The Great iTunes Experiment

Last week my iPod died, which is the sort of tragedy that can only be appreciated by audiophiles or anyone under the age of 40. After six excruciating, music-less days and several unsuccessful visits to various repair shops, I caved and bought a new one. Man can no longer live on bread alone - he now requires music, maps, and Instagram as well.

The demise of my beloved music-widget was not wholly in vain, though. Presented with 64 gigabytes of blank slate, I was forced to plumb the depths of my iTunes library for the first time in months. This was the digital equivalent of cleaning out Great-Uncle Bert's garage after he fell in the tub again. Some of the findings were delightfully surprising (three albums of Algerian folk-rap? OK!) while others made me question both my sanity and and sexual orientation (exhibit A: Tom Waits' 'Misery is the River of the World'; exhibit B: anything by Cat Power).

Being a musical packrat does have some advantages, but inevitably you wind up with a massive backlog of untouched material. In the heat of passion I have downloaded entire discographies that haven't been played once. There are 'Hangover'-like blank spaces in my memory during which I've acquired suspicious amounts of Daft Punk, the Kinks, and enough angst-filled indie pop to sustain a dozen wine-and-vinyl douchefests. Even my most beloved artists were apparently hiding quite a lot. For example, did you know that Bob Dylan has released approximately 837 albums since the Seventies, and that all of them sucked?*

*Sorry, Bob. 'Blood on the Tracks' is still in my top three all-time albums.

It bothered me that so much 'new music' was lurking in the bowels of my hard drive. And so the Great iTunes Experiment was born.

The premise was simple: turn on Shuffle and listen to the first ten songs that pop up. They'd have to be played in their entirety, and I'd have to devote my full attention to each one. As sacrifices in the name of science go, this wasn't quite Marie Curie purposefully dosing herself with radioactive goo, though most sane people would rather dunk their heads in a bucket of plutonium than listen to a 40-minute rendition of 'Dark Star'.

In any case, here are the results.

A laboratory of sorts.

Song 1: 'Pigeon'

Artist: Tennis

Album: Cape Dory (2011)

Length: 3:02

Listen here

What luck! Cape Dory is one of my favorite albums of all time - a collection of breezy, dreamy ocean-inspired jams tailor-made for the tropics. It also has one of the greatest backstories in recent memory. The short version: two of the band members, Alaina Moore (vocals) and Patrick Riley (guitar) saved for years to buy a sailboat. When they scrounged enough cash, they left Denver and sailed down the Atlantic coast, writing songs about the journey and finding enough time to get both shipwrecked and married. The end result sounds like the love-child of Brian Wilson and Stevie Nix - Moore is basically a younger, hotter, more talented incarnation of the onetime Fleetwood Mac vocalist. Her cascading, golden voice gives a regal beauty to the most simplistic lyrics: 'I will be there / Promise to take good care / Of you'. It's a song that makes you feel good. I'm grateful to the shuffle-gods for such a fortuitous start.

Song 2: 'Johnny B. Goode'

Artist: Chuck Berry

Album: Chuck Berry is on Top! (1958)

Length: 2:42

Listen here

I have the sudden and inexplicable urge to start dancing on a barroom piano.

Chuck Berry is one of the original gods of rock 'n roll. As with most of the early (read: black) greats, his music has been endlessly covered and interpreted with mixed results. 'Johnny B. Goode' in particular has been covered by everyone from Alvin and the Chipmunks to the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain. There's no denying that the simple, bluesy rhythms and backwoods lyrics have an appeal that apparently transcends race, age, and geography. I firmly believe that we should be transmitting 'Johnny B. Goode' instead of mathematical equations to distant galaxies, if only to show potential extraterrestrials that people on Earth know how to get down.

Song 3: 'Dirty Dishes'

Artist: Deer Tick

Album: War Elephant (2007)

Length: 3:19

Listen here

At this point it is about 1:30 in the afternoon, and the sun is absolutely merciless. I'm sipping on a 333, one of Saigon's favorite formaldehyde-enhanced beverages. I had also brought a C2, which is a lemon-flavored green tea, but this song is too damn sad for tea.

The vocals are croaking and the intro is catchy in that way that certain melancholy indie tunes are catchy. It's not long before I'm zoned out, remembering old loves and other mistakes, fully wallowing in the sadness unique to a 20-something who is certain that he has accomplished nothing in life, and afraid that it might be too late to start.

