900B Golden Superior Classical Guitar Strings

by La Bella

RIP the old strings (CL4 Black n’Silver)

Almost five years later, I can report: these strings survived the journey from the UK to Fuerteventura, two years there, a long winter in Finland and one more year in Gran Canaria. At last, the D string broke. No, wait. It did when we were in Finland, but as it snapped close to the bridge, I was able to re-tie it. On Sunday it broke again. So on Monday Timur and I journeyed to the nearest music shop to look for a new set. For such a small shop, it has quite a good choice of classical guitar strings, but there was only one make of black nylon, viz. La Bella 900-B. And, as Timur wanted the black trebles, we’ve got black.

This time, Timur was helping to replace the strings. We also used this opportunity to clean the fretboard thoroughly.

The new set (La Bella 900-B) before being fitted

I have to say that I had these strings on my Clarissa some years ago and really liked them. Compared to (new) Black n’Silver, both bass and trebles have slightly softer sound. The bass strings are wound with American wire polished golden alloy and are considerably less squeaky (thanks to “polished”, I doubt that gold makes that much difference).

Next day, the G string on Timur’s violin broke...

More photos of nylon guitar strings @ Shutterstock.

Diccionario de Literatura para Esnobs y (sobre todo) para los que no lo son

by Fabrice Gaignault
translated by Wenceslao-Carlos Lozano
introduction by José Carlos Llop
illustrated by Sara Morante

From (in)famous through relatively obscure to utterly forgotten, this lovely book does not pretend to be in any way comprehensive, objective, or useful. All these things would be thoroughly unsnobbish. Kathy Acker, Dominique Aury, Aubrey Beardsley, William Burroughs (who seems to be mentioned on every single page of the book), Winston Churchill, Ian Fleming, Christopher Isherwood, “una estajanovista del sexo a mogollón” Catherine Millet, Andy Warhol, and that little-known brother of his annoyingly famous sisters all make an appearance; Albert Camus, Jack Kerouac and Jean-Paul Sartre (who are among the authors of “ten books hated by the literary snobs”) do not. I would probably leave it where I saw it — that is, in the library — if, leafing through it, I did not come across the entries on Oblomov (see below) and Trieste. I just had to borrow it.

I enjoyed Gaignault’s (sometimes black) humour a lot. I presume this book is as funny in French. But if you read it in Spanish, don’t miss the preface by José Carlos Llop, who has this bright idea to replace the faces that appear on the cover of Sgt. Pepper with those from this Dictionary. I hope somebody does exactly that for the English edition.

Anonymous

Gentleman británico de compulsiva lubricidad que, al amparo del anonimato, contó en el siglo XIX su Vida secreta en un caudaloso texto por el que corren cataratas de semen. No menos misteriosa que la de Jack el Destripador, la identidad de ese estajanovista del coito, para quien «la jodienda es la gran humanizadora del mundo», sigue planteando un sinnúmero de interrogantes. ¿Quién se oculta tras ese Fornicator de partícula, ese insaciable Walter Fucker? Misterio. En cambio, los exegetas admiten que Anonymous, abuelo priápico de Catherine Millet, supo darle brío a su elegante pluma como entomólogo de coños y culos. Razón más que suficiente, a ojos de determinados esnobs, para poner esta «Busca del tiempo perdido con las mujeres (y los hombres)» al mismo nivel que la obra, menos obsesivamente carnal, del tío Marcel.

Cuello vuelto

Instrumento de identificación muy en boga entre los existencialistas y los Angry Young Men — esos jovenes airados británicos — que nunca llego a convencer a los Brummell de las letras. Volvió a ser un hype entre determinados pensadores y escritores franceses, en una calamitosa variante acrilica, lo cual lo convierte en objeto definitivamente repulsivo para sus más encarnizados enemigos. «Nunca leí a Marguerite Duras ni a Michel Foucault por llevar ambos jerséis de cuello vuelto negro» (Frédéric Schiffer en Tratado de la añoranza).

Oblómov

Obra maestra de Iván Goncharov (1812—1891) e inapelable coartada para todos los esnobs adeptos del aquabonismo radical y de la procrastinación elevada al rango de las bellas artes. Iliá Ilich Oblómov (de oblom, ‘fractura’, o de oblomok, ‘cascajo’) es un entusiasta de la posición horizontal, de las lecturas inacabadas, de la fuerza de la inercia como motor de la existencia, del sueño como única razón para vivir. Primo linfático de Xavier de Maistre, este viajero alrededor de su cama puso todo su empeño en demostrar que de nada sirve servir para algo, ya que tarde o temprano la condición humana impone la irrisoria inanidad de toda acción. Y demuestre convincentemente que la pereza no es tanto un vicio como una forma de sabiduría.

El increíble viaje del faquir que se quedó atrapado en un armario de Ikea

by Romain Puértolas
translated by Romain Puértolas and Patricia Sierra Gutiérrez

I thought Amor en tiempos de Ikea had exhausted all possible IKEA-related jokes in 30 minutes. Then I saw this book in the library and realised that I ain’t heard nothing yet.

