SilverDocs: Green intelligence June 12, 2007

Tonight, Silverdocs kicks off at the American Film Institute, Silver Theatre in downtown Silver Spring, Maryland. A week of cutting edge documentaries from across the globe, all sorts of clever directors and producers shuffling along Colesville Road, looking lost…it promises to be as good as last year’s, even if it doesn’t pack the Al Gores or Martin Scorceses of 2006.

It runs from June 12-17, with documentaries indoors and outdoors, from morning through to midnight. Come check out a flick and get yo’ think on!

Of the myriad marvels on offer, I think the following are going to be particularly good:

Buddha’s Lost Children:

In the Golden Triangle region of northern Thailand, a Buddhist monk travels around the mountains on horseback. The stunning forests, covered in mist, appear as peaceful as the meditative practice of the monk. But their calm belies the reality: this remote region is dominated by the drug trade, and its hill tribe people are
desperately poor.

Khru Bah Neua Chai Kositto, the Tiger Monk, has devoted himself to helping the orphaned and abandoned children of this region. He gives advice to the villagers, he prays with them, repairs temples and takes neglected and  marginalized children into his care. Parents give sons as young as four over to the Tiger Monk because they know the little boys will have plenty to eat and a good upbringing.

In his Golden Horse Monastery, the Buddhist nun Mae Ead teaches the boys to read, write, cook, wash and brush their teeth. Khru Bah himself is strict. He was a tough Thai boxing champion before he found inner peace through Buddhism. His martial arts training required discipline. Children in his care have to take responsibility for themselves and their horses. Guided by the teachings of Buddha, Khru Bah’s mental training teaches them to tell right from wrong and live their lives with purpose.

The director of BUDDHA’S LOST CHLDREN, Mark Verkerk, sums up what is fascinating about Khru Bah’s story: He has translated the Buddhist ideal of infinite compassion and unconditional love into measurable action. The children he helps have been abandoned by time. He gives them the possibility of a future.

Please Vote For Me:

What does democracy look like in the world’s largest Communist country? Start small, very small. This impossibly charming film features a third grade class in Wahun province and the intense politicking in the race to become Class Monitor.

PLEASE VOTE FOR ME captures many elements of life in China today missed by all the magazine cover stories and astounding growth statistics. This story unfolds far from the giant factories, crowded markets, or even picturesque villages. These classrooms are state-of-the-art and the children’s homes look remarkably like middle class urban homes in the West. The film provides a private view of a microcosm of contemporary Chinese culture.

It is also a classic election drama, albeit with 7-year-olds. The three candidates, two boys and a girl, are chosen by the teachers, but they conduct real campaigns and are chosen in a free election. Ironically their goal is to become the student charged with maintaining order and reporting rule violations to the teachers. Director Weijun Chen travels home with the candidates, each a product of the one-child policy, where over-eager parents coach and cajole their child. They even participate in a little preelection gift-giving in an effort to manipulate the race so their kid will win! Systems of government may differ broadly, but human nature not so much.

Director Weijun Chen’s award-winning film TO LIVE IS BETTER THAN TO DIE was seen by millions around the globe. PLEASE VOTE FOR ME will reach over 100 million viewers as part of the international documentary project “Why Democracy?” scheduled to air globally in October 2007.

Helvetica:

DC Area Premiere

Once in a rare while, a film comes along that draws an irresistible story from the unlikeliest source. First-time director Gary Hustwit’s HELVETICA is just such a film. This playful exploration of the font that defined modern type design is both a history of the titular typeface and an engrossing meditation on graphic art that decodes the subtle influence of fonts on our emotions, attitudes, and desires.

Conceived in Switzerland’s Haas type foundry, Helvetica was created to encapsulate the burgeoning postwar modernist movement and its hallmarks of neutrality and order. The font quickly became the default choice for corporate branding, street signage, and print design.

Inevitably, this ubiquity sparked a design-world rebellion, and the film gives equal voice to cheeky postmodernist detractors who came to view Helvetica as a tool of corporate hegemony. Reacting against uniformity, younger artists developed hand-drawn fonts, fractured layouts and an elaborate arsenal of outré methods intended to disrupt Helvetica’s “dull blanket of sameness.”

