Live music and stuff in Las Palmas: last three months

Live music-wise, the end of 2020 was, well, uneventful. I spent November and December 2020 in Santander. Nothing.

Then, upon return to Las Palmas, this.

• 27 December 2020: Dizzy DROS @ Auditorio José Antonio Ramos, Parque Doramas, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria
  The Moroccan rapper Dizzy DROS (Omar Souhaili) gave an electrifying performance in what was the last (and the only one that I attended) Música en el Parque concert of 2020.

January 2021: nothing.

• 5 February 2021: Banda Sinfónica Municipal de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria @ Edificio Miller, Parque Santa Catalina
  The carnival was cancelled this year, as were many other activities. What a bummer! At least our municipal Symphony Band tried to get us in the carnival mood. The programme comprised the works of Camille Saint-Säens who, as I learned thanks to this concert, was a frequent visitor to Gran Canaria.

  

And...

• 11 March: Noa Lur @ Teatro Guiniguada, Plaza F. Mesa de León
  Hooray, the masterclasses organised by Mousikê La Laguna are back! This is the first time I went to both the masterclass and the follow-up concert. I find it a bit too much for one day, in general; and in particular, I am not sure that I learned that much from the class of Noa Lur. At 6 pm sharp I left for home while the class was still going on. I came back with Timur by 7:30. Noa played a set accompanied by Miguel Manescau of ST Fusion on guitar. Quite different from the quintet that I saw some 3+ years ago in Rvbicón but no less impressive.

• 20 March: Fabián Carbone Project: «Alas de Bandoneón» @ Auditorio José Antonio Ramos, Parque Doramas
  Madrid-based, 3/4 Argentine tango-rock fusion band featuring Fabián Carbone (bandoneon), Abel Calzetta (guitar), Lila Horovitz (bass guitar) and Arturo García (drums) opened the sixth year of Musicando concerts.

  

• 27 March: «La maldición de los Baskerville» @ Edificio Miller, Parque Santa Catalina
  The fourth and last part of the cycle «Somos teatro» which showcased the work of local amateur theatres in Miller. An adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles by Asociación El Ómnibus (LPGC), directed by Adrián Santana. “Sherlock Holmes” appeared to be the only one who actually knew his lines; the rest were ad-libbing, nobody more so than the guy playing Mr. Frankland — inexplicably (self-) styled as McFrankland, “as scotch as whisky” Scotsman — who had the audience in stitches.

  

The sun is shining. It looks like there will be more stuff in April.

The Letter

a film by Maia Lekow and Chris King

Witch-hunt? We associate this term with something that was taking place in “the Middle Ages” of common parlance, although in fact mostly in the early modern period, but still, long time ago. Of course, the phrase has been used and abused by many, such as the ex-POTUS who has tweeted “WITCH HUNT!” about once every three days during his presidency, but even he didn’t use it in a literal sense.

The horrible truth is that witch-hunts are happening now, just as you are reading this post. For example, in Kenya the elders accused of witchcraft are being persecuted and lynched. Behind the superstition and/or pseudo-spiritual talk there are purely materialistic interests: takeover of the land and property of the “witches”.

Slow-moving at first (and at second), The Letter nonetheless contains enough life and hope and even comedy that help you to sit through the film. You can’t help to fall in love with Karisa’s granny. The music is beautiful. And (sorry for a spoiler) there is a redeeming ending.

Pollo con ciruelas

by Marjane Satrapi
translated by Manel Domínguez

One day in November 1958 Nasser Ali Khan decides that life isn’t worth living.

What could have been as depressing as that far away day, turned out to be a warm, often humorous and even uplifting work of art. The story of Nasser Ali’s mother could have been written by García Márquez; the one with guest appearance (and disappearance) of Azrael, by Borges; altogether, utterly original graphic novel from the author of Persepolis as well as one of the most touching love stories I’ve ever read.

And what the titular chicken with plums has got to do with Sophia Loren? I’m not telling you.

After buying himself a new tar, Nasser Ali Khan quotes from Omar Khayyam: Los astros no han ganado nada con mi presencia aquí Y su gloria no aumentará cuando yo desaparezca. Y pongo a mis dos orejas por testigo de que jamás nadie ha podido decirme Por qué me han hecho venir y por qué me harán partir. This is how it appears in the original French edition, Poulet aux prunes: Les astres à ma présence ici‐bas n’ont rien gagné, Leur gloire à ma déchéance ne sera pas augmentée; Et, témoin mes deux oreilles, nul n’a jamais pu me dire Pourquoi l’On m’a fait venir et l’On me fait m’en aller. The Persian verse is here: از آمدنم نبود گردون را سود وز رفتن من جاه و جلالش نفزود وز هیچ کسی نیز دو گوشم نشنود کاین آمدن و رفتنم از بهر چه بود In English: My coming brought no profit to the sky, Nor does my going swell its glory; My two ears have never heard anyone that could say, Why I came here and why I will go away. And in Russian: Приход мой небу славы не доставил, И мой уход величья не прибавил. Мне так и не дано постичь, зачем Я в мир пришел, зачем его оставил.