 I have a vivid memory of sitting alone at a kitchen table and staring out a rainy window. I'm not sure if this is actually my memory, or a cultural imprint that I feel like I should have experienced at some point. Either way it's powerfully depressing, and I'm a little peeved at iTunes for bringing me down from my Berry-induced euphoria. 

Which isn't entirely fair - Deer Tick is an enjoyable group with elegant Southern musicianship and gravelly harmonies that should appeal to people currently recovering from country music fandom. 'Dirty Dishes' just happened to come at the wrong time and place, like George McGovern or Crystal Pepsi.

Song 4: 'Up the Canyon'

Artist: String Cheese Incident

Album: Outside Inside (2001)

Length: 3:02

Listen here

And the jam bands are on the board! The timing couldn't be better - happy, upbeat bluegrass to wash the taste of 'Dirty Dishes' out of my mouth. From the opening chords there's a feeling of joyous energy as guitars, fiddles, and accordions conjure images of bayou hoedowns with toothless, whiskey-swilling Cajuns.

It's worth mentioning that this song clocks in at a svelte three minutes. In the world of jam bands, this is absurdly short. Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead had triangle solos that lasted longer than three minutes. Also, it suffers from the classic jam band malady - wonderful instruments, shitty vocals. However in this case, the sins of bland voices and 'meh' lyrics can be forgiven. The musicians are just that talented.

It's impossible to escape the feeling of flying down a backwoods two-lane highway with Colonel Sanders riding shotgun, clutching an XXX jug of moonshine in one hand and a six-shooter in the other while hollering at the top of his lungs. God bless you, Colonel Sanders.

Song 5: 'Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp (Let it Roll)'

Artist: George Harrison

Album: All Things Must Pass (1970)

Length: 3:53

Listen here

George Harrison is my favorite Beatle, and All Things Must Pass is my favorite solo album by one of the Fab Four (with apologies to John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band and a big middle finger to anything by Paul McCartney & the Wings). 

The song has a faintly haunted, ephemeral sound which is fitting because apparently Harrison wrote it as a tribute to some old British lawyer who owned Harrison's Victorian Gothic estate back in the 19th century. It soon transitions into the swirling mysticism that defined Harrison's solo work and better Beatles' contributions. On the whole the tune is pleasant, unobtrusive, and forgettable. 

Most of my attention at this point is devoted to choking down my second 333, which now has the temperature and consistency of used brake fluid. When I lean forward to check the time, the beige lounge chair is stained almost black with sweat. It looks like the tropical version of a snow angel. In short, Saigon is really hot.

Song 6: 'Just My Soul Responding'

Artist: Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

Album: Smokey (1973)

Length: 5:09

Listen here

First Motown tune, and it couldn't be a better one. 'Just My Soul Responding' is a social commentary touching on everything from the Vietnam War to the U.S. government's shameful treatment of Native Americans to the deplorable conditions of black ghettos in the 70s. Aside from the bizarre "hey ya hey ya" pseudo-Iroquois chant around 1:10, it's a perfect Motown jam. 

Dig these lyrics:

Oh, but more and more I mind

Hell, it's about time

It's just my soul responding

To being second class in a land I helped to form

Just my soul responding

To too many roaches and not enough heat

To keep my babies warm

Smokey always sounded like he was about two seconds away from whipping off his pants and humping a backup dancer - it's nice to see his energy (and incredible voice) directed at a loftier purpose.

Song 7: 'Maison De Reflexion'

Artist: Efterklang

Album: Parades (2007)

Length: 5:34

Listen here

I downloaded this album on a recommendation from a friend, then promptly forgot about it. The name 'Efterklang' conjured images of some avant-garde European EDM group with punk haircuts and permanently sour expressions. This was my first experience actually listening to their music.

Turns out my hypothesis was dead wrong. There is nothing remotely danceable about 'Maison De Reflexion' - it starts off with the tune and pace of a Danish funeral dirge. This was followed by some vaguely Gregorian chanting, some dramatic timpanis, and plenty of violin. For some reason, the violin usually makes me imagine scenes from Schindler's List or the sinking of the Titanic. The effect is interesting since the fiddle (which is basically the 'same-same but different' instrument) inspires the exact opposite moods.

'Maison De Reflexion' seems like it should be on the soundtrack of the latest Tolstoy novel to be butchered as a major motion picture. It has a unique and intriguing sound, but so does a cat when shoved into a woodchipper, and I can't say I really enjoy either.

