Digital Diner » Music

Get Thee Behind Me, Disco Duck!

Gavin Clabaugh — Thu, 07 May 2009 23:46:09 +0000

I hate splash pages. I hate being held hostage. The topic came up recently on the “Information Systems Forum” listserv. It’s a listserv of diverse participants, gracefully managed by the indefatigable Deborah Elizabeth Finn.

The question was: “Are splash pages effective.” I thought about it for a few days and I posted a response. Michael Gilbert (who I think of as my own personal Perry White) suggested I repost my response here, on the Diner. (I think he’s worried that I haven’t posted much stuff in the last few months. Not to worry Michael, it was just a dry spell caused by excessive time travel.)

On this particular list, the recent conversations have drifted into the rights and wrongs of collecting (and using) personal information (like one’s birthday) for fundraising, and, more recently, the efficacy of “splash” pages — especially by nonprofits. While musing over the thread, I was reminded by an early example — a pre-internet example — of an attempt to hold an audience hostage.

You’ll find my original post below, (slightly edited and embellished to make me look more thoughtful):

I’m equal opportunity: I hate pop-ups, pop-unders, pop-overs, fly-bys, and those cutesy floating windows too. Oh, and those “Do you want to take our survey” windows, I hate them too. Most of the time, if I can, I ignore them.

To be honest, I think, quite frankly, so does everyone else. Bottom line, if I can’t ignore such things — worse, if they try to hold me hostage — I’ll probably never return.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out how advertizing on web pages actually results in anything but ad sales to Google. In all truthfulness, I can’t even remember “seeing” the ads on most pages. My mind has learned to filter them out. Strangely, with hardcopy magazines, the adverts are half the fun of reading.

Quite on the side: It reminds me that there is a not-so-subtle schizophrenia to today’s internets — a crazy wackiness that seems to pit us against ourselves. It’s everywhere. It’s the ongoing drive to, on one hand, figure out how all this stuff might pay for itself, juxtaposed, on the other hand, with the almost universal hatred of all the ways people try to make this stuff pay for itself.

Sometimes the madness manifests itself in a particular ironic fashion. My favorite example is the use of banner ads to advertize software designed to stop banner ads. Clearly, there is a particular self-loathing paradox to that concept.

Even more clearly, there is some sort of dynamic tension between free and not free. Moreover, it’s a tension that manifests itself in the seemingly endless conversations about “monetization” that sneaks into the otherwise idealism of the bevy of entrepreneurs-two-dot-oh. I don’t have an answer, but I can tell you that the answer is definitely not irritating your members, customers, constituents, or patrons. There lies madness.

Here’s my example: It was the late 70’s. It was the pledge drive on KPFT – the Houston (Texas) Pacifica station I listened to (religiously) in graduate school. It was a rather wild and unruly radio station. I loved it. Until. That day. That fateful day.

One day, that day, someone got the wise idea of holding the listeners ransom – they decided to play “Disco Duck” nonstop until they hit their pledge goals.

Now, rest assured, I have tremendous tolerance, and as a grad student, I was known to listen to just about anything from Neal Diamond, to Mott the Hoople, on through Coltrane, and Monk, and Miles, and to the gravely grumbles of Tom Waits, and beyond, to Zappa (turned up so loud that the nails would pop out of drywall…) all politely tempered with Elvis Costello (Elvis is King)… and, well, I admit it, maybe a little Little Feat… It was Texas, after all. (No Manilow, and for gawd’s sake, no Debby Boone — one has to draw the line somewhere.)

but… but… but… Disco Duck … nonstop Disco Duck! Oh, the humanity.

To me, splash screens – especially ones that force you to watch some piece of, ahem… content… Well, they’re a bit like Disco Duck, played nonstop.

My rule is never, ever, ever, put a barrier between your members, customers, disciples, acolytes, or whatever, and the silver plate. Being alienated or irritating does not make you friends, and, IMHO, it most definitely does not raise money. Raising money is about message, involvement, community, and — lord love a duck —follow-on action. At best, people learn to ignore the silly and irritating tricks (maybe they unconsciously start humming “Disco Duck” too often), at worst they hate you and never come back again.

Years later, when working with a member cooperative, I was reminded of similar mistakes made by the early food-coop movement. Someone, somewhere, came up with the hair-brained idea that members of a food-coop should volunteer time working — shinning the crystals, pricing cheese curd, or just pressing the tofu. Whoever it was should be bonked on the head, repeatedly, with a loaf of organic spelt hippy-bread.

Luckily, that thinking has gone the way of disco. But, it’s still a classic (and painful) example of creating an unneeded barrier between you and a sale, a member, a donation, or whatever. Good fundraising is about breaking down the barriers, not putting up new, technological ones. Keep the duck, and the splash, in the tub (with the fat man and the blues) where it belongs.

The Secret Chord

Gavin Clabaugh — Sun, 03 May 2009 17:56:25 +0000

It happens with an eerie regularity. I hear a song, one of uncanny depth and beauty; something that just reaches down and twists at my heartstrings. Intrigued, I will Google a smattering of half-heard lyrics, seeking to discover a new artist. Instead, I discover a familiar name, Leonard Cohen. It’s a strange consistency — one that has been with me from 15 to 50.

