspittle!

We have Elizabeth.

We loved the Reputation, but it was Elizabeth, always Elizabeth, who was our light. Who gave us our hope. And we still have her artistry to help us stumble along through this blasted wasteland. (Look at those smoking ruins! Look at that gnarly scrub brush over there! How dreadful!)

And thankfully, in the midst of this catastrophe, she’s standing up, like real heroes do when the chips are down, when the Fiend lurks, when the Bernie Mack show is on. Elizabeth has given you a solo record.

That’s right. See? You can’t die now. Go buy it! Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the empty space you were standing in before you dashed off to your local sound emporium. I’ll tell it all about this new platter. And maybe, when you get back, we can share some hopeful tears…

OK. Here goes…

Boy is this one a doozy. To say that All Lost Yesterdays is a vast improvement over the Rep’s sophomore and most recent effort, To Force a Fate is not only an understatement, but a sub-understatement. It’s, like, under Earth’s molten core. It’s like over in China. (Relative to where I am writing from anyway. If you’re outside the USA, I suggest you consult a globe to see where this statement lies.) I mean, it’s like bone to skin and marrow to bone and like that. This album is outstanding.

Yesterdays was recorded several months before the sundering of the band. Ironically, in its liner notes, Elizabeth insisted that she would remain constant to her band. She said that the new release was not the beginning of a solo career, as the cliché runs, but simply a solo project—an opportunity to stretch out into a new context. And here, boy, did Elizabeth ever stretch—like a yogi or a glop of taffy.

Even if the band had continued, Yesterdays would have been something more than a blip on the ol’ Elizabeth-ometer. It’s a solid piece of work in its own right—accessible and (improbably) challenging at the same time.

Considering Elizabeth’s formidable songwriting gifts, it might seem disappointing that 3 of these 11 songs are covers. But a single listen, relieves any doubts you might’ve had. Just as the first Rep. record’s version of “Almost Blue” out-Elvised Elvis, (Costello of course, not Presley—let’s not get silly here,) Yesterdays bares Elizabeth’s considerable interpretive talents.

Whatever a song’s source, Elizabeth makes it her own. (Just like my heart). That she makes it seem so effortless would be intimidating if you didn’t get so caught up in the music. It’s easy to do since virtually all of the songs here are so compelling.

Look, for example at her re-working of “Cave Bitch,” that ol’ Ice Cube nugget re: his distaste for white women. Obviously this one’s confrontational and is maybe hopin’ to be a little controversial as well. I didn’t find it that shocking, but still: Sistahs are doin’ it for themselves! Elizabeth hits back! Only 10 years after the fact! And this time, she’s gotta little help from fonkee friend Fergie, of the Black Eyed Peas. (Who knew Elizabeth had such cachet?) Elizabeth employs some chug-chuggin’ power chords to recast the original song’s tough beat. Meanwhile she and Fergie trade ironic verses punctuated by the occasional improvised exclamation, e.g. “fuck yeah!” (At least I assume these moments aren’t scripted. You can never be sure w/ a control freak like Elizabeth.) Elizabeth only gets 1 verse to herself, and OK, she’s no Ice Cube, but I found her rhymin’ to be surprisingly unforced—almost, dare I say it?—natural.

Girl power! It might also be pointed out that Elizabeth is striking a blow not just against misogyny, but against racial prejudice as well. And while it’s difficult to pull off when you’re defending yourself against an anti-Caucasian point of view, she pulls it off with grace and toughness.

In fact, given the song’s stiff upper lip, one wonders how Elizabeth got Cube’s permission to use the song. Maybe she just did the grr-ella thang and appropriated the fucker w/o askin’. Either way, it’s a very memorable standout track.

Less of a stretch in terms of style or sensibility is Elizabeth’s rendering of the Gary Numan ballad “Please Push No More,” but it contains a startling revelation: Elizabeth’s solipsism and self-pity are the spittin’ image of Gary’s! How come it never occurred to me before? For days after my first listen, I was blinded by this epiphany! My work and social life suffered grievously, until finally I digested it all, along with the fact that the song itself is merely adequate.

Elizabeth’s decision to stick with plain ol’ electric keys just left me pining for that sad, freakish synthesizer that Gary employed. What’s more, her vocals seem more than a little self-conscious, which is strange. Maybe she was having a bad day. Or faced w/ such a perfect musical match, maybe my expectations were too high.

Then there’s Wesley Willis’s “Rock n’ Roll McDonald’s,” one of two nods to Elizabeth’s adopted hometown. (The other being “Windy City,” a pleasant Reputation style mid-tempo pop song.) Prior to his death in 2003, Willis was an unforgettable feature of the Chicago indie rock scene. A hulking schizophrenic who spent some time living on the streets, his songs were simply arranged for a single, cheesy synthesizer, but they covered an enormous stretch of hallucinatory turf. Like the work of most mentally ill “outsider” artists, Willis’s music led to some debate as to whether or not it was exploitative. Elizabeth avoids disrespect by finding the genuine core of joy in the song and then bringing it to life. She recasts it as a rubbery, almost danceable guitar number. It’s reverent, but fun, and one of the best songs on the album.