But Helvetica’s uncanny balance and cool clarity survived this onslaught, and a new generation of designers reimagined it not as a global monster of conformity but as an infinitely extensible tool that functions in any context. As the film’s cast of design luminaries trade barbs and debate the merits and pitfalls of the world’s most famous font, the mysterious ability of Helvetica to accept and contain an array of interpretations and sensibilities emerges. Like the film itself, it attunes and focuses our awareness of design and its impact on the world around us.

Hip Hop Revolution:

North America Premiere

In American culture, the affirmative impulses of hip-hop are all but completely overshadowed by the negative connotations of gangsterism, sexism, and consumerism. Women are exhibited and exploited and thugs are admired as empowered and in control. But when hip-hop started during the 1970s in the South Bronx, it was a movement of self-expression and self-actualization, advocating personal dignity and validating personal experience in the face of urban poverty, violence and disenfranchisement.

In the Cape Flats, outside Cape Town, South Africa the music of the South Bronx found a receptive audience who recognized in the American ghettos problems similar to their own. Economic apartheid is not so far from political apartheid, to the person trapped within. Despite isolation by the Western boycott during the 1980s and censorship by their own government, South Africans heard and found inspiration in American hip-hop—from early East Coast right up through Public Enemy and NWA—and in the break dancing and graffiti art that accompanied turntablism and street poetry.

The result is an indigenous South African hip-hop culture, rich with African rhythms far more explicit than the indirect influence of that continent on American R&B, and deeply expressive of the obstacles facing post-Apartheid youth: HIV-AIDS, poverty, unemployment, gangsterism, poor access to education, and gender inequity. In interviews with South African musicians and artists past and present, including members of the influential Prophets of Da City (POC), Weaam Williams gives voice to South Africa’s hip-hop subculture, and reminds Western viewers of the complexity of black experience, at home and worldwide.

Q Radio: A Collector’s Edition ITSLATEAGAIN Podcast! June 12, 2007

Welcome to Q Radio: a Special Edition from ITSLATEAGAIN: The Podcast Series!

Q Radio is not a traditional podcast, or online radio show. Rather, it is a series of vignettes from various characters living around Q Street in the Shaw neighborhood of Washington D.C. Shaw has become a highly controversial battleground in recent months for the ongoing gentrification debate that permeates new developments in the district. Gentrification, the process in which lower cost neighborhoods undergo physical renovation and increased property values, and more importantly: an influx of wealthier residents who often push out the previous, poorer residents.

Q Radio is the word off the street, where the conversations get ugly, the race and class lines are clearly drawn and hostilities are shared against the backdrop of rising gang violence. But the voices of Q also offer glimpses of hope: unlikely friendships are formed, visionary young go-getters continue to inspire.

There’s Daniel, an Ethiopian immigrant whose perspective on being black in America is being reshaped through his daughter. Tony, the doubting patron of a local church accused of “slumlording.” And that’s not to mention Mel, the guilt-tripping young professional and Gustavo, with worries regarding MS-13 and human traffickers. These, and other characters, provide insight into the diversity of walks of life in Shaw, soundtracked by a groove-centric collection of songs and beats.

Look for tracks from Amon Tobin, Royksopp, Fujiya and Miyagi, Sam Cooke, Spank Rock, Talib Kweli, Andrew Bird and Mbongeni Ngema, among others.

I recently moved out of Shaw, and so would like to dedicate this pod-story to the kids at Kennedy Rec. I played ball there a number of times, and after breaking the ice, found many of them to be fun, good-natured young adults.

Collector’s Edition: Q Radio: Voices from Shaw

NB: All characters in this pod-story are fictional.

NNB: In the rare chance that you belong to a large music company and do not appreciate hearing particular tunes in this pod-story, do let me know and I’ll be sure to take it down, sans lawyer.

Engaging the hard to engage May 7, 2007

A friend who works in online advertising has finished his incredibly slick and fun spot for his company, 10ton production.

Their site is called getengagedquickly, and their video, which features two impossibly good looking young actors, is excellent. Check it out.

While you’re at it, this Philips shave everywhere site is particularly hilarious.

Coachella 2007 Review: Rage, Bjork, Julieta Venegas and dust May 3, 2007

“People of Coachella, lay down your arms.”