It’s a consistency that caused me to preorder, unheard, his latest CD: “Leonard Cohen – Live in London — July 17th, 2008.” It arrived a few weeks ago.

Let me say, unabashed, this man is a poet, masterful, unmatched, unequaled. But it’s no “big girl’s blouse” type poetry. Rather it’s the soul of a man. It’s raw, and masculine, sensual and sexual; carnal and biblical. If his voice were any deeper it would measure on the Richter scale. Like a rockslide of passion, gravelly and rich, aged and tempered like leather in smoke, dipped in raw emotion, the words of Leonard Cohen caress the ragged edge of love and passion and age and youth.

Now 75, his words have wrapped around my world my entire life. I grew up with his music. At 14, he gave me my first love, a mythical woman named “Suzanne,” and a lifelong longing for Chinese tea and oranges.

I’d wager that you know his words, even if you didn’t know they were his. Jeff Buckley’s 1994 cover of “Hallelujah” (from the studio album “Grace”), for example, has been called one of the top 10 greatest, ever. And Rufus Wainwright brought it to a new generation in his cover for the movie “Shrek.” Like Buckley’s and Wainwright’s, Cohen’s “Hallelujah“ could bring you to tears, except it’s too uplifting. And, I’ll admit I had previously thought that Madeleine Peyroux’s cover of “Dance Me to the End of Love” was unequaled. No more. Cohen’s is beyond description. Cohen is beyond description – a voice of generations, a timeless poet.

This live set combines the ethereal voices of the Webb Sisters (Charley and Hattie) and the sultry sounds of Sharon Robinson with Cohen’s granite, twisting and interweaving like the lyrics themselves. The songs, all written by Cohen, share a common element — a use of language that without warning, twists and turns in unexpected directions, slipping in a slight surprise when you least expect it. With an odd turn of a word, a rhyme you’d never expect, you’re suddenly pulled back from simple reverie in a way that reaches down into your soul and reminds you of life, and love, and of what it means to be human. Hallelujah.

The Harmonic Resonance of Grace

Gavin Clabaugh — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 16:34:30 +0000

It’s a long, uphill slog from the BART station on Market Street to San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral at the tip-top of Nob Hill. I was winded and red-faced when I reached the top and slipped into the nave looking for a seat. The place was packed, but I managed to plop into an empty space, on the far left, two pews back from the crossing, a fantastic seat. (There are always single slots in a world that travels in couples.) This particular evening, even the transepts — the left and right arms of a cruciform cathedral — were filled to the brim. People were spilling out into the aisles, only to be swept back every few minutes by fire-marshal fearing staff.

I’ll tell you now, I was mighty glad to see cushions on the pews. My ecumenical sorties into various churches and cathedrals don’t include memories of cushions. I admit it, when I walked up the aisle, I briefly succumbed to a moment of irrational fear; a fear of ass-numbing angst combined with childhood memories of church-induced narcolepsy. More so, I’m usually not one for choral groups, nor cathedrals for that matter – unless, of course, they have flying buttresses (the cathedrals, not the choral groups.)

I am quite fond of flying buttresses. I think I just like saying the words “flying buttress” — it has such a nice ring to it. Unfortunately, they’re not something that comes up often in casual conversation. It’s a shame. Someday, I’ll get to work it into a conversation. “Nice flying buttress you’ve got there,” I’ll say. “I dig the arches, man.”

Nevertheless, given the lack of flying buttresses, it was a surprise to find myself, in a cathedral, waiting for a choral performance. Little did I know I was in for a pleasant surprise, as good — perhaps even better — than a flying buttress.

As chance would have it, you see, I was at loose ends that particular evening in San Francisco. Chance is that way sometimes. So, when a friend offered a ticket I jumped. I’m a firm believer that opportunities not taken are opportunities lost. I despise lost opportunities. Moreover, it was this or cool my heels in that god-forsaken suburban wasteland known as Santa Clara. After a few trips to Santa Clara, my (somewhat) irrational fear of ending my years in a trailer park has been supplanted with an irrational fear of ending up as cubical monkey in Santa Clara or, worse yet, Palo Alto (shudder). The weather is nice though.

So it was chance — and the offer of dinner and a ticket — that brought me to hear the vocal sounds of Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares – once known as “The Bulgarian State Television Female Vocal Choir.” (Obviously, they have wisely replaced their Soviet PR firm, Merrill, Lynch, Sacco, Vanzetti, and Brezhnev.)

Truly, there is magic in the human voice, a magic I like. Those who know me know I love the sultry sounds of jazz and blues, singers like Madeline Peyroux, Melody Gardot, Corinne Bailey Rae, Nellie McKay; and Diana Krall. I even like Celtic Woman. There I fault genetic memory. I figure it stirs my Celtic genes or something. It makes me want to put on a kilt, drink mead, marry a red-headed woman, and swing a Claymore, not necessarily in that order. It makes me actually like the sound of bagpipes — a true sign of genetic insanity at its most fundamental.

I always figured the attraction was that, as a human, I am biased towards the sounds of other humans. (Despite what you may have heard, and despite liking the sounds of bagpipes, I am human. I have the papers to prove it.) But, even with that bias, choral music is a stretch. I learned otherwise.