While the covers are boldly chosen and executed, the, uh, new originals are drawn from an even wilder bed of esoterica. Where the Numan-Elmore parity of “Please Push No More” was startling because it was so fucking obvious, there are other songs here that are even more shocking because they are so unimaginable. “The Geometry of Love,” a “duet” between Elizabeth and free jazz pundit Douglas Ewart may qualify as the most mind-bending moment. Roll over, Iggy! This five-minute pairing of squealing atonal clarinet and aggressive punk rock shredding recalls the noisy glory of the Stooges “L.A. Blues.” A year ago, if you’d told me that Elizabeth was capable of this sorta ungodly cacophony, I woulda laughed till I wet your pants. This song is just simply great.

Speaking of things unprecedented in the Elmore oeuvre, one pleasant surprise here is the bizarre “Dear Scabby.” What can we possibly make of Elizabeth’s spot on take on a slow chuggin’ noise rocker that flows from a Sabbathian estuary and on into even sloggier territory where drifts the waterlogged flotsam and jetsam of the Melvins or Sleep? (Doesn’t get there, of course, but let’s not get greedy.) Well before ya answer, consider the vocals—a sweet sing-songing list of cheeses. Yeah, really—like Gouda and Parmesan and cheddar, etc. I know what I have to say: I am personally ashamed that I thought of Elizabeth as a exquisite and exquisitely gifted fox who spun excellent pop songs out to her public like so much (admittedly bittersweet) candied floss. I was wrong. Dead wrong. Elizabeth is a genius. The real deal. A great soul in an increasingly slight world. Superlative? Give this one a listen. Then we’ll talk.

Not all of the songs here are so far removed from The Reputation’s sound—thankfully—as it would have been a terrible waste of her enormous talents if Elizabeth had completely turned her back on conventional pop/rock forms. She’s crafts these songs so masterfully that no matter how standard they are, you just can’t stop consumin’ ‘em. Like corn chips.

For instance, comin’ straight out of the Elmore playbook is “Watch and Ward,” a punchy take on a soured relationship—sorta like the tough, recriminatory tunes that graced the first Rep record, like “Alaskan” and “She Turned Your Head.” Elizabeth even deploys prior collaborator Josh Berman on trumpet, making the comparison upfront. As in those songs, Elizabeth is here to put blame where its due, and it ain’t due to her! When Elizabeth snarls “Your little boy heart leaves me cold,” I just recoil from my speakers, covering my head with my hands, as I crawl into a corner to hide.

Just when you’re starting to think that Elizabeth is being consumed by judgmental rage, she comes right back at you with the sweetly remorseful “Just One More Time.” It’s a keyboard driven weepy number in which Elizabeth bids a cherished lover adieu, all too soon, and sends him on his way with a new girlfriend. The lyrics are relatively restrained. You won’t need your copy of Webster’s to negotiate it, nor will you have to diagram any sentences to figure out just where the fuck the syntax is at and where the fuck it may be going! That’s a welcome change, as Elizabeth’s more grandiose language can be distancing—esp. damning in a number like this, where empathy is the raison de teet.

“Just One More Time” remains understated and quietly affecting. Like its older, more demonstrative cousin “For the Win,” it catches Elizabeth at her most vulnerable with all tough-girl bitchiness piled around her ankles. (I gotta stop this! I’m getting’ way too aroused here!) Her emotions are naked, which is good ‘cuz that’s always helpful, when you’re delivering lines like: “Morning light fades, and you fade away/ One last goodbye, and I’ll add you to her…” Amid all the other challenges and fantastic experiments here, this song stands out as one of the strongest on the disc.

Less gentle is “Some Distance.” Each of the two Rep records climaxed in a long cathartic ballad, full of hushed implorings and sudden, belted out explosions. True to form, Elizabeth pulls out all the stops here, as she lets her trembling but stalwart voice cut through crashing piano chords. Man, she works those dynamics till yr. guts are wrenched up like Silly Putty in the hands of a three year old. It’s only later, after you’ve recovered your breath, that you realize that the lyrics are the same old mish-mashed myopia that Elizabeth always ladles out, (fave lyric “There’s no avoiding childish, spineless snares you lay,”) or that the music itself is a bit formulaic, not really expanding much on the edifice of “For the Win” (from the first Rep record) and “The Ugliness Kicking Around” (from the second). Sadly, with repeated listenings, this redundancy saps some of the song’s force. (‘Tho not all of it.)

The aptly named “Cinders” is one smoldering, lustful come-on. Over a hard, almost dance-oriented beat, Liz gives the other Chicago Liz—Phair that is—a run for her money in the good ol’ Potty Mouthed Suggestiveness Derby. While we are, by this time, used to Elizabeth’s frank references to grown-up concerns like morning after pills and women’s asses, who would ever have dreamed of hearing her how she’ll “mount it like a horse, ride you into the foothills of pleasure?” I’m not sure if I was more shocked or aroused when I heard this one. But I’ll tell ya it took more than a cold shower to get myself back under control, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

All My Lost Yesterdays is a very different sorta album than anything the Reputation released. But taken as a whole, it stands with the very best of their earlier work. One wonders what sorta solo career it might’ve led to for Elizabeth.

That’s right: I said “might’ve led to.” See, um, I’ve got more bad news. Unfortunately, Elizabeth has announced online that not only has the band broken up, but she does not believe she will be making music of any sort in the foreseeable future.

Wait! Don’t do it, buddy! Put down that noose!

C’mon—um—hang in there! There’s still hope!!! The shade of Mother Theresa’s been seen surfing in Malibu! I hear that Cher might start touring again! Bland, creaky ol’ Eric Clapton’s gonna be at the Bijou! Tickets are only 5 bars of platinum each!!

Um. Or something.

Do you got anything better?