That was the straight-forward plea of bassist Nick Seymour of the reunited antipodean band Crowded House, addressed to the baying crowd of young men assembling at the foot of the main stage to see the headline act at this year’s Coachella Music Festival, Rage Against the Machine. Like silent assailants, they slid through the sea of festival-goers during fading light, an army of teenage boys in bandanas and black shirts with a post-Rage generation’s worth of testosterone to burn and little patience for adult pop more suited to their parent’s era.

“We want Rage! Get the fuck off the stage!,” came one chant, not long after one of myriad water bottle projectiles knocked over Neil Finn’s microphone during the omnipresent and prescient ballad “Don’t Dream it’s Over.” The fact that the song’s critique of apathetic middle-class malaise mines similar thematic territory to that of Rage’s denunciatory catalogue was lost, quite literally in this case, on the impatient youth. Worse still was the fact that this performance marks Crowded House’s first reunion tour since original drummer Paul Hester’s suicide two years ago. But the band soldiered on courageously, with a new Questlove-aping drummer and Neil’s son on keys injected into the line-up, amidst the sweaty thousands who had dutifully trekked out into the Californian desert to see a very different but similarly timeless band one more time.

“The Battle of Coachella,” read one popular knock-off t-shirt, echoing the infamous “Battle of Los Angeles” Rage tour of past. Their riotous live shows had quickly entered the realms of rock folklore, ever since Zack de la Rocha and the boys had shockingly split ways several years ago. And Coachella got what it had been thirsting for, delivered with all the majestic fury few bands have since touched. Rage Against the Machine, having raised an entire sub-genre—“rap rock”—through the blunt power with which they wield their tools, proved their continuing relevancy last Sunday with a stirring set of now classic songs. Emerging from self-imposed obscurity with a handsome new afro, Zack’s angry rhymes sounded as fresh and scything as ever, proving that even a vocalist as full-throated as Chris Cornell could never provide as satisfying an accomplice to guitarist Tom Morello and his signature pyrotechnics.

Opening with “Testify,” followed by the triumphant “Bulls on Parade,” the band tore their way through confident renditions of songs from each of their three studio releases. They surprised the audience with their popular cover of “Renegades of Funk” by Afrika Bambaataa before closing the main set with “Wake Up,” from their self-titled album. During the middle section of the song, Zach offered the diatribe the crowd had been waiting for, calling for the current administration to be “hung, tried and shot…in that order” as war criminals, which, surprisingly enough, received only an ambiguous response from the crowd. Rage soon returned to play an encore of “Know Your Enemy” which segued into “Killing in the Name,” leaving a stadium’s worth of fans with their flipped birds waving about in the air goofily, as if at a middle-school punk gig. Such irony was suitable for much of the crowd, for whom the band surely conjures memories of angrier, more hormonal years, a nostalgia quickly deflated by the wayward teens hurling themselves upon each other at the front of the stage.

As an Australian who grew up in the eighties humming Crowded House melodies before Rage caught my tortured teen soul at 15, effectively turning me on to politics and subsequent years of activism and advocacy, to me the irony made perfect sense. Only by obediently forking out almost three hundred dollars (!) and padding the pockets of both ticketmaster and music promoters could we earn the privilege of screaming hoary revolutionary epithets into the desert air. Though Morello continues to voice his Marxist politics with full conviction and de la Rocha’s lyrics call for open insurgency, the only bourgeois target who is assured of feeling the concert’s effects after Sunday were the mothers of bloody-nosed teens, washing their laundry after the show. As I rocked out to Rage’s three-minute thunderclaps before the massive red star backdrop of the EZLN–an anarchist group in Zapata, Mexico–I admitted internally that all of this was, at some level, a farce. The revolution that sounded so righteously forthcoming in junior high, now, just sounds righteous. A “fist in the air in the land of hypocrisy,” indeed.

—

Beyond the much-anticipated headliner’s altogether victorious return, Coachella itself was a joy-filled rollercoaster hajj of indie music: part post-modern reversal of the flight of the Jews, part Who’s Who List of 2007. Over 100 bands from an eclectic mix of musical walks, five separate stages, multiple extortion-lite beer tents and a curious mix of environmental booths and neo-apocalyptic vaudeville were laid out over Empire Polo fields in the diminutive town of Indio, California, where 70,000 odd revelers descended for this, the 7th year in the festival’s history. For three days, we parched under the cloudless sun, exacerbating our dehydration with cups of Heineken and greasy stall food before taking grateful relief under the preciously laid out tents. All this in the name of music, the established faith of secular young America. For this longtime Coachella aspirant, whose first year out of tertiary education engendered both the time and disposable income to make the pilgrimage, I was an instant convert. Though there are a number of yearly festivals now in practice throughout the United States, I know of none that can match Coachella, blow for blow, in terms of depth, quality and variety of musical fulfillment.