There is another magic that happens when the human voice twists and turns, wafting in and out of phase with other voices, waves and frequencies ebbing, flowing and colliding, dancing with the harmonic resonance of stone and steel. There is a magic in sounds produced by these twenty-four Bulgarian women; women who sing in amazing dissonance and harmony, crossing phase, droning and even chirping.

As the choir — 24 eclectically sized, shaped and aged women — sang, I heard woodwinds, and strings, and even the harmonic drone of a bag pipes. I heard the basso profundo of the bassoon, and the weedy trill of the clarinet. I heard the drag of a bow across the cellos midriff. I heard the wind, I heard the sounds of a village market, the sounds of love lost and found, and the sounds of a people tossed and turned on the juxtaposition of Europe and Asia. Yet, there were no instruments, no woodwinds, no strings; only the sound of the human voice; the voice as instrument.

In their voices, I heard a rich quilt of sounds and images, harmonic and dissonant, at once alien and yet with a familiarity I could taste. One could almost see the waves of sound cascade off the gothic fanned arches of the cathedral’s ceiling and ricochet off the pillars to vibrate the stain glass windows. I’d swear – when the currents of dissonance and harmony collided, I could feel it in my teeth as well as my soul.

In their voices, was the sound of the wind as it swept out of the Carpathians; in their voices was the call of the Muezzin wafting out of the Middle East, across Turkey, into the heart of Bulgaria. In their voices were the gentle chirped murmurs of a village market; in their voices was the call of the power and universal anguish of love and courtship, echoing across time. There was even a dissonance in the translated titles of the songs: these were top-forty Bulgarian hits that spoke volumes in name alone; songs with names like “The Old Lady is Growing Onion,” “I Feel Sleepy, I Want to Go to Bed,” and “Pigeons are Cooing.” Their simple song, in complex voice, was a beauty beyond; a sum greater than the individual parts. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the chords cascade; bouncing and echoing across time and space – the harmonic resonance of grace against stone and steel.

Between Time and Timbuktu: Reflections on Globalization and the Electric Touareg

Gavin Clabaugh — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 03:30:29 +0000

It was many years later that I was to remember that day in Seattle. How I had ended up where I was, standing next to who I was, was beyond me. But, there I was — I was at the “top of the WAC” – the Washington Athletic Club — staring out the windows at what seemed to me at the time to be a giant abstract tableau. It was the end of November 1999 and I was looking at Seattle, laid out like a giant game of “Go.” The WTO was about to go into full swing — in what was to be known as the “battle for Seattle.”

From those windows high atop the WAC, I could see the various pieces on the board, see the planned movements and strategies as the police set up barricades and as people in the streets ebbed and flowed in response. It was easy to imagine reaching down and flipping a white stone to black, and thus changing the game. The game of “Go” is that way — the placement of single piece — a single move — can change the outcome of the game.

Seattle holds many fond memories for me, but that day bordered on the surreal. That day, beside me were some of the major pieces in the game, including James Wolfensohn. All in all, in the room were more than a dozen representatives of Globalization, with a capital Gee. I felt like Zelig. I kept thinking to myself that, properly, I should be down in the streets, relishing the scent of teargas in the morning. We were talking about the synergies of philanthropy, technology, and collaboration; I was imagining teargas.

These are the thoughts that swirled about my head as I watched five rather amazing musicians take a stage last week in San Francisco. I was at a concert. In fact it was a week bookended by music. Tonight was Tinariwen. Yo-Yo Ma was next Saturday. In between, philanthropy, technology and collaboration; some themes don’t change it seems.

These five fellows, in flowing Boubou robes, covered head to foot, with turbans wrapped about their heads, were playing Fender electric guitars (now there’s a truly global export) singing a rap song with a distinct West African beat, in a mix of French and Arabic. As the klieg lights shone down on these troubadours, only their eyes showing, guitars flashing, I was struck by the true amazing fact that it was globalization that had put them there; it was globalization that put me there, as well.

And, there in the row in front of me — globalized — were five young quintessentially Californian women dancing and ululating like they had spent their formative years in the High Atlas rather than Marin County. I was struck by the contrasts, by the sense of living on an interconnected planet. I was struck by the facts of globalization; and once again, things are neither black nor white.

The five fellows were Tinariwen, an almost indescribable musical group of Touareg from the southern Sahara. The Tinariwen story sounds like fiction. Guns and guitars, Ghadaffi’s poet-soldiers, Stratocasters in one hand, and a Kalashnikov in the other; supposedly, together, they count 17 bullet wounds among them. These were the Touareg, the nomadic desert warriors, the blue men of the desert. Their songs are the soundtrack of the ishumar (from chômeur, French for “unemployed”). They are the Sahara’s Generation X; once Malian rebels, now full-time musicians. (They are not a Volkswagen, despite what you may have heard.)

Sample Tracks

“Cler Achel” from Aman Iman (World Village)

“Tamatant Te Lay“ from Aman Iman (World Village)

On stage they’re an example of globalization beyond imagination, one of its consequences and one of its effects. It seems in music and the arts, where monolithic American culture has not run roughshod; we are experiencing a new renaissance. All hail rock and roll. All hail the magic mix of music that has me rocking to the Touareg one day, and gently enjoying Yo-Yo Ma the next. [This contrast and intersection is all the more poignant given Yo-Yo Ma's involvement with the "Silk Road" project.]