More English and Russian translations here.

Out of the Past

a film by Jacques Tourneur

The moment came to say goodbye to the James M. Cain cycle. Curiously, the closing feature, the 1947 Out of the Past, is based not on Cain’s novel but on Build My Gallows High by Daniel Mainwaring (writing as Geoffrey Homes), with the screenplay by the author with (uncredited) rewrites by Cain and Frank Fenton.

Cool as a cucumber Jeff “Baby, I don’t care” Markham (Robert Mitchum) meets his match in Kathie “You can’t make deals with a dead man” Moffat (Jane Greer). Add to that young Kirk Douglas as a ruthless but somehow charming “big operator” Whit Sterling and yet another femme fatale Ms Carson (Rhonda Fleming), and you have one of the finest film noirs of all time. Thank you, Filmoteca Canaria, for all the noir.

Jeff (voice-over): Near the plaza was a little cafe called La Mar Azul, next to a movie house. I sat there in the afternoons and drank beer. I used to sit there half asleep with a beer in the darkness, only that music from the movie next door kept jarring me awake. And then I saw her — coming out of the sun. And I knew why Whit didn’t care about that 40 grand.
Kathie: Cuba Libre, please.
Waiter: Sí, señorita.
José Rodríguez: Señorita, señor, may I speak some words? You will be seated, señor, huh? Yes?
Jeff: With pleasure, señor.
José Rodríguez: I am José Rodríguez, a guide, a most excellent guide.
Kathie: Indeed?
José Rodríguez: You ask them. They can tell you that José Rodríguez knows Acapulco as no one else. Each little street...
Kathie: I don’t want a guide.
Jeff: Very difficult girl.
José Rodríguez: Ha-ha-ha. Is there one not so, señor? Perhaps a lottery ticket?
Jeff: No.
José Rodríguez: I have here, wrought by skilled hands, a ring... and earrings of jade and pure silver.
Jeff: These.
José Rodríguez: Gracias, señor, gracias.
Kathie: I never wear them.
Jeff: Nor I. Please.
Kathie: No, thank you.
Jeff: My name is Jeff Markham, and I haven’t talked to anybody who wasn’t trying to sell me something for ten days. If I don’t talk, I think. It’s too late in life for me to start thinking. I could get down on the cliff and look at the sea like a good tourist. But it’s no good if there isn’t somebody you can turn to and say, “Nice view, huh?” It’s the same with the churches, the relics, the moonlight, or a Cuba Libre. Nothing in the world is any good unless you can share it.
Kathie: Maybe you wanna go home.
Jeff: Maybe that’s why I’m here.
Kathie: Is it? Well, there’s always José Rodríguez. If it gets too lonely, there’s a little cantina down the street called Pablo’s. It’s nice and quiet. Man there plays American music for a dollar. Sip bourbon and shut your eyes. It’s like a little place on 56^th Street.
Jeff: I’ll wear my earrings.
Kathie: I sometimes go there.

El despertar de las musas

by Beatriz Luengo
illustrated by Marta Waterme

Wait, by that Beatriz Luengo? Yes by her.

There’s nothing wrong with a singer/dancer/actor publishing a book. It’s natural to expand your line of merchandise. Especially now, with all performing arts being hit so hard by the pandemic. (Even though the Spanish edition was published in 2019, the English-language version, creatively renamed Badass Muses, is out only now.) I’m sure there are fans who will buy and maybe even read the book simply because they are, well, Ms. Luengo’s fans. The rest of the reading public needs a better reason to part with their money.

Beatriz Luengo nos descubre la parte más íntima de doce musas creadoras que no fueron reconocidas en su momento y en las que se refleja para confesar su propia realidad como mujer y artista.

Beatriz Luengo discovers us the most intimate part of twelve creative muses, who weren’t recognized at their times, and in which, as in a mirror, she reflects herself confessing her own truth as a woman and an artist.

So, twelve muses, or, rather, eleven muses and one, um, muso; still, two more than the ancient Greeks had. Each chapter is built according to the same plan: a bit of fiction loosely (sometimes too loosely) based on a “true story”; short biography, if available; a snippet of poetry followed by a self-reflective story, both said to be inspired by that muse. Great protagonists, amazing illustrations. So-so text. Allow me to explain.

I have no problems with fiction deviating from the facts — that’s why it’s fiction — and less so when almost no facts are known. I do have problems, however, with seemingly non-fictional accounts plagued with glaring factual errors. This doesn’t do good service to the author’s muses. No, Valentina Tereshkova was not pregnant when she went to space. No, James Barry did not invent vaccine against syphilis; as a matter of fact, there is still no such vaccine. It does not make his (her) life any less amazing. Most of the self-reflection/self-promotion bits are forgettable, if not already forgotten. And what Mr. Carlos Acosta CBE is doing here? He, for one, does not need any vindication. If he wasn’t recognised at his time (which is now), I don’t know who was. The same is true, by the way, about Rosalía Mera, the world’s richest self-made woman.