From the thoroughly fleshed out performer’s list, one can draw LA populist perennials Rage and Red Hot Chili Peppers, legendary reunited groups Jesus and Mary Chain and Happy Mondays, leading mainstream hip hop (Roots) and backpack (El-P, Busdriver) acts, scruffy buzz bands from across the pond (Arctic Monkeys, Fratellis) outstanding international talents (Manu Chao, Konono No. 1,), electronic mainstays (Tiesto, Gotan Project) and timeless country legends (Willie Nelson), to name but a few. The weekend quickly turned into a series of hard decisions, as adjacent acts of prodigious talent led to continuous dilemmas–”Air versus Lily Allen” (easily answered by the former’s tardy entrance) or “!!! versus the Decembrists.”

“Should I take the risk on (highly touted but unknown indie act) Coco Rosie in the Gobi, space out to trance with the ravers over at Sahara, or catch the cell phone waving to “Under the Bridge” back at main stage?” we asked one another, squirting hand sanitizer into our hands. Never before have I eaten a plastic plate dinner as epic as that soundtracked by Manu on one stage and Air on the other. Even an act as uncelebrated as pooping became epic: as I took a deep breath, dashed into the portaloo and tried to think of fluffy clouds, Blonde Redhead’s incredible “23″ came shuddering through the plastic can to backdrop my dropping.

At the conclusion of each evening, I would reassemble with my crew of fellow revelers at our designated meeting spot, a giant tesla coil which periodically shot out bolts of lightning, offering even more entertainment to those for whom a dozen mini-gigs in a day was not quite enough. Past horse sheds we would trek, returning to our dust-covered cars for the snail crawl out of Indio to nearby Palm Springs, where we had taken out three condos for the weekend. Having washed from our tired bodies a peculiar mixture of sun block, spilled beer, sanitizer, grass seeds and human sweat (of which the majority was not our own), we reflected, analyzed and then strategized for the following day’s proceedings. Though the bands started playing shortly after 1pm, the less adventurous of us laid low until later in the afternoon, trading off heat stroke and more minor acts for the benefits of poolside cocktails and Nintendo Wii boxing matches. The fifth-year USC architecture majors amongst us snuck in morning thesis sessions; I studied set schedules instead, laughing as my diminutive friend displayed her surprisingly sharp skills as a joystick pugilist, pummeling her boyfriend out of the virtual ring.

—

Of all the acts outside of the frat-tastic Chili Peppers, perhaps Bjork was the most universally adored. Indie’s reigning princess-queen, she closed the first night’s proceedings in nothing short of regal brilliance. On stage, she is a lithe, dynamo performer, thoroughly engaging both in her nymphish physicality and the recurrently wondrous epiphany that such a remarkable sound is indeed emanating from the lungs of that tiny woman wearing the space suit. She played a handful of songs from her excellent new LP, “Volta,” but it was the singles which won over a rapturous crowd. “Army of Me” opened its wings slowly, almost ominously, before releasing itself over the refrain through Bjork’s electrifying, drawn out exhale. “Hyperballad” was the evening’s clincher, an emotive ballad which stands as a timeless high point in the Icelandian’s still ascending sonic travails. However, in the ensuing post-show analysis, a friend–himself a Bjork hyper-fan who had patiently waded his way to the front of the stage–pointed out what he saw as serious flaws in that song’s performance: apparently, when the pre-programmed bass came in, it was noticeably off-key against the horns, upon which Bjork modulated keys, somewhat unsuccessfully. It was testament to her skill and live prowess as an artist that the majority of the crowd realized nothing, but for the most tuned-in listeners.

As enchanting as it was to see the virtuosic queen perform live, it couldn’t match the intimacy of Julieta Venegas, who I had seen earlier in the day in the Gobi tent, the smallest of the stages, trafficked by more obscure acts. Julieta, a native of Tijuana, Mexico and long-standing crush of this non-Spanish speaker, writes cheerful accordion pop songs that your mother can hum along to. This being southern California, the crowd was majority Latino, and Chicano pride ran high.