All around me that evening were the signs, the positive and negative effects of globalization. I rode to the concert in a Japanese hybrid and parked next to a fleet of others; I dined on a meal of sweet potato fries, California greens, topped with seared Ahi tuna, dressed with sesame seed oil and Japanese rice wine vinegar. I had a glass of French Viognier. I was wearing French shoes, a pair of jeans “engineered” in Germany (whatever that means) and made in Romania, and a Canadian shirt. And, I listened to the sounds of the desert, the raw tale of the Touareg, played on electric guitars made famous first by 1950′s rock and roll. Sub-Saharan nomads ripped from their lands, made unemployed and made famous by globalization.

I listened to the sounds of the desert, the sounds of a nomadic people displaced by the 21^st century, and the sounds of a people who suffer the fate of nomadic peoples all over the world.

From the Tinariwen web site (just that statement is amazing, when you think of it):

“…Forget the myths, forget the ‘guns-and-guitars’ fantasies and tales of blue-men on their camels. The humanity, the wonder and the epic sweep of the real Tinariwen story doesn’t need any photoshopping or romantic embellishments. It is the raw tale of an everyman, who was cut off from history and embraced the modern world, who lost his home and found solace in the guitar, who through pain and exile invented a new style of music that could express who he is and where he’s going. Nothing mythical or exotic about that. You can find the same story the world over…”

At the risk of showing my naiveté, clearly the effects of globalization are not all bad. Some are, in fact, grand. But others are frightening, and I often fear what we will lose, for lose we will, I fear. More so, I fear what the world will lose.

Moreover, I am, in fact, truly embarrassed by our current list of mainstream “cultural” exports. It is in music, culture, and entertainment where the west and the north are the great winners. We get better than we give. We trade the “O’Reilly Factor,” in return we get a richness and depth unplumbed. It’s striking and sad that we add so little of value to the trade, yet nevertheless seem to monopolize the market. Take Geraldo. I’ll gladly trade you Disco, the entire 1980′s, and Geraldo, for the richness of Mbaqanga, the pure energy of Tinariwen, and the sultriness of just about any French piano bar.

In this new world, where content is king, where creativity is the true currency, we seem to be rather impoverished.

Meanwhile, as I drive my Ford-but-really-Swedish car north today, into the Great Lakes winter, Afro-French-Arabic rap blaring out of an IPod (made in China no doubt); my imagination drives south, from Timbuktu to Essakane; perchance to the Festival in the Desert, and I remember: the placement of a single piece can change the whole game.

Café au Lait

Gavin Clabaugh — Sun, 20 May 2007 15:18:15 +0000

It was perfect, the perfect cup of coffee. I’m not even that fond of coffee, but for that moment, it was eight ounces of heaven in a cup.

Not only was it heaven, it was the last thing I expected. I was not in a terrific mood; unhappy with the world in general, little sleep, and having just come off more than 10-hours of various forms of transportation. Worse, some of my best laid plans — half the reason for the trip — had come a cropper; the last thing I wanted to hear was “your room is not yet ready, terribly sorry.”

Then and there, I was convinced that nothing could improve my disposition. I was wrong. Perhaps sensing my despair and not wanting the lobby littered with corpses, the hotel clerk quietly suggested that, just perhaps, I might want a coffee, all the while ushering me, ever so gently, into the dining room. He was smooth. I was in the dining room and seated even before I noticed.

“No, don’t worry about your bags,” he said, motioning the waiter over to the table. “We’ll take them up to your room. Just relax.”

“Café?” said the waiter, sliding up silently. Sighing, “Oui,” I said, in my best imitation of French. I pronounced it more like “weigh” than “wee” — vowels and I don’t get along — my French has a Spanish accent I just can’t shake. As defense, I try to pretend my French is Languedoc. It doesn’t work. I figure I sound like an idiot, something I’ll have to live with.

Then it hit me. The coffee was incredible, perfect — a small pewter pitcher of steamed milk, warm to the touch, and “un petite pichet” of black, strong, rich, almost-chocolate-like coffee. Placing a raw sugar cube in the coffee cup, I poured, first the milk and then, the coffee. The result was warm and rich, the color of milk chocolate, and heaven in a cup. I suddenly remembered what coffee really was.

Coffee and I are well acquainted — this will surprise my friends that have only seen me drink Genmaicha. It’s not that I don’t like coffee. I just don’t like bad coffee. More so, I can’t stand the “fratalian” combinations one is presented with today, too much choice, not enough flavor, and weird names like “fatty-latte-vente-gente-gordo-en-la-bañera.”

To me, coffee comes in six choices. Five are Spanish that I learned as a student in Spain, and I added in the cappuccino to round out the collection. I don’t think the Spanish have a cappuccino equivalent.