L’Extraordinaire Voyage du fakir qui était resté coincé dans une armoire Ikea hit the bookshelves in 2013 and, apparently, became an international “soon to be a major motion picture” bestseller I never heard before. It was also published in English as The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir who got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe, but I happened to come across the Spanish version. The author shares translation credit with his wife Patricia Sierra Gutiérrez, and I think it’s a good translation.

The protagonist, Dhjamal Mekhan Dooyeghas (pronounced “Llámame cuando llegues” — the book is full of these pronunciation tips), aka Ajatashatru Lavash Patel in original French, reminded me of The Great Combinator Ostap-Suleyman-Berta-Maria-Bender-bey, albeit lacking the latter’s organisational talents. At some point, rather predictably, he comes to realise that being a (rich) writer in Paris is better than to be a (poor) fakir in India. With this moral transformation of a professional swindler to a honest and generous person Dhjamal started to lose his charm for me. Luckily, he still needs his fakir skills to survive, and in the (happy, happy) end it does not look like he’s going to abandon them altogether. This restores my faith in humanity.

Y así es como he acabado en su baúl, señora — concluyó Dhjamal con media sonrisa.

Desaparecer en el fondo de una maleta en Barcelona para reaparecer en Roma era, de lejos, el mejor truco de magia que había hecho en su vida. Houdini no lo hubiera hecho mejor.

La bella joven de ojos verdes y pelo color avellana lo miraba fijamente, entre sorprendida, escéptica y asustada, lo cual era preferible a la crisis de histeria que la había asaltado cuando lo había descubierto al abrir el baúl. Dejó en su sitio la lámpara de la mesilla de noche que había cogido como arma. La historia no parecía tener mucho sentido, cierto, pero había algo, algo verdadero, algo sincero, en el tono de voz del hombre. Además, ¿cómo podría haberse inventado una mentira tan grande?

Javier Infante, Jose Alberto Medina & Amit Mishra live

I saw the duo of Javier Infante and Jose Alberto Medina performing last month in Vegueta as a part of Canarian International Jazz Festival. There was a great atmosphere but I would rather see (and hear) them playing in a more chamber setting. Fabrica La Isleta (c/Princesa Guayarmina, 54) provided exactly this. I counted less than 30 people and there was not enough chairs for everybody. That’s what I call a small venue.

I have to say that, once being “invited” (Facebook-wise) to the event, I duly ignored the follow-up messages which looked exactly the same to me. Which was a mistake since, apart from the concert at 20:30, there was a tabla masterclass with Amit Mishra at 18:30, which I think I’d have enjoyed. Not that I often get a chance to practice any kind of drumming.

The performance started (almost on-time) with two themes played by Jose and Javier. Then Amit joined on tabla. His tabla playing brings a whole new dimension to flamenco-tinged chamber jazz music of the duo. I don’t think they had too much time to rehearse, and the result was beautiful in its spontaneity. For an encore, we were treated with Alfonsina y el Mar, with Jose on melodica and Amit providing an unusual vocal line.

We came to the concert unarmed with a camera, which was a shame — I’d love to have a video of a song or two. There were CDs on sale but none of them features this particular line-up. Oh well. There’ve been many great concerts that I’ve missed; I’m happy this one isn’t among them.

Late

by Better Than TV

When I was in Cambridge earlier this year, my friend Sergio told me that his band is about to release their debut CD any day now. When it finally was released, he promptly sent me a copy to Gran Canaria.

I heard one of incarnations of Better Than TV performing live in Cambridge some years ago, and then again what was (approaching) its current line-up rehearsing at Sergio’s house in 2013, the very day I unsuccessfully tried to enjoy, also on Sergio’s suggestion, the May Bumps. So it was not exactly unfamiliar stuff, but I still was impressed by quality of music on this record. (For the record, all tracks were captured live, something I would not say, er, without looking at the CD sleeve.)

What is Late? Not exactly cutting edge of modern jazz but, as Bertie Wooster could have put it, there is a time for cutting hedges and a time for not cutting hedges. In fact, I am quite happy away from being cut by any edge provided that I am not bored. And Better Than TV — indeed, quite unlike TV — won’t keep me bored. They could have easily put in a few standards (and make a good job of that too) but no, we’ve got nine originals, all penned by Sergio, and quite diverse at that. Latin-ish groove here, funky theme there, blues yonder, a bulería at 5 pm, a samba later, and so on and so forth in a stylistically united variety. My favourite so far is Morse, a beautifully hummable upbeat jazz-waltz, with just right balance of discipline and improvisation (incidentally, it is the shortest track on the album). But really there are no weak cuts here, and the band consistently shines without showing off. Respect.

The only minor annoyance is the not-so-well “hidden” track in the end. Why anyone still bothers to hide the tracks anyway? Just call it track #10 and tell me when it was recorded.

Independently produced, not even on an “independent” label but without any label, Late is a quiet but confident debut of a label-free band. Given that it was recorded two years ago, one should expect a follow-up soon... please?