I discussed Mexican indie bands with an art student from Bakersfield before our princess took to the stage in a bright purple dress, looking to all the world like God’s true gift to man as she grooved out to “Eres Para Mi,” which sounds like an Ace of Base B side. We cheered and hollered, before the men in the audience released a simultaneous sigh of collective yearning. Slapping away at her familiar red accordion, Julieta made the instrument look sexier than I’d previously thought possible, dispelling any remaining visions of suspender-clad polka bands as she spun her way through the dancier cuts and gently rolled through the ballads. Alternating fluently between Spanish and English to the largely bilingual crowd on topics of relationships (sigh) and marriage (longer sigh), her beauty and refinement stood as a light of hope for her countrymen here, the hidden thousands whose futures lie tenuously at the whim of xenophobic power. “Lento” and “Andar Conmigo“, a moving tribute to naivete and young love, were the two obvious crowd favorites. During “Limon Y Sal,” two men wearing pig masks and green fatigues took to Julieta’s flanks, briefly and curiously marching about on stage before quickly departing. Julieta ended with the single “Me Voy” from her most recent album, and for the first time in a long while, I felt butterflies take flight inside my chest.

Of the groups I had been less intimately familiar with, Andrew Bird and Faithless were two real standouts. Bird, a singer-songwriter from Minnesota who plays folksy, orchestral pop songs, reminds me of a young Sufjan Stevens, except that Bird actually plays the string parts in his songs. He moved fluidly between numerous instruments during the same song, and his lyricism, particularly on “Imitosis,” is already well polished. Not quite so new to the scene, British act Faithless rocked Sahara as hard as anybody I saw in the dance tent over the three days. Theirs is a silky mix of trip hop and jungle, with enough world influence to make references to Massive Attack and Morcheeba feel lazy. I also only caught short segments of Amos Lee and Teddy Bears, but was impressed by the snippets I caught. The former’s baritone voice is inviting like honey and his bluesy craftsmanship as a composer undeniable; Teddy Bears provided an all-out rocktronica party, bear costumes and all.

Coachella makes its name on indie bands, and I caught the obvious fragments I sought whilst drifting between various tents enough to make the extra effort out in the heat valuable. “Young Folk” by Peter, Bjorn and John was this year’s biggest sing-along amongst the Pitchfork crowd; “Let’s Make Love” by CSS and “Don’t Stop” by Brazilian Girls were road-tested, sultry favorites. I was too exhausted to truly appreciate LCD Soundsystem’s Saturday show, leaving early to pass out by Gotan Project, but Hot Chip and !!! both brought the dance punk might. I was pleasantly surprised to see the crowd grow steadily during Konono No. 1’s Sunday afternoon gig. The Congolese dance group provided a more subdued but polyrhythmically funkier soundscape for 20-something white girls to perform their “hippy white girl dance,” which, as one friend noted, after several decades, remains in persistent and unfortunately regular circulation. The only real disappointments for me were both of the British isles: Jarvis Cocker’s self-deprecating wit couldn’t hide the datedness of his solo material, and the Good, the Bad and the Queen sounded lethargic and flat.

I’ll leave it to others to gush, but let it be agreed that Arcade Fire is at present the world’s most important band. Their Saturday set on the main stage was nothing short of earth-shaking, though the material from sophomore album “Neon Bible” still didn’t match up to the highs from “Funeral,” the most superlative of which were “Wake Up” and “Rebellion.”

—

Besides the music, the crowd itself was a fascinating mix of largely 20-something music aficionados, young families, testy Rage heads and the sort of white dread hippies that invariably end up at such events. For the most part, the group was remarkably appreciative and self-controlled. Even the show grounds were being kept clean this year, thanks to an ingenious recycle-10-bottles, get-1-free deal going on water, the festival’s most precious commodity. Being consciously Asian that I am, I reveled in the hundreds (if not thousands!) of fellow yellow brethren, as well as the growing Latino and Black representation in an indie music community which remains largely pale of tone. Whilst waiting for Air, I struck up a conversation with a surfer couple from Long Beach who had brought their baby boy to his first Coachella. Going by his limited reaction capacity (he was drinking from his mother’s teat during our discussion), his father was convinced of his son’s appreciation for earlier performances. Now that is a truly great way to raise your children.