Cappuccino: A shot of Espresso, cut with steamed (hot) milk, and layered with milk foam on top. There are two variations: Cappuccino chiaro (light) and cappuccino scuro (dark). Properly, they’re served for breakfast; gauche I am, I like them after dinner now and then.
Café con leche (or Café au Lait / Milchkaffee): A mixture of coffee and steamed milk – usually in a 50/50 to 25/75 proportion – served in cup that you’d consider “small.” You drink it for breakfast, along with toast from yesterday’s baguette. You can have the milk either hot or warm.
Café cortado (or
Macchiato): Coffee that is “cut” with steamed milk. This is what one orders in bars, from little refreshment stands, sidewalk cafes, and the like. This is an afternoon coffee.
Café solo (or Espresso): A shot of coffee without milk; served in a tiny cup. Depending on the roast, this is what you think of when you think Espresso.
Café manchado: Mostly milk, steamed, with just a hint of coffee. It’s made with about ¼ coffee and the rest milk, kind of a reverse cortado. I think this might be the equivalent of a latte. I never drank one.
Carajillo: Coffee, black, enlivened with cognac or an anis drink such as Ricard. As a student, I found one or two of these greatly improved my command of the Spanish language.

There is another thing called a “Café Americano.” Don’t even think about it. It’s dishwater.

Once I had settled into my Café au Lait, I noticed the dining room. Solarium-like, the ceiling was glass, giving way to a view of overhanging trees; quiet, shaded, green — a relaxing room of wood and glass. Tom Waits was growling on the sound system, with the gravelly sounds of “Invitation to the Blues.” “Now that’s timing,” I muttered to the universe. “She’s a moving violation, from her conk down to her shoes. Well, it’s just an invitation to the blues…” I sung along under my breath: “And you feel just like Cagney, she looks like Rita Hayworth…”

I leaned back, letting Waits fill the spaces. He sings better than I do, and he knows the words. “Tom Waits for breakfast,” I thought to myself, “a wee bit heavy, but I like this place.” I thumbed through the pages on a Herald Tribune, noting that not much had changed overnight; everything was still going to hell. Perfect coffee, perfect setting: Calming, sheltering, private without that dreary anomie that comes with the typical Hyatt-Marriott-cum-Motel-66. In what seemed like a few minutes, the waiter was back. My room was ready, but “no hurry,” he said and smiled. “It will wait. Would you like another café?” I said, “Oui, merci.”

What I had found was one of those rare things, a traveler’s oasis; a hotel to add to my list of hotels where I don’t mind staying. I had decided to switch hotels for a myriad of reasons. The reasons — important then — had ended up irrelevant. The serendipitous result was: I liked the place, and I had another entry for what is a pretty short list of hotels that are just a little special.

Look, I’m not a globetrotter, but I do travel a bit. Yeah, there were a few years where my dog forgot my name, but those days are behind me. Now it’s lots of little trips, and a few big ones a year. And, hotels usually suck. It’s a room, it’s a bed, and it’s a lousy breakfast. Sometimes you get free internet.

I’ve stayed in more than my share of cinderblock cubes — nondescript hotels that could be anywhere from Abu Dhabi to Abilene. Some, like one motel outside of Colby Kansas, are memorable for the wrong reasons. That one was downwind from the nearby feedlot. Rachel, my dog, thought it smelled like Chanel No. 5, but, for me, it was a wee too “Chez Merde.” I’m serious. It was a smell so powerful it kept you awake at night.

This one, well, it had the makings of one to remember — but for the right reasons — including the best cup of café in the world. I officially added the Manos Premier to my list of hotels that don’t totally suck.

I discovered the next morning that not only do they serve a fine cup of coffee, but the coffee accompanies a wonderful buffet breakfast (included in the room rate – gotta love it): a buffet of smoked salmon, tropical fruit, and the quintessential collection of cold meats and cheeses. My lodgings were reasonable, not too fancy; furnished in French provincial, two floors, a sitting area and a loft overhead, reached by a slim staircase along one wall. The loft held the bed, and it looked out the two large windows that opened out into the street. It was quiet and cozy, friendly.

Finally, the bar, Kolya offered comfortable seating where I could stretch out my papers in the evening and plunk on my laptop without a second glance from anyone. A glass of Rhone set me back only €4 and it came with a plate of salted olives. It was Friday night, in a strange city, and I was working into the wee hours again, but at least it was a pleasant place to work, and I was looking forward to the breakfast. I was looking forward to another cup of coffee.

For the curious, my “hotels that don’t suck totally” list includes (in no particular order) the likes of The Grace in Rosebank [Johannesburg, South Africa]. The Grace is quite probably the best hotel in the world, and it definitely has the best breakfast in the world. Others on the list include, The Orca Lodge in Tofino [Vancouver Island, Canada], The Eldridge House [Lawrence, Ks.], Shaw’s Hotel [Prince Edward Island, Canada], Hotel de L’Abbeye [Saint Germain Des Pres, Paris], the Cour des Loges [Lyon, France], the Wingate Hibernian [Dublin, Ireland], the hotel at the Village at Spier [Stellenbosh, South Africa], the Tenaya Lodge at Yosemite [hey, my brother's the Chef, it's a terrific place!], and the Henley Park [Washington, DC].

The reason any particular hotel is on the list varies by the hotel. Some were just incredible places to be and to see, others were redoubts from a wicked world, while others just hold irreplaceable memories. And, then some just serve the best coffee in the world.

Zounds, Sounds

Gavin Clabaugh — Sat, 10 Mar 2007 23:25:39 +0000

One of the unanticipated side effects of trying to steep myself in Web 2.0 technology — my experiential dive into the world of digital media, of social networking, of Tags, and Blogs, and other fun stuff — is that I accidently rediscovered music. Rest assured, I’m not ready, yet, to turn myself into a Glyph, or go totally 2.0 and drop the ending vowel in my name (a la Flickr, et al. I guess I’d be Gavn.) I bought the iPod for audio books, but have been gradually seduced by sultry jazz singers, and music both old and new.