Song 8: 'What Goes On'

Artist: The Beatles

Album: Rubber Soul (1965)

Length: 2:51

Listen here

'What Goes On' is one of many neglected songs on one of the Beatles' many neglected albums. Which seems odd to say of the world's most famously beloved rock bands, but it's true. 

Having said that, it's easy to see why it's overlooked. The song has a bland, twangy chipper-ness that wouldn't be out of place on one of Elvis' early records. Compared to the idyllic daydream of 'Norwegian Wood' and the lazy Parisian elegance of 'Michelle', 'What Goes On' is definitely filler.

However, any time Ringo handles lead vocals, it's not a complete waste. 

Song 9: 'One of My Turns'

Artist: Pink Floyd

Album: The Wall (1979)

Length: 3:37

Listen here

I have never understood why Pink Floyd is such a popular choice for acidheads. I can think of few groups more disconcerting while sober, let alone under the influence of hallucinogens. Roger Waters and David Gilmour should slap a patent on the creepy intro featuring 1950s radio voices and evil synthesizers. At 1:30 Waters' voice drips menace like Kaa from 'The Jungle Book'. At 1:50 there is the obligatory mention of razor blades, and at 2:07 it morphs into a cocaine-fueled dance anthem. By 3:00 the song sounds like it should be featured on the Eagles' Greatest Hits. I'm not sure which snippet is most terrifying.

This is not a good song for poolside lounging. 

Song 10: 'Preamble'*

Artist: Umphrey's McGee

Album: Mantis (2009)

Length: 0:36

*False alarm - this isn't an actual song, merely a half-minute of twinkling piano keys that assumedly leads into something more substantial. I suppose the title should have been a tip off. Still, it's an example of jam bands' annoying habit of including useless little interludes on their albums. 

Song 11: 'Black Balloons'

Artist: Local Natives

Album: Hummingbird (2013)

Length: 3:08

Listen here

Indie pop making a comeback! I've been a big fan of Local Natives for what seems like forever (about a month), but most of my attention has been directed to their debut album Gorilla Manor. Their second record, Hummingbird, has provided an inoffensive soundtrack to several showers but nothing more. 

'Black Balloons' features a catchy drum beat and some glimmery electric guitar, supporting vocals that inspire neither awe nor scorn. The song itself is nice if not especially memorable. It's the musical equivalent of that friend you never invite out but chat with amiably at the bar.

At 1:08 the tone becomes serious and introspective, which is perfect because the people who listen to Local Natives like to imagine themselves as serious and introspective. This might be a stretch, but I feel that 'Black Balloons' captures the pretentious maturity of its audience quite well - it's  the kind of song you'd hear blaring out of a leased Mazda 6 driven by an entry-level advertising weenie proudly rocking his first grownup suit.

I can't say I really enjoyed the track, but I'd listen to it again - at this point I've been so desensitized/programmed to appreciate earnestly distraught indie music that there's really no hope for an objective analysis. It feels like the kind of song I SHOULD like, so I do. I couldn't tell you why.

Pretending to have an answer for the unanswerable…isn't that what growing up is all about?

Time

Time is precious. Time is money. Time is finite. Time is an excellent prog-rock jam from Pink Floyd's 1973 album Dark Side of the Moon. Time is causing me all kinds of problems lately.

Time is a problem because I don't know how to spend it. There are few lifestyle similarities of ESL teachers in Vietnam vs. Korea. A Korean ESL job could be reasonably compared to Peter Gibbons' gig at Initech. Working in Vietnam is more like this:

Woo. Hoo.

In Vietnam, most ESL jobs involve heavy hours on the weekends and night classes during the week. Unless you're a sap with unlimited availability (like me), it is entirely possible to work three or four days a week and make enough to live comfortably. Even if you're unlucky enough to work five or six days, weekday mornings and afternoons are usually free. This can be problematic. 

Newton's First Law of Motion states that an object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. Applied to humans, this can be interpreted as: 'A dude in bed will stay in bed unless he has somewhere important to go.' Alarm clocks may be the most universally despised yet indisputably essential tools on the planet. Everyone dreams of skipping that 6:00am wakeup call and lounging beneath the covers until noon. But what happens when that fantasy suddenly becomes possible?

A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I'd spent five consecutive days at the pool. From Monday to Friday I had sipped fresh coconuts and dozed in the steamy Saigon afternoons beside the sparkling, urine-free waters (I assume). I decided this was a terrific development and resolved to pursue it even further. Because pool days weren't just a wonderfully mellow way to pass the time - I was also gettin' stuff done.

