As autumn changes
into winter and temperatures drop even more, I find myself craving the warmth
of a good old broth. And as promised a few weeks ago to my veggie readers and
fellow bloggers, this time “Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music… Ad Infinitum”
will feature a vegetarian recipe.
Lentils and vegetable soup Ingredients: 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup red lentils
1 cup tomatoes, diced (fresh or canned, include juice)
1 large onion, finely diced
3 medium size carrots, finely diced
1 celery rib, finely diced
1 cup zucchini, finely diced
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
4 green onions, sliced
Fresh lime juice (1 lime)
Sea salt and pepper, to taste
Water Directions: Cook
onion in extra-virgin olive oil over medium heat in a big soup pot - stir
occasionally. After cooking onion for about 2-3 minutes, add carrots, celery,
and zucchini. Add 1.5 teaspoons sea salt, turmeric, and cumin - cook for
another 5 minutes over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Add lentils,
tomatoes (plus tomato juices, if any), and 5.5 cups water. Bring to a boil,
then lower the heat and allow everything to simmer with the lid partially on -
about 20 to 25 minutes, or until lentils have softened.. Add lime juice, stir.
Add sea salt and pepper, to taste - you may not need to add any more salt, so
be sure to taste first. Just before
serving, add sliced green onions to hot lentil soup - about a tablespoon of
green onions per bowl. This red lentil and vegetable soup is delicious on its
own, or with some whole grain bread or a bowl of rice. The music I’ve chosen
to go with this recipe befits the season: a rainbow of red, orange and yellow
leaves lying on the ground and bare trees, finally beaten to submission by the
harsh weather. The first salvo comes from one my favourite musicians ever,
Aziza Mustafah Zadeh, and her own take on a jazz classic. I have just bought
her 1997 album, Jazziza, and this is
one of many gems in it. Enjoy.
When I saw Poliça on Jools Holland recently I knew
immediately that I had to blog about them. There’s a serious groove in their
sound. Love them. And the clip is very well made, too. Just like a red lentils
and vegetable soup.
I’ve left Valerie June
for the end because her voice reminds me of that last bit of soup you scrape
off the bowl with whatever bread you have left. It’s the final touch to a fine,
heart-warming meal. One that I hope you have enjoyed tonight. Because food and
music should always go hand in hand together. Thanks.
Back from Cornwall today but still on holidays. The blog, though, carries on and the music shall never stop.
Kicking off our weekly rendezvous with our beautiful and practical mp3 player, we have Richie Ray & Bobby Cruz with a powerful Latin number, "Agúzate". Mind-blowing.
We continue in the same Latin vibe and now we have Telmary featuring both Kumar and William Vivanco from my homeland. I love the visuals in "Ves", taken from Telmary's debut "A Diario" and reviewed on this blog last year. Hip-hop with a Cuban attitude. Love it!
Like spiders scurrying away from a bag that's just been opened. That's the recurring image that always pops into my head whenever I see Aziza Mustafa Zadeh's fingers working the blacks and whites. She is a regular on this blog and may she continue to be. "Heartbeat" is part of my mp3's DNA and has already been uploaded a couple of times in this space. And it will continue to be. Energetic.
And last, but not least, Billie Holiday singing "Strange Fruit". Because occasionally some people forget, so we have to remind them.
Next Post: "While My MP3 Gently Plays", to be published on Sunday 4th September at 10am (GMT)
The word 'magisterium' and its close Spanish equivalent 'magisterio' might come across as two different terms, if not visually, at least semantically speaking, but they do share one common element: teaching. The main difference is that in English, 'magisterium' refers to the authority and power of the church (especially the Roman Catholic Church) to teach religious truth, whereas in my mother tongue, 'magisterio' is used in broader terms, as in what a teacher does every day at school. 'Magisterio' was also the name of one of the courses available to a younger version of myself when I was seventeen and about to finish college and head for university.
It was not until my third year at the former ISPLE (Higher Institute of Foreign Languages) that I fell in love with teaching. And the catalys for that transformation was a lecturer who taught one of those subjects that when you first heard of it, made you want to dash off for the nearest exit: History of Pedagogics. I still remember that first time. He had been given the 'graveyard slot', that was, straight after lunch and the subject was in Spanish rather than English. His future with us, defiant, cocky students in their late teens and early twenties, did not bode well.