Suddenly, I realized I’ve not only discovered music (again), but I’ve discovered I like whole genres of music I used to know nothing about.

What’s noticeable about it — to me — is the new voyage of discovery. It’s different. The last voyage was in 197…err, yeah, well a while ago. Then the journey was through Kay-A-A-Why, the big 10.90, blasting from Canada to Brazil, Duluth to Key West; 50,000 watts of nighttime AM radio from Little Rock Arkansas. Radio. AM Radio! In Kansas, it was either KAAY, or Pastor Flash-like preachers playing the sounds of hellfire and brimstone from just over the border in Del Rio, Texas. (They were the first pirate radio stations, btw.) I went with KAAY.

Then, then it was a Clyde Clifford and the underground sounds of Bleaker Street. It was after 11:00 pm, and it wasn’t top forty. Kasey Kasem would have frowned. Bleaker Street was phenomenal, playing …”[c]uts by Arlo Guthrie, the Grateful Dead, It’s A beautiful Day, pre-pop-fame Heart, pre-pop-fame Pink Floyd… In fact, pre-pop-fame Eric Clapton, Iron Butterfly, Led Zeppelin, John Prine, Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Brown, Van Morrison…….the list could go on for a while……. And this was at a time when “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” was the standard of the industry…” That was then. Today’s musical journey of discovery has been quite different.

First, with minor exceptions, radio is a wasteland. Despite a two-hour commute, I don’t listen to the radio unless it’s the news (and sometimes the weather). My car radio has two stations pre-tuned: NPR and the local campus radio (which only covers about two square miles). Now that I think about it, I can understand why the various media companies are scared and confused by digital media – all their old models are toast. Radio is almost irrelevant. Music is viral, personal, and word of mouth, and viral runs smack-dab into DRM. DRM will lose. Toast. More on things that are toast in a later post.

What’s changed and what’s interesting, at least to me, is how this music has wandered into my life. Aside from a few recommendations from friends (and a whole series of albums by Paolo Conte that came from me hearing something in a café in Toulouse and subsequently having my wife sing it to a store clerk) the number one source has been “Customers who bought this item also bought…”

Amazon. Amazing. I feel so predictable. But, they’re usually right too. Those damn “customers” are pretty damn smart. ..

Nevertheless, if you’re looking for the sultry sounds of a smoky piano bar, the heartbreak of the saxophone, or just a beautiful voice, these ladies are worth listening too.

Madeleine Peyroux — Particularly “Careless Love”
Beth Orton – Just about anything, but particularly “The Comfort of Strangers”
Diana Krall — Again, just about anything, but particularly “The Girl in the Other Room” (and her cover of Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You” on “Live in Paris” is to die for.
Holly Cole — Particularly her Tom Waits tribute, “Temptation“.

Here’s one more, wholly different — found not on Amazon but on a 6:00 am Sunday morning show that squeaks out of the local low-powered campus radio; a show called the Dromedary Express. (It’s moved up in the world and is now on at 10:00 am.)

Stellamara — Star of the Sea and The Seven Valleys. It’s hard to describe. Something like: 16^th century Spanish chants meets the Balkans. It’s described as “original, Balkan-near Eastern-Medieval Ambient.” It incorporates medieval European, Persian, Arabic, Indian, Turkish and Balkan with subtle electronic textures. The result is a sublime. Sonja Drakulich, the lead vocalist is astounding.

That’s my contribution to viral music marketing.

This brings me around to radio again. Much of the innovative role of radio has, of course, moved to the Internet. Internet radio is vibrant, amazing and dynamic; and global. Its where I find and listen first. Then I buy.

[If you're buying, by the way, I highly recommend CDBaby. Their customer service is not only good, but funny. I got the best follow-up letter from them I had ever seen in my life. It was so good I had to read it to half a dozen people. Everyone agreed. And, Amazon had "The Seven Valleys" on order for over 5 months — CDBaby got it to me in three days, with free shipping no less. ]

The vibrancy of Internet Radio is illustrated by one small show, a show where Bob Dylan plays disc jockey, spinning the music he loves for an hour a week on XM Online (who knew?). It’s called Theme Time Radio Hour. Amazing; Bob Dylan as disc jockey. (Just to give you a sense of the global-ness of it all, I heard about this first from an Italian-Ethiopian friend who lives in Brussels.)

But, we are cursed with living in exquisitely interesting times, a time when rules change, when rules are being written, and re-written. Unfortunately, the pressure to turn that vibrant world of Internet radio into an homogenized wasteland of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” remixes is just as strong as ever. Just last week the U.S. Copyright Royalty Board proposed upping the royalty payments required by Internet broadcasters. This will start the homogenizers running, forcing consolidation and “clear channeling” everything back into a boring box.

Volvo Hacking – Hardwiring my Ipod – Research Phase

Gavin Clabaugh — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 02:00:00 +0000

I commute one hundred miles a day – an hour each way. During the first five years or so, I entertained myself with NPR and the BBC. Then — seeking to be more “productive” I started digesting books on tape and later, books on CD. Turns out I have a passion for non-fiction — science writing, history, politics… you name it, I’ll listen to it, ten hours a week.