The crew I attended with happened to be split between a convivial collection of techy graphic artists and Silicon Valley entrepreneurs from Texas and California now based in San Diego nearing their 30s, and recent private college grads just settling into our 20s. Being millenials, naturally, we claimed descents from Africa, Iran, India, Mexico, China, Vietnam, Australia and Europe. I find that as hackneyed and ossified as discourse around multiculturalism has become, I would put forth that our parent’s greatest victory last weekend can be claimed on the grounds of Coachella. Spread across a giant polo field, perspiring mercilessly beneath the desert sun, together we watched a gorgeous sunset over the main stage at an even more beautiful venue. And, though some immature tool might have knocked over Neil’s microphone during “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” the act which followed was infinitely more symbolic: on-stage, as they scrambled to readjust the mic, Neil motioned to the crowd to step in. And we did so with gusto, singing:

“Hey Now Hey Now, Don’t Dream It’s Over, When the world comes in/They come, they come/To put a wall between us/You know they won’t win.”

And, in this time of families being ripped apart by immigration crackdowns and wasteful bloodshed across other lands, it’s precisely such unity that lends hope to this particular dreamer.

“Howz…this shirt look?!” – The Metrosexualization of Modern Cricket April 11, 2007

Recent headlines regarding the murder of Pakistan national cricket team coach Bob Woolmer during the ongoing Cricket World Cup in the Caribbean have aroused gentle interest in an enigmatic, but still widely mid-understood game. Somewhat remarkably, England’s greatest gift to her former colonies: cricket, has somehow slid into popular American discourse.

Cricket, that poorly understood sport whose popularity remains largely confined to date within the former British colonies, was once a game of the leisure class. Somehow, most Americans continue to carry some vague fantasy of bourgeois Englishmen and green pasture-like fields when I mention the sport. I suspect the white uniforms of its traditional five-day length form plays some role in this misnomer regarding an institution which remains, and I say this with pride, a lifelong obsession for this East Asian Australian.

This is slightly unusual, given that almost all of the people an average American might hope to see playing cricket are brown. In particular, they are South Asians, most likely graduate students, most likely found having a hit around on the engineering school fields at a university near you. And these young men, bespectacled and tamely dressed as they might be, only begin to hint at the now institutionalized obsession with which the game has infiltrated the sub-continent. As with many other nationally validated sports, cricket boasts a marvelously colorful history, one which mixes geo-political tension with steady dollops of racial and match-fixing scandal. The India-Pakistan rivalry is a not-so-subtle metaphor for the two neighbors’ tense relations; Sri Lanka’s rise to recent greatness is a glorious tribute to sport’s ability to transcend and unify despite prolonged ethnic conflict.

But as an Australian who fawns over his team line-up like an estranged widow aunt, much of the politics is abstracted. In previous decades, we boycotted playing against the South African team because of apartheid, and pummeling the usually hapless English team as an anti-colonial “sit and spin” got old many years ago. For well over a decade, in fact, for much of my life, Australia has been the world’s dominant cricketing nation by a significant distance. Due in part to our sports-driven culture, an above-excellent talent pool, or perhaps a particularly poor patch for our international rivals, cricket for Australia has become a pre-arranged cruise down self-congratulatory boulevard: where the Southern Cross flag waves as the boys (almost) always hoist the trophy, and look good doing it too.

Ahh, the boys. With their blonde highlights and goatees, model-like girlfriends and surfer personas, the current Australian squad is a perfect reflection of the millennial metrosexual meme, currently needling a place into masculinity’s mainstream. They’re quiet yet brash, swatting opponents over the boundary lines as they stroll to another victory, as Matthew Hayden did in Australia’s recent demolition of Bangladesh. Body-wise, they wield toned, bronzed physiques, closer to the homoerotic models of Men’s Health magazine than the beer-happy, rounder figures of previous eras. At the same time, however, they retain the image of steady family men, willing to miss important games to ensure they’re in attendance for the birth of a child, as was the case with vice-captain Adam Gilchrist.