By the time he came in, we all had plotted different scenarios. Some suggested that we play hooky, others that we answer his questions in English - it was unlikely that he spoke the language, we thought -, there was another group, of which I was part, that proposed that we give him ten minutes after which, if we didn't feel challenged enough (smug prats as we were then) we could all come up with different excuses to leave the lecture room. In the event, his ten minutes extended to an hour and half and then some more.
Mr Pedagogics turned out to be the best teacher I have ever had in my life.
For starters, there was his approach to education. He didn't believe in mindless repetition, the usual attitude amongst other lecturers. He encouraged interpretation and independent thinking. We later found out that he had been the rector at our faculty some years before and had resigned when he couldn't take the state's dogmatic stand on the learning process anymore. And now we were the ones benefitting from his decision. In explaining the development of pedagogics, he took us from ancient Greece to modern Cuba. And if sometimes his lectures resembled Plato's famous dramatic dialogues, the reason was that he encouraged us to think and think freely.
It was from this moment on that I changed my teaching methods. I had been an assistant-student for a year then and suddenly I began to enjoy more my tutorial role. I became less judgemental and more supportive of my pupils' efforts. I stopped being apathetic towards teaching and started to see it as a viable career option, even if bureaucracy and socialist rhetoric were always going to be a major problem for me, as they turned out to be years later. I felt I had found my calling. Moreover, I realised that teaching was truly the most important job in the world, the type we did even when we didn't engage in it professionally. A parent who shows a child how to walk or use his/her spoon is actively involved in teaching. Recently I found the most appropriate definition of a teacher in 'Reading Lolita in Tehran', Iranian writer Azar Nafisi's memoir. Although she is referring to a close friend of hers, it should not come as a surprise that he had been a lecturer years before: 'Does every magician, every genuine one, like my oown, evoke the hidden conjurer in us all, bringing out the magical possibilities and potentials we did not know existed?'
The reason for this flurry of memories is a recent government's white paper proposal that would allow two-hundred outstanding recruits from its fast-track teaching scheme to become headteachers in as little as four years. All of a sudden, 'magisterio' has turned into an attractive career choice.
One of the consequences of the current economical situation is unexpected career changes. With unemployment at a record high, it is the teaching profession the one to which many ex-employees of the financial sector have decamped. 'City seminars', named so after the part of London where the stock market is located, attracted over a thousand visitors last year, according to the Times Education Supplement, and up to four-hundred companies have already signed up to the Training and Development Agency for Schools' Transition to Teaching programme.
There are more reasons, however, for this increasing interest in education and I'd better mention them before the cynic in me takes over this post. Many individuals feel a duty to give something back. Others find themselves in a rut and want a new challenge. A third group wants a job that will inspire young people. The fact that the subjects they will be/are teaching are relevant to their former careers makes it less daunting to take the leap of faith from one field to the other. At present, these courses are: science, technology, engineering and maths.
And yet, I, too, find myself agreeing with the dissenting voices. Once the economy recovers, and there're already signs of green shoots in the distance, will these people stay? Is the government not depreciating the teaching profession by fast-tracking newcomers into education within six months? Six months? I trained for five years! I had to study Psychology for Children and Adolescents. At university we started our practice in our first year and did not stop until our final one. However, these rookies have six months to master the intricacies of teaching, to inspire a new generation, to become au fait with the complex world of marking and dealing with unsatisfied parents. You can see why eyebrows have been raised at the government's initiative to allow these new teachers to become schoolheads within four years of starting their practice. Would a same scheme involving future doctors be permitted? Would novices to the health sector be given permission to operate on patients after training for six months? Methinks no.
The silver lightning in this story is that other programmes are run for a little longer, twelve months, with prospective teachers training and earning on the job. The economic crisis has also brought with it a wind of change in that more and more people are less focused on job titles or status and more on a profession that makes a difference. How long will it last? I don't know, maybe it will be just as long as a heartbeat, but there's no escaping the fact that you need a lot of heart and soul to teach and a syncopated beat to go with it.