Unfortunately 10 hours a week in a car can eat up a lot of audio books and they’re not cheap. Moreover, they’re clumsy to deal with — stacks of CDs or boxes of tape scattered about the car.

So — after some encouragement from a friend in DC — I signed up for Audible.com’s “Gold” membership and splurged and bought a video IPOD when they first came out. (Black of course).

In hindsight, I’ve saved more than the cost of the ‘pod and the Audible subscription. My Border’s bills have dropped substantially. Now I only buy my “real” books there. I’ll never give that up, by the way, a trip to Borders is an evening’s entertainment that online buying never duplicates

Between Audible and the plethora of podcasts I like, filling up those ten hours with productive audio is a breeze.

The only fly in the ointment was the Ipod-to-Volvo integration. It was, IMHO, lousy. I had one of those FM IPO connectors. A device called a “TransPod” made by DLO. It held the Ipod, charged it, and used FM to broadcast the sound through my car stereo. It wasn’t bad, but it just wasn’t very good.

The quality was acceptable, but just. It was always slightly “muted,” picked up static now and then, and tended to get — for lack of a better description — kind of “scratchy.”

As well, after a year of wear and tear, the device no longer fit snugly in the cigarette lighter socket. It would wobble up and down when I touched the Ipod. It made trying to select songs downright dangerous. (It’s dangerous enough to try to spin and click one’s IPOD at 70 MPH without it wiggling to and fro. It’s location was not optimum either. The socket was down by the shift lever, hence the Ipod was right next to the shift lever as well, making it awkward to reach.

I set out to improve on things. Many cars now have built in IPod connections, and I had heard that Volvo offered one, but a little Google research indicated that it left a bit to be desired. Volvo’s Ipod connections — ever conscious of safety — disabled the click wheel totally, giving you control only through the radio controls, without display. It seems you could click through the songs, one by one, or you could setup five or so play lists labeled Volvo1 through Volvo5.

Moreover, the Volvo installed adaptor ain’t cheap. All told, including installation, it would have cost twice that of the Ipod itself. Not an option.

In looking for alternatives, via Google, I discovered a company that makes after-market connections for Ipods. The company is USA-SPEC. http://www.usaspec.com/ipod.html I soon found a device specifically designed for my car (it sounded suspiciously just like the OEM version that Volvo was offering by the way. The difference was this could be set to enable the clickwheel and display.)

They also make them for Ford, GM, Honda, Toyota, VW, Jeep, Chrysler, Dodge, Lincoln, Merc, and BMW, by the way. The reviews looked good and the price was right. ($150.00). They claimed it was easy to install. I’m fairly handy so I bought it.

That solved the connection problem. Now I needed some way and some place to mount the damn thing. After an hour or so lurking on the “SwedeSpeed” forum, I saw a reference to something called ProClip. They bill themselves as “simply ingenious.” I’d have to agree.

It’s a two part solution – one part is the custom mounting clip for your car, and one part is the custom mounting holder for your device. Pick the mount for your car, and then pick a holder for your device. The two pieces then fit together. Brilliant. And, not only did they have Volvo, they had multiple choice, multiple devices and locations. Just to see, I looked up my wife’s 1995 Eagle Summit Wagon — a oddball car if there ever was one — and there it was. Amazing.

For Volvo, there was a choice of five mounting locations — no tools required, it just clips in. There was my Ipod too, a choice of upwards of ten options including one specifically designed for the USA-SPEC cable connection. Hurrah! Total cost: $80

I’d have to say: If you need a way to mount virtually anything in your car (they have stuff for Blackberry, Ipod, Dell, HP, etc, etc. Lots of stuff I’ve never even heard of!). These folks are ‘da bomb. http://www.proclipusa.com

Unbelievably, the ProClip mounts without tools. Mine just clipped right in over the AC vent. (I also like the fact that all of the sample pictures on the web site seem to be of my dashboard!) Made me feel confident.

Hardwired Adaptor for Ipod = $150

Secure, custom designed mounting adaptor = $80

Feeling a fancy as a BMW with a built in connection = Priceless

Now I just had to install it without jacking things up royally. That took about 3 and ½ hours and a little bit of head scratching, improvising, and solder, as well as a visit or two the SwedeSpeed forum on the net to re-re-read the instructions.

Here’s the end result:

Oh… the sound is magnificent.

Volvo Hacking – Hardwiring My Ipod – Installation Phase

Gavin Clabaugh — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 00:53:34 +0000

According to the SwedeSpeed forum, installing the USA-SPEC Volvo Ipod adaptor should take about 45 minutes. Figuring this was my first attempt, I allowed 2 hours. I was done in three and a half. (I spent a half hour looking for the battery!)