The office.

When was the last time you had your mornings and afternoons free for five straight days? Personally, I have no coherent memories of such a time. Maybe as a toddler, but then again Mom was always nagging me to trace letters and build shit with blocks. Childhood isn't nearly as idyllic or carefree as we remember.

In any case, I now have no work, school, or social responsibilities until at least 6:00pm, M-F. This feels pretty remarkable - after years of moaning that I never had time to pursue my passions, I now have…plenty of time.

This arrangement comes at a cost, of course. I now spend a tidy 23 hours at school on the weekend, only seeing the sun during brief class breaks and furtive glances out the window as I ponder the professional and ethical ramifications of strangling an iPhone-addicted teenager. It took a month or so to make my peace with this. In the Western world, weekends now hold nearly-sanctified status, as evidenced by innumerable Facebook updates lamenting the need to come in on a Saturday, and the equally common (if poorly-spelled) empathetic consolations. The weekend is a time for Jesus, football, and booze - not necessarily in that order.

I've grown to embrace the new order of life, though. For the first time in my life, the prime creative hours of the day are open and available. There are infinite possibilities when it comes to using this time, which causes its own challenges. David Foster Wallace referred to it as the 'confusion of permissions', suggesting that we are paralyzed by choice. Given total freedom, we tend to sit on the couch and watch SportsCenter.

That thought has definitely crept into my mind. A hundred creative writing post-grads pounding on a hundred MacBooks would take months to compile a list of al the stuff I haven't done (but fully intend to do, seriously). A brief sampling: learn muy thai, take Vietnamese lessons, buy a guitar, film a documentary, and play pickup basketball. You could live an incredible life just by doing the stuff that I haven't.

Snark aside, the current schedule hasn't been completely wasted. After completing all my lesson plans in a single grueling marathon session (usually at the pool, between naps) I'm free to write. And I'm actually doing it - another first. I've been able to finish about one new piece a week, which is quite a step up from the previous standard of 'zero pieces a week'. Anyone who has gone through a prolonged creative dead spell can probably relate to the excitement of finally getting back to not working. Without a pesky job to interfere, I can return to my first love of chewing on pens while staring in frustration at half-finished paragraphs.

I've also had the chance to dive headfirst into the music world. For at least an hour every day, I chill on our rooftop terrace and sample freshly pirated* albums. The amount of excellent new music is staggering and frankly intimidating at times. There are moments when I feel like a relapsed dope fiend who wandered into a Shanghai opium den. Sometimes the urge to discover the next great tune unleashes my inner hummingbird and I flit from track to track, completely lost in auditory pleasure overload. The first time I heard Mayer Hawthorne, my heart nearly gave out. I finally understand the weary arrogance of the true music aficionado. Keeping up with the music scene is exhausting.

*Just kidding - I only use iTunes to download music like all decent, God-fearing folk.

Sampling studio.

In addition, reading has also made a major comeback lately as I shift to a diurnal leisure pattern. Paradoxically, reading in Vietnam is made enjoyable by a lack of choice - aside from the Bryson and HST photocopies hawked to backpackers on Bui Vien Street, you're pretty much at the mercy of your friends' book collections. As a result, I've read a weird assortment of loans and castoffs that I probably wouldn't have chosen on my own. I've leafed through everything from Terry Prachett's preachy scifi to Vo Nguyen Giap's jargon-filled People's War, People's Army, which even Engels would find hopelessly convoluted. I've read the Best American Science Writing of 2004 (verdict: science is awesome when it doesn't involve equations and periodic tables) and re-read The Gods Drink Whiskey (upon further review, I agree with Asma's low opinion of 'rice conversion' missionaries and vehemently dispute his characterization of Southeast Asian traffic systems as 'surprisingly safe and efficient').

Spot the knockoff.

Although my overall productivity still leaves much to be desired, the progress has been encouraging. Saigon offers limitless opportunities for creativity and freedom, and for the first time in my life I actually love the city where I live. Working on a non-traditional schedule in such a bizarre and dynamic environment is the best situation a wannabe artist could ask for. There's a lot to do, a lot to explore, and a lot of time to get it all done. If the History Channel ever stops rerunning documentaries about Hitler's secret love of shadow-puppets, I'll have it all figured out.

Mellow Out

Every morning around 9:00am, I stop at a little stand on Nguyễn Cửu Vân to buy cà phê đá and a bag of fruit. It's my post-gym ritual, followed by another stop at the bánh mì ốp la stand, and I like it a lot.