Disclaimer: I finished writing the above post on Friday 9th January. Then last Tuesday 19th January I chanced upon this article included in the G2 section of The Guardian. My initial reaction was surprise and mild amusement, above all, at the parallels between Francis's piece and my column. Then, I realised that with an election year ahead of us in the UK - though at the time of writing the Prime Minister has yet to come up with a date for the general election -, these 'coincidences' will happen more often than not, especially because my Sunday posts are open fora for people to discuss their views on a particular subject, be it UK-focused or of a more worldwide nature. I hope you enjoyed my column today, I strongly recommend Francis Hilbert's feature (his classification of teachers is hilarious, but, oh, so true!) and the music. Fellow bloggers and followers of this blog should know by now that I don't need any excuse to upload music by Aziza. Many thanks, enjoy your Sunday and your week.
Copyright 2010
Next Post: 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' (Review), to be published on Tuesday 26th January at 11:59pm (GMT)
Pots and kettles. Some phrases don't need to display their full linguistic accoutrement. We know what they mean by the merely mention of a couple of words. 'Pots and kettles' is one of those cases. Ditto with certain snobbish and cultural attitudes between nations.
A few years ago the British press had a moment of schadenfreude when some black English football players, whilst playing a friendly game against Spain, were called racist names. To these insults, gestures imitating monkeys were added. I remember seeing most British commentators both on the right and the left side of the political spectrum rubbing their hands gleefully and gloating over this display of uncivilised behaviour. Not here! they cried. We've stamped racism out of football, kicked it out. No more ugly hooligan scenes like those in the 70s and the 80s.
How wrong they were.
But then, how pathetic John Carlin is in El País for likening the natives of Albion to the Viking hordes that invaded these shores centuries ago (original article in Spanish here, awful English translation here). Or for calling the kettlish English Premier League black. Doesn't he realise that he lives in a country that is pot and kettle at the same time?
In his otherwise well-written article dated Sunday 30th August in the aforementioned newspaper, Carlin uses football as an example to illustrate the differences between Spanish and British societies (by the way, he carries down on the same path of many other commentators before him for whom UK and England are interchangeable terms, a contentious point on which Scots, Welsh and Irish would strongly disagree). Obviously my adopted land does not fare very well. John rightly argues that Brits read more and that in our parliament there's less opprobium being heaped upon its members, as opposed to its Spanish counterpart. But then he goes on to make the baleful comparison I mentioned before using Spain as the ancient Greece paragon against the English (again!) Viking hordes.
Maybe if I had not had that 'little' run-in in Picos de Europa the day before coming across John's feature, I would have let it slide. But not anymore. I think it's time to stick up for my second homeland.
When my wife, our children and I arrived in Picos, we quickly took one of the many paths that led into the mountains. Silly us, we did not think of paying the toilet in the main restaurant a visit before venturing into the woods. Luckily for us there was a campsite nearby (El Redondo) and my son and I went in. The receptionist - a middle-aged white woman - was cold and rude and declared in a very stern voice that the toilet facilities were for the exclusive use of the guests. I attributed her aggresive behaviour to the result of seeing many people getting off the cable cars and trying to take advantage of the campsite's restrooms without bothering to wait until they got to the toilets in the main building to satisfy their physiological needs. And they probably left their own rubbish behind. I was understanding and let her know so.
After we'd finished our short walk, my daughter complained of tummy ache and made it very clear to me that she wanted to go to the toilet. I said to her to wait until we reached the cafeteria where there would be bathrooms aplenty. She said she was desperate and I, fearful of a delicate situation with dirty, stinky clothes in a two-hour journey by car, took her to the same campsite to which my son and I had just been.
And that's when all hell broke loose. The woman this time was not just vulgar and verbally abusive, but also racist. She kept saying to someone at the back - son, husband, partner, who knows - that this was 'el mismo negrito de antes' (the same blackie from before). Spanish-speakers will know that the word 'negrito' said in a confrontational tone has the same pejorative sense as the word 'nigger' in English. My daughter was finally allowed in and I almost had to carry her down the stairs, she could barely walk. On the way out I just said to the woman: 'You see? It was a real emergency. She's just an eight-year old human being'.