Gone are the great characters of past years, the men whom I grew up imitating each day in the backyard. There was David Boon, a tubby little batsman whose affinity for runs on the field was famously matched by an even greater one for beer after the match. More humorously, there was Merv Hughes, a barrel-chested behemoth of a fast bowler, whose thick mustache and working man charms were a steady presence throughout the nineteen-eighties. These were men’s men of a golden era: proudly blue-collar, unassuming “blokes” who you could imagine holding a pair of tongs over the barbie, cracking politically incorrect Sheila jokes, and never mincing their opinions, ill-formed or not.

Throughout the nineties, such characters came to play a less prominent role in the cricket spotlight, both in the antipodes and elsewhere. They were replaced by men, who, much like myself, enjoy a lot of the pleasures our forebears indulged in, augmented however with the health conscious fetish dutifully instilled by school fitness regimes and the fashion sensibilities of our media-saturated lives. The metrosexual in cricket is only the latest in a now-established timeline of upstart cultural rebellions: just as Merv Hughes put paid to the confines of traditional gentility within cricket ranks–the Aussie larrikin poking fun at uptight Englishmen–so did the fearsomely fast intimidators of the West Indian pace line-up and beguiling Sikh spin bowler Bishan Bedi in the 1970s. In so doing, they blazed the trail as public figures, reclaiming cultural ground during the formative years of the post-colonial age.

If any one man can claim responsibility for this most recent evolution of masculinity as reflected in cricket, it is a Bush Administration-denouncing politician, currently in office in Pakistan. Imran Khan, an all-rounder (one equally adept with ball and bat), was the original metrosexual prototype of international cricket, perhaps even professional athletics. He guided Pakistan’s side into maturity during the 80s: a supremely talented and wise cricketing mind, Khan was also blessed with particularly dashing looks–as lusted for in the homes of Middle England as he was throughout his own continent. Previously married to billionaire heiress Jemima Goldsmith, he later toned down his image as an international playboy to lead the Movement for Justice (Tehrik-e-Insaaf) in Pakistan, where he continues to be an outspoken figure in parliament.

Could this be the most rewarding example of cricket as post-colonial globalization turned full circle? More so than watching lily-colored English supporters cheer on their team players–peppered with names like Mahmood, Panesar, and Bopara–or even Irish and Kenyan and Canadian sides with similar sub-continental representation, it is this most recent transformation of cricketing masculinity through Asian leadership that I find most satisfying.

Now all I need is for Australia to field its first Chinese-Australian player wearing the baggy green cap and I’ll die a happy fan. That, and a close world cup final victory over Sri Lanka.

Richard Chee Quee – the first first-class Australian-Chinese cricketer whose mum apparently owned a Chinese restaurant in New South Wales (though sadly, he never made it to the international level.)

Wondering the Land at Wonderland March 30, 2007

On many a Saturday night, I’ve wound up at Wonderland, the best neighborhood bar in Columbia Heights at 11th and Kenyon. The beer is cheap, the crowd is refreshingly unpretentious, and on Saturday nights, it’s old school hip hop baby. Just the way I remember it. You can dance goofy or you can dance cool. At the WL: tis all good.

I’ve also decided to put a self-ban on using the term “hipster.” As misappropriated and lazily pejorative as the term is, not only is it abused by pop culture traffickers like Spin or Wired, but much worse, by a swarm of mostly 20-something, mostly white social purist tall-poppy-poopers who derive pleasure from saying things like:

“So…at Tokyo Police Club last night, during the last song, they made the audience clap out this beat…”

-Poppy-pooper then claps out a standard 4/4 off-beat used in perhaps 12,000 songs since 1975-

“So, there I was, clapping out this total hipster beat,” he says, pausing ironically. Meanwhile, his girlfriend is wearing a stripey top with one side hanging below her shoulder, looking to all the faux-artsy trash world like she just came from American Apparel.

It’s as the source of my infinite wisdom, a co-oping vegan straight-edge-scene Father figure friend says: “The majority of people who make fun of hipsters are, in some form, hipsters themselves.”

“The vast majority of people in this society have no idea what we mean when we refer to ‘hipsters.’”

How I yearn for the days of yonder when kids simply listened to and loved music, unassociated with elitist sniping and the distasteful irony that eats upon itself amongst my generation.

In the end, it’s all just for kicks right? I mean, you’re all educated and high-minded enough to concern yourself with larger matters than the superficial and poseur which you choose to lampoon, right?