Bánh mì ốp la - favorite breakfast of lazy vegetarians.

A few days ago, I was sitting on my motorbike watching the old cà phê đá man beat his ice sack with a wooden paddle*. Another old man, dapper in a grey three piece suit with gold-striped tie, sauntered over and began petting the fender like it was a Golden Retriever. He peppered me with the usual battery of 'where you from', 'what your job' questions in surprisingly good English. Then he grinned slyly and leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, 'How much you pay coffee?' I shrugged and told him 10,000 VND (in Vietnamese, no less - numbers are my sole area of competency with this language). I was feeling quite proud of myself until he laughed, slapped me on the back, and exclaimed, 'My friend, no good! Vietnam people 8,000 đồng!' 

Sheeeeit.

*This is how you get crushed ice without a fridge.

It hurt to learn that my smiling, avuncular coffee man has been gouging me happily for months. But I still go back every morning, even though our relationship has suffered a little setback. It's still better than Starbucks. I'm proud of this reaction, which helps me distinguish myself from the backpackers who would rather drown a bag full of kittens than pay an extra nickel for coffee.

~

On the other hand, my reactions to traffic have slowly but steadily grown much less magnanimous. At first, I found a certain glee in navigating the savage avenues of Saigon. Every unscathed ride to work was a cause for celebration. I was quite proud of my ability to move seamlessly amongst the mad swirl of cars, trucks, and motorbikes without losing my limbs or sanity. Lately, however, the thrill is most definitely gone.

I have mastered the contemptuous no-look flipoff in response to taxis honking. When pajama clad old women smugly wave their arms to clear space for a left-hand turn, I accelerate instead of slowing down. If an oblivious high school student decides to cross the street without looking (though its not just teenagers who are guilty of this), he is discouraged with an aggressive horn blast and serious engine revving.

I'm decidedly less proud of this reaction. As habits go, road-rage is perhaps the least useful for a Saigon expat's short-and-long-term health. Resisting the urge to clothesline the masked and hooded wrong-way drivers on 3 Tháng 2 has probably cost me most of my 70s. And every roundabout is basically a full coronary waiting to happen.

When I catch myself having these angry thoughts, I'm amazed at how quickly and sneakily they appear. If I'm not careful, I can spend half the ride entertaining Tarantino-esque revenge fantasies against the guy who cut me off while blabbering into his phone. The only saving grace is that these feelings usually dissipate as soon as I hop off the bike.

Because there's no carry-over to the rest of my life, I haven't been proactive about working on taming this particular dragon. There doesn't seem to be any urgency to mellow out. Which is, I'm pretty sure, the exact approach you SHOULDN'T take with issues like this.

I brought this up to my friend Kelsey when we Skyped last week. After listening to my half-assed rationalizations, she proceeded to annihilate my argument: 'If things get a little bit shittier every day, you probably wouldn't notice any day-to-day changes. But after a while life would be a lot shittier and you wouldn't even realize how it happened.' There was no clever response to that.

She was right to warn against feeding the pet peeves and minor irritations that slowly blossom into bitterness and cynicism, two traits especially obnoxious in expats. Nobody likes to listen to the guy who finds fault in everything, unless you're a devotee of FOX/CNN/MSNBC/etc. In fairness, road-rage is really the only issue I have in Vietnam; with this sole (though sizable) exception, I am stupidly in love with this country. Still, it doesn't hurt to be on guard. Watched pots never boil over and get you deported.

~

After two years in Korea, I was ready to go. I found 99% of all public behavior incredibly annoying. This made every subway ride, grocery trip and workout an ordeal that would warm Larry David's bitter, shriveled heart. With such negative and disproportionate reactions to basically everything, my time was obviously up.

Once out of Korea, I realized how much of that negativity was due to my inability to manage a difficult workplace situation (i.e. a really shitty job). And it was disappointing to understand how much I'd left on the table due to petty sourness. I'd not only cut off my nose but shaved my eyebrows and sharpened my teeth just to piss off Face a little bit.

I think I'll do better in Vietnam. Time is a great teacher, even if it does kill all its pupils. Negative reactions to certain stimuli might be inevitable, but after the knee-jerk we can reclaim our balance Acquiring this kind of emotional/mental resiliency is way tougher and messier than The Alchemist suggests, but I can't think of a more useful skill to learn. 

~

Life is too awesome to be pissy all the time.