So, John Carlin, where were we? Oh, yes, you began your article by referring to those two incidents that took place a few weeks ago. The first one was in a match between arch rivals Millwall and West Ham when there was a fracas between fans from both teams and the second one was at West Ham's defender Calum Davenport's house when a bunch of thugs broke in and stabbed him repeteadly on his legs. Yes, these nasty incidents do happen, John and I hate them as much as you do. They happen now less than in the past, but they do still happen. I support a football team, Chelsea, with a long history of violence and hooliganism, not to mention antisemitism. But I also know many supporters who are law-abiding paterfamilias like yours truly and enjoy a jolly good game of football. In fact, when we crashed out to the mighty Barcelona last spring, I was a good sport and congratulated my Barça-supporting mates. Talking of the Catalán team, what were those hideous scenes of alcohol-fuelled violence and bloodthirst in their game against Shakhtar Donetsk, in Monaco in the European Super Cup final about? Please, don't tell me that those were Barça fans.
Pots and kettle, John, pots and kettles.
As a black person, Mr Carlin, I know that I attract attention wherever I go, some of it unwelcome. Factor in single twists that look like dreadlocks and many people wonder what I'm doing at a poetry reading session/ballet show/painting or photography exhibition/delete as appropriate. I am also used to being stared at. It happens in the UK - mainly outside London - and it has happened in Spain. In fact, when I visited Santoña, a small town in Cantabria, I got all kinds of looks. I could have set up a small stall in the market selling the same stares I got: there were some that expressed amusement, others that implied complicity, there were others that showed curiosity, but there were also a few ones that greeted me with utter hostily and contempt. And they came from Spaniards, Mr Carlin.
I am not being romantic about race and other prejudices in the UK. But to draw a comparison between British and Spanish societies using football as a weapon to demonstrate the latter's alleged superiority over the former is plain wrong. Both countries have too long a way to go for one of them to be sitting comfortable whilst laughing smugly at the other's shortcomings. Instead of doing that you could, for instance, concentrate on La Liga. Most Spaniards will tell you that it is a competition between two teams, Real Madrid and Barcelona, where eighteen others get to kick a ball every now and then. Now, that would make a very interesting article.
I mentioned earlier this year that there were two artists whose music I had heard in recent years and whom I would love to see live if I ever had the opportunity to do so. They were the Ethiopian singer Gigi and the Azerbaijani pianist Aziza Mustafa Zadeh. Well guess what? I'm off to see the latter in concert at the Cadogan Hall, 5 Sloane Square, London, SW1X 9DQ on Sunday 20th September at 7:30pm. And I've got front row free tickets to boot, courtsey of the concert promoter.
As I've written before on this space, trying to pigeonhole Aziza's music is like attempting to shoot down stars with a Remington carbine... in broad daylight. She moves easily between jazz and classical musical, and straddles both genres comfortably. Her father, Vagif, was a pianist and composer and her mother, Eliza, a classically-trained singer from Georgia. So, against this creative background, it should not be surprising that Aziza's oeuvre captivates the listener from the word go. And it's not just her piano-playing skills that entice music lovers, but also her collaborations with other performers, like maverick jazz wizard, Al Di Meola, that make Aziza's music one of those rare pleasures to enjoy amidst so much banality and predictability like Girls Aloud and JLS.
Tickets are still on sale now, the number is 020 7730 4500.
For press enquiries, please contact Ali Harestani on 020 8441 9849, 07796 211 301, or you can send an e-mail to ali@tangerineconcerts.com
In the meantime I will leave you with two clips of Aziza doing what she does best: music.
Many thanks to you, Ali, for giving me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to watch someone whose music crosses so many frontiers.
And if you, my dear fellow blogger, reader, follower are in London next Sunday I hope to see you at the Cadogan Hall. Many thanks.
Next Post: 'What Makes A Good Writer', the second part of a fifteen-week series into the whys and wherefores of writing and reading by the British author Zadie Smith.
If Killer Opening Songs could give Aziza Mustafa Zadeh another middle name (assuming Mustafah is her middle name) it would be 'passion'. If she could have two surnames like us, denizens of the Spanish-speaking Americas, they would be 'intensity' and 'vim'. Because that's what K.O.S. feels everytime it plays one of Aziza's records.