But who am I to question the author’s choices? Why, I am the reader.

I wouldn’t pick it up from the library at all if not for the illustrations by Marta Waterme, which, on a balance, make the book just about tolerable. The print quality is also very good. Still, you’re bound to be disappointed. If you are looking for a great book about inspirational women, check out Las Mujeres Mueven Montañas by Pepita Sandwich.

Mary Magdalene — A lo incorrecto pero eterno Mileva Marić — Para viajar al olvido... Nannerl (Maria Anna Mozart) — A la niña engañada Margaret Ann Bulkley (James Barry) — Anatomía mundana Waris Dirie — A la libertad Valentina Tereshkova — El hombre y el morbo Margaret Keane — Terapia casera para el rencor Eve — Emigrar La Malinche — Al amor que se va Rosalía Mera — Soñar Elena Ivanovna Diakonova (Gala Dalí) — Hazme música Carlos Acosta — A los sueños

Feminismo vibrante: Si no hay placer no es nuestra revolución

by Ana Requena Aguilar
cover illustration by Paula Bonet

After reading the introduction with an anecdote about the vibrator in check-in luggage I got hooked, and for a good reason. Ana Requena wrote a (sex-positive) feminist book that is gloriously entertaining. And hopefully not just for readers of academic left-targeted elDiario.es, of which Ana Requena is a co-founder. I can even imagine VOX voters secretly enjoying it. Fighting discrimination, misogyny, rape culture and sexual harassment are not only fully compatible with actually experiencing sexual pleasure: this later is essential.

Si no podemos desear y gozar sin ser penalizadas no es nuestra revolución.

So yes, let’s talk about Women’s March, #MeToo, SlutWalk (La Marcha de las putas in Spanish-speaking world), La Manada case, the suicide of Verónica but also about desire, masturbation, Satysfier, sexting, Tinder... My favourite parts are Las madres también follamos, short and powerful; a sub-chapter on emotional labour in El destrato; and Epílogo: el confinamiento, dealing with consequences, including some rather unexpected perks, of quarantine.

🌺 🌺 🌺

Una madre puede preferir un día estar follando que ver cómo sus hijos juegan con la comida que ha preparado. Pero entonces la Virgen María ya no sonríe tanto y la culpa invade cada rincón hasta llegar a las cuerdas vocales.

🌺 🌺 🌺

Los penes no necesitan una higiene especial, no huelen mal ni necesitan anuncios en los que todo es blanco y limpio, pero nuestros coños si.

🌺 🌺 🌺

Cuando oigo que los orgasmos en tres minutos que ofrece el Satysfier son puro capitalismo aplicado al cuerpo — cuanto más rápido te corras mejor —, me hace gracia. Los hombres llevan toda la vida masturbándose y corriéndose en pocos minutos, pero ha tenido que llegar nuestro placer rápido para apelar al capitalismo.

Now, a few things to improve, in case the author stumbles upon this post. For such a short book — and I don’t mind it being short; in fact, the shorter the better — there is too much repetition. What is understandable and maybe even necessary if one writes a series of independent articles/blog posts becomes a bit irritating when they are put together into one slim (140 pages is slim, right?) volume. The author keeps quoting the same four or five people throughout the book. Also, the list of online references could have been so much easier to use if the URLs were shorter. For your convenience, I listed them below.

Referencias online

1. Follar, hablar de follar, y tener un cargo público (si eres una mujer)
2. Fingir orgasmos también es el patriarcado
3. Satisfyer, el juguete sexual que ha roto el tabú de la masturbación para una generación de mujeres que quiere más orgasmos
4. Ni heroínas ni calientapollas
5. Y la culpa no era suya ni de que usara una aplicación para ligar
6. Violación no es (solo) lo que pensabas
7. 8M: reivindicación y purpurina
8. ¿A quién echas de menos?
9. Crónica afectiva y sexual del aislamiento: masturbación, sexting y estrategias para calmar el hambre de contacto humano

The Postman Always Rings Twice

a film by Tay Garnett

Well, what do you know: another adaptation of The Postman Always Rings Twice, which happens to be the third one (Ossessione was the second), as a part of the James M. Cain cycle. I’m sure it’s truer to the text (of the novel that I didn’t read) than Visconti’s film; probably, as a consequence, I was not impressed as much. The protracted ending, featuring an unnecessary explanation of the title, is especially a let-down.

Lana Turner shines as Cora: sexy, seductive, intelligent, ambitious, dangerous... Mr. Cain himself thought that Turner was a perfect choice for the role. Which makes her mismatch with John “Couldn’t they at least hire someone attractive?” Garfield’s dull character, Frank, all the more glaring. In fact, Cora’s husband Nick (Cecil Kellaway) is much more lovable, as in the scene where he sings She’s Funny That Way for Cora. But it is Leon Ames as the District Attorney Kyle Sackett and Hume Cronyn as Cora’s lawyer Arthur Keats who steal the show.