Here’s a picture of the adaptor in all it’s glory:

Here is what it took:

1. Supplies:

a. Five feet of 18 gauge wire

b. Rosen core solder

c. Heat and Shrink tubing

d. Electrical Tape

e. USA-SPEC Adaptor

f. ProClip Mount and Holder

2. Tools:

a. Soldering Pencil

b. Torx head screwdriver

c. Bone Tool (soft plastic pry bar – I used a $0.98 spatula)

d. Metric socket set

e. Dremel tool (cut a small hole in the back of the storage compartment)

f. Flexible hands and fingers

The steps:

1. Before beginning, extend the ground cable on the USA-SPEC device. I added 5 feet of 18 gauge copper wire, soldered together and then sealed with “heat & shrink” plastic tubing. You can get this stuff at any good hardware store or (more expensive) at the local Radio Snack.

2. Set the dip switches on the USA-SPEC unit for “direct” mode. The alternative (“playlist”) disables the Ipod controls when connected. You don’t want that.

3. Move the passenger seat all the way back. You’ll need access to under the seat later in the installation.

4. Disconnect the negative post of the battery. This is supposedly crucial. If you don’t then I think the antitheft systems have a fit and you get error messages from your SRS system and/or the radio/CD head unit. All the instructions also say to NOT disconnect anything like the radio or the climate control system. Easy enough. I left all plugs connected during the whole process. But, I still disconnected the battery.

This took a while as I first had to find the battery. A quick look under the hood – Nope. No battery. My last car had it under the back seat. Nope, not there either. (About this time I should have read the owners manual…) Opened the trunk – nope, no battery. Wait. Where’s the spare? Ah Ha! The battery is in the hidden compartment with the spare tire. Sneaky Swedes.

a. Remove Spare Tire

b. Remove Battery Cover (need metric socket set to loosen the bolts)

c. Disconnect the negative connection.

5. Set the parking break. Insert the key in the ignition, and move it to the first position, put foot on break, and move the gear shift lever as far back as possible. You need this out of the way. Leave the key in (as you can’t remove it right now anyway) but turn everything off.

6. Use the spatula (or bone tool) to pry off the pen-holder cover located at the bottom of the center console. It just pops off. Set aside.

7. Push the two clips holding the gear-shift cover and remove it gently. Set aside.

8. Use the Torx screwdriver to remove the two screws holding the bottom of the climate control panel. Carefully set aside (I put them in the cup holder).

9. Yank the climate control panel out – this takes some oomph. It is held in place by two metal clips on the bottom of the radio head unit. They slide into slots on the top of the Climate unit. The right side slides out easier than the left. Kind of pull forward to slide it off the clips. Move it to the side – leaving all wires connected.

10. Now remove the two screws holding the bottom of the radio unit. Put those screws carefully aside. Once removed, the whole unit, including the storage compartment on the left, kind of slides down and forward. Leave everything plugged in.

11. Now you have access to the rear of the radio — the USA-SPEC plugs in the back of the radio. My unit had two sockets available. I think one is for the CD changer and one is for the NAV unit, but they were unmarked. I worried for a minute, but the cable that came with the USA-SPEC only fit one socket – whew.

12. I then detached the storage unit and used a dremel tool to cut a small hole in the back of the storage compartment. Then I fed the small end of the Ipod connection cable thru the hole, leaving enough slack to connect to the Ipod mount. Finally, with cable in place, I reattached the storage compartment to the radio unit.

13. I then fed both cables — the one from the radio and the one from the Ipod connector — down the right side of the console, out the bottom of the console near the passenger seat, and down under the passenger seat Be careful to run the cables under the seat rail. Once you get the cables down the side of the console, it’s easy to slide them back towards the seat. Leave them loose for now.

14. Run the ground cable along the top of the glove box area, and down the front side of the door. There is a grounding point right under where the trim starts. See picture. Running the wire is not that easy. Finding the grounding points is easy. Just loosen a bolt and wrap a loop of the grounding wire around it. Tighten again.

15. Set the radio unit/storage compartment back into place. It kind of clips into a lip on the top, and then sets back until the screw holes match up. Be sure to feed the USA-SPEC power cable (and fuse assembly) under the radio, leaving it accessible. You’ll be just tucking it behind the climate control system after we splice it into the lighter for power.

16. Check the slack on your cables under the passenger seat. With the radio snug, pull up any needed slack in the cables. Then put the screws back into the radio unit.

17. Connect up the USA-SPEC adaptor, and slide it into the depression under the seat rail. It should fit there nicely. You’re done with it for now. If you need access later, it’s easy to get to.

18. Carefully strip off some insulation on the positive wire that runs to the lighter and attach the positive feed to the Ipod adaptor. On mine, either of the purple wires that ran to the center of the lighter would work. I stripped off about ½ inch of insulation, wrapped the wire and soldered the connection, finishing with a couple of inches of electrical tape.

19. Tuck the fuse assembly and wires back in the crevice below the radio, and slip the climate control unit back on to the clips, and replace all the screws.

20. Replace the gear shift cover and then snap the pen holder back into place.

21. Attach the Pro-Clip mount to the car, and attach the Ipod cable to the Ipod holder. It fits in nicely, holding the universal docking connector snugly. Attach the holder to the mount and adjust the cable slack.

22. Put the car back into park, and remove the key.

23. Reattach the battery, and replace the spare tire, etc. Clean things up, Pet dog, and put away soldering iron, tools, and the like.

24. Start car — crossing fingers that nothing starts to spark or the like — and insert the Ipod in the ProClip holder.

25. Set the Volvo radio source to “CD–Changer and… voila it works! Crank up Buddha Bar and take the dog for a ride.