K.O.S. first became acquainted with this Azerbaijani musician's oeuvre when it borrowed a CD from its local library entitled 'Women in Jazz'. Her track 'Marriage Suite' stood out immediately. A musical love affair between K.O.S. and the composer ensued from that day onwards which remains until now as fresh as ever.
From an early age Aziza was exposed to music via her two parents. Her father, Vagif, was a pianist and composer and her mother, Eliza, was a classically-trained singer from Georgia. Although Aziza was a Bach and Chopin enthusiast when she was little, she showed an inclination towards improvisation as she grew up. At 17 she won the prestigious Thelonius Monk competition in Washington DC playing the famous musician's compositions but in her own style. Around that time she moved to Germany with her mother and that's when she started to develop her distinctive musical direction.
This week Killer Opening Songs brings you the first track from her 1993 album 'Always'. This record earned Azia many accolades, amongst them: the ECHO Award and the German Phono Association's Jazz Award. This was followed in 1995 by 'Dance of Fire', another regular listen en la casa deKiller Openings Songs. A mild uproar was caused by Aziza's decision to appear with little more than long tendrils of hair on the cover of her follow-up album 'Seventh Truth'. Far from apologising and keeping a low profile, Mustafa Zadeh went on the offensive and in response to the public outcry (mainly in her native Azerbaijan) she retorted à propos de the risqué artwork: 'It means people are starting to wake up a bit. I'm so glad. Actually, I find it amusing! Why all the fuss? '
Returning to this week's offering now, the reason why K.O.S. finds this track so alluring is that on this clip the Azerbi composer has stripped the music down to just the piano. And believe K.O.S. when it tells you that although the album version is brilliant this live performance is a hundred times better. Her technique reminds K.O.S. of a river in that the notes meander around and curl their lips at our attentive ears. Just like a river, this song carries long-forgotten tales from the countries whence it originates: Azerbaijan, Armenia and Georgia. And above all, this tune, like a copious flow, makes us feel the same sense of magnitude and awe that overpowers us when we look at a river; the pleasure of boundless freedom. Enjoy.
For earlier editions of Killer Opening Songs click on any of the links below
Whilst in Malaysia recently I, alongside my wife and children, was driven everywhere by my brother in law and his wife. And it was a pleasure to see the city unveiling itself before my eyes from the passenger seat. Coupled with my hosts' dexterity behind the wheel and their ability to mix explanations about the history and social make-up of Kuala Lumpu and the country as a whole whilst keeping an eye on the road, the feeling was of pure joy. And dexterity is a must-have trait when driving on the streets of KL. As I commented on the Living in a Bilingual Worldcolumn a couple of weeks ago, drivers there cut in in front of you at the last moment leaving you with either wet knickers or a red, angry face. Or both. Luckily there were no near-misses and as both my brother in law and his wife conveyed to me people are so used to driving in that crazy way that no one thinks much of it. Add to this the fact that the police seem to turn a blind eye on most traffic violations and you could have a recipe for disaster. But it seemed to me at the time that most people knew the ingredients to the recipe and nobody wanted to put them together. The motto could well have been 'live and let live'.
This put me in a pensive mood as it usually happens when I'm thinking of themes for this column. For starters, even if we were able to hire a car in KL or a similar city with such a crazy traffic system (my darling Havana comes to mind), would I risk driving there when I am so used to laws and regulations in London? And secondly, if I did end up by driving in that city, would I try to abide by the laws governing the traffic, or would I copy the locals?
Same with music. We get used to so many different rhythms when we are growing up that it is hard to pinpoint what will be our genre of choice by the time we hit our teens. I still can't believe that with a father who worked and still works as a pianist and whose main remit was Cuban traditional music and a mother who knows her 'boleros' from her 'guarachas' I became a rock fan. But yes, that's what happened. When I turned 13 I became hooked on rock'n'roll. Little outside this music interested me and except for some 'Nueva Trova' and 'Novísima Trova' singers and musicians, I was a firm follower of Anglo-Saxon rock with the later addendum of the Latin American version.