Late 1000 and one Standing with Sally Elliulogy Morse pm FEAB Samba per mi Se volete Late Standing With Sally (alternate take)

All tracks written by Sergio Contrino better than TV David Burgoyne: piano Ed Blake: drums Gavin Spence: trumpet, flugelhorn Sergio Contrino: electric bass Tom Green: trombone Recorded live at Churchill College Music Centre, Cambridge Tracks 1—5 recorded by Tom Howe on 10/6/2013 Tracks 6—9 recorded by Andy Cross on 8/12/2013 Mixdown Engineer: John Ward Mastered at Metropolis Studios, London by Andy ‘Hippy’ Baldwin Produced by Sergio Contrino and John Ward

Mort

by Terry Pratchett

☠ Boy saves the princess but chooses not to marry her.
☠ Alternate realities can co-exist.
☠ If you want Death’s job, learn how to speak in all caps. Now.

Mort was the first book of the great fantasy master that I read, some time at the end of last millennium. It was borrowed from the then newly-discwoverled (by me) Saffron Walden library. It took me exactly one evening and one full night. I finished reading about five in the morning, and I was working that day. I don’t remember if I came across a read this absorbing ever since. On the darker side, no other book of Pratchett I read was quite up to the standard set by Mort.

Now that I re-read Mort fifteensomething years later, I enjoyed it even more. I think most of its humour was lost upon me the first time round. A lot of brilliant ideas, barely mentioned here, could easily have been developed into full-blown novels. (Maybe they were.) And, while I did remember most of the book, some parts of it completely slipped off my mind, like the scene of Mort’s very first solo job.

The witch stood up, leaving her body behind.
“Well done,” she said. “I thought you’d missed it, for a minute, there.”
Mort leaned against a tree, panting heavily, and watched Goodie walk around the log to look at herself.
“Hmm,” she said critically. “Time has got a lot to answer for.” She raised her hand and laughed to see the stars through it.
Then she changed. Mort had seen this happen before, when the soul realised it was no longer bound by the body’s morphic field, but never under such control. Her hair unwound itself from its tight bun, changing colour and lengthening. Her body straightened up. Wrinkles dwindled and vanished. Her grey woollen dress moved like the surface of the sea and ended up tracing entirely different and disturbing contours.
She looked down, giggled, and changed the dress into something leaf-green and clingy.
“What do you think, Mort?” she said. Her voice had sounded cracked and quavery before. Now it suggested musk and maple syrup and other things that set Mort’s adam’s apple bobbing like a rubber ball on an elastic band.
“. . .” he managed, and gripped the scythe until his knuckles went white.
She walked towards him like a snake in a four-wheel drift.
“I didn’t hear you,” she purred.
“V-v-very nice,” he said. “Is that who you were?”
“It’s who I’ve always been.”
“Oh.” Mort stared at his feet. “I’m supposed to take you away,” he said.
“I know,” she said, “but I’m going to stay.”
“You can’t do that! I mean—” he fumbled for words — “you see, if you stay you sort of spread out and get thinner, until—”
“I shall enjoy it,” she said firmly. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss as insubstantial as a mayfly's sigh, fading as she did so until only the kiss was left, just like a Cheshire cat only much more erotic.
“Have a care, Mort,” said her voice in his head. “You may want to hold on to your job, but will you ever be able to let go?”

Theo Croker & Nettwork live

Yuri and I went to see Theo Croker and Dvrk Funk performing at Plaza Santa Ana in Vegueta. It was a pleasant surprise to discover this American band. Yes, a classic jazz quintet format (Theo Croker, trumpet; Michael King, keyboards; Kassa Overall, drums; Anthony Ware, reeds and Eric Wheeler, double bass), playing mostly original compositions, melodic, full of interesting rhythmical twists and, indeed, funky — not all the time, just enough time to keep the audience happy. Hardly groundbreaking stuff, but then again, sometimes you need to keep the ground intact and concentrate on delivering the quality music. What they did.

When they finished, Yuri went home. Judging by his saying that is was not exactly his cup of steak, he didn’t enjoy the music as much as I did. I wonder what would he make of the next act, which was a totally different, er, bucket o’shrimp.

Featuring Charnett Moffett (electric bass), Stanley Jordan (electric guitar, keyboards), Casimir Liberski and Jeff “Tain” Watts (drums), Nettwork could be called a jazz supergroup. Jordan is one of my all-time axe heroes, and his Stolen Moments (also featuring Moffett) is one of the finest jazz guitar recordings ever. I was really looking forward to see them live. But there’s an inherent danger with supergroups: the whole is often less than the sum of its parts. Don’t get me wrong, it was not bad at all, for a bunch of guys jamming together, but I expected more than that. Take the first composition (don’t know the title, for Nettwork didn’t bother to introduce their songs): imagine the intro to Speed King played for fifteen minutes. I mean, you only can play so much of one chord, even with yummy solos. For me, the band did not compare favourably with Dvrk Funk who were more “together” and took less time to deliver their message. Oh, and they should lose that singing.

As for Stanley Jordan, he appeared to lose none of his magic touch. I hope to see him playing again.