It was very strange then that as my college years moved towards its twilight, I suddenly found myself one day at the 'Casa de la Cultura de Plaza' in Vedado attending the International Havana Jazz Festival for the first time. I had gone reluctantly; my mate had talked me into it. It was the place where I first saw Irakere live (after having slagged them off for the most part of a decade) and they blew me away on the night. But really, nothing prepared me for the musician who brought tears to my 17-year-old eyes, Arturo Sandoval. This was 1989 and as most Cubans know he would leave for the US the next year never to return to the island, but when he played his trumpet that evening, I understood for the first time what people said about spring, blossoms, flowers, renewal and revival. For me it was an opening, a secret door that let me through to another space and dimension, one which I had been ignoring for a long time on account of my stubbornness and which I had now decided to shed.
So, risks, there you have it. Some are worth it. Some are not. In my case, most of them, musically speaking, have worked. The other day as I was driving to the supermarket, making sure that the car was still up to scratch after having been left on its own for a couple of weeks whilst we were on holidays, I was listening to Aziza Mustafa Zadeh's album 'Dance of Fire'. It was just a short trip to the supermarket, but I was able to squeeze in the first three songs, 'Boomerang', 'Dance of Fire' and 'Sheherezadeh'. The combination of the warm spring sun streaming in through the window and the delicacy with which this Azerbi pianist slides her fingers on the black and white keys made me feel just like that day when I listened to Cuba's foremost trumpeter, Arturo Sandoval. And just like on that day a nice, big grin appeared on my face.
And so this is the end... for the Autumn Songs. As the fallen leaves on the ground wait to hibernate under the white carpet that will (hopefully) cover this city in the weeks to come, this little section changes season too.
I want to start with a singer whom I discovered via Radio Paradise, an internet broadcaster that has become my main source to discover new music, even when it's a few decades old (as I write this they're playing Big Mama Thornton's version of 'Hound Dog', made popular by both Elvis Presley and John Lennon). This singer's name is Gabriel Rios and the funky sound of this track reminded me of treading on crunchy leaves as I walk to work every day. As I usually have my CD player on, I can only imagine that any passer-by strolling in my direction will be bound to run for cover thinking that the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse is coming to take them with him. It's a nice, slow to mid-tempo number that defies this rainy weather and puts a little smile on my face everytime I hear it. And yes, you bet I'll be getting the record soon.
Second track of this valedictory post comes courtesy of that Cuban jewel called 'Camerata Romeu'. Now, I have very vivid memories of this ensemble. The first time I saw them was in Old Havana, at the San Francisco de Asis Convent, a marvellous place near Havana Bay and where on Saturday evenings classical concerts were given. I even remember that the programme included Mozart's pieces for cello, violin and piano, Cuban composers such as Lecuona and a whole plethora of contemporary musicians like Lennon and McCartney. The piece I bring you today has been covered by just about everyone who's everyone in my neck of the woods, from 'La Negra de America', Mercedes Sosa to Paquito D' Rivera. Enjoy.
Call me schmaltzy, kitsch or whatever you can think of but when I was younger I was into Roberto Carlos. That was years before I became hooked on rock'n'roll, jazz, salsa and 'Trova'. Pre-teenage years I used to memorise the Brazilian singer's songs in order to perform them in front of my family and friends. Yes, I did possess a good voice then, which has since forsaken me. When I came across this clip on youtube.com (where else but?) a little lump appeared in my throat and for just one instant I wish I could have been next to my cousin as she was the one who introduced me to the Southamerican crooner. This will bring a tear to the eyes of those Latin people who grew up in the 70s and 80s listening to singers like Julio Iglesias, Manzanero and Lupita D'Alesio and whose childhood will be irremediably linked to this forgotten era. And I mean that with pride.
And to sign off I've got a singer whom I heard the first time around via a CD I borrowed from my local library. It goes to show the little treasures you're bound to find in your local library if you look in the right places. The CD was called 'Women in Jazz' and her song stood out from the word go. It was named 'Marriage Suite' and it felt exactly like that, a passionate homage to the one you love and are about to marry, a celebration of that love. I bought her record shortly after and was glad that Aziza Mustafa Zadeh's music did not disappoint me at all. On the contrary, it went beyond my expectations and restored my faith in music. This is the title track of that CD and I hope you enjoy it, too.