And that, in part, is why I love the Wonderland. Liberation from the scene.

On a separate note, if you: 1) LOVE OK Computer, Radiohead’s masterful third album; and 2) Have a casual appreciation for dub or reggae; then: Listen to Easy Star All-Stars’ cover of “Let Down,” from their cover album entitled “Radiodread.” You would never have guessed it wasn’t dub to begin with, and the dialectic between lyrical and musical mood is truly heavenly.

Aussies crush South Africa to cruise into next round March 26, 2007

I am yet to see the highlights of today’s decisive victory against South Africa, but from at least the bulletin it looks like Australia has comprehensively proven it remains the world’s best cricket team. And as I guessed, Sri Lanka looks to be the pick of the other nations by some distance, following it’s punishing victory over India earlier this week.

And, despite my doubts, it was Shane Watson who made the decisive play of the match, running out de Villiers to break the opening pair when the Aussies were desperate for a wicket. My favorite left-arm googly bowler Brad Hogg was the leading wicket taker, and both Tait and Bracken took two a piece.

It’s nice to see Michael Clarke get into the runs with 92, alongside Ponting and Hayden’s big scores. Hayden is truly one of the most powerful strikers of the modern game. I recall back during his run-machine days playing for the Queensland Bulls how opponents knew him to be “un-bowlable.” Though that may not be exactly the case, particularly on the international circuit, he remains a difficult player to dismiss, and his strength often wearies opponents into the dirt.

But Clarke, who is much closer to Ponts in that he is defined much more by elegant strokeplay and touch than raw power, was due for some runs, and the team will be that much tougher to beat with all of its top line-up now in good touch. Symonds and Hussey are yet to have had a chance to make a big score, however, which might cause some problems in the unlikely case that an attack manages to run through our top order cheaply.

The most likely way that a side like Sri Lanka will beat us will be to win the toss and bat first. Our attack didn’t seem to trouble the South Africans until wickets began to tumble and the run rate required began to factor into their play; this bodes poorly against other strong batting line-ups. If they manage to post a 300 to 350+ total, and defend well, it will make for a tough chase. If any team’s up to the challenge though, it’s our batting line-up, which has shown tremendous class and depth, not to mention a fierce late-middle order in the likes of Watson and Hogg, who can smash and smash true in the death.

Here’s to a close finals series!

Mullets for Darfur March 23, 2007

Over last weekend I stumbled upon a one time gig as a hair model for the Aveda Institute in Washington D.C., which was doing a show on men’s hair in conjunction with the release of a new product line.

I ended up getting my hair cut on stage before an audience of hairdressers and cosmetologists, in a stylish fusion of runway and workshop. I tried to be as expressive as I could on stage, but without the luxury of voice, I found my efforts to be minimal at best.

Still, I came out of it with a burnt-sienna tinged mullet, which I’ve since put to good use. I’m running a personal campaign dubbed: “Mullets for Darfur – Save Darfur, Lose the Mullet” in which I will let the person who donates the most money to a Fuel-Efficient Stoves project in Darfur the opportunity to cut off my mullet locks.

Head on over to the site and donate generously! The recommended donation is $5, with my goal set at raising $500.

Cricket Madness is Upon Us March 14, 2007

As Australia gears up to defend its Cricket World Cup crown, I’ve become increasingly compulsive about debating what line-up we should send into the tournament. I’m interested to see who is fielded in our first warm-up against Scotland, which will begin in a few hours.

Following our slightly dramatic collapse in the Challenge tri-series, with a trot of losses to decent, but far from formidable English and Kiwi teams, and the loss of our spearhead paceman, Brett Lee, to a ligament tear, I started to wonder what else could go wrong. Hayden had a hurt toe, Ponting had something minor, Gilchrist had a son’s birth to attend, Symonds is still nursing a shoulder tear…the Baggy Green were beginning to look like they’d stumbled off the set of Peter Weir’s Gallipoli than the all-conquering destructive tornado of a cricket team a la our ‘99 and ‘03 sides. Going into the tournament, however, all but Lee look set for action, and most all the pundits I’ve come across have picked Australia as favorites.

My main concern is our attack. We’ve got plenty of skillful batsmen, the class of which I think other teams only come in a distant second on, with or without a healthy Symonds. As good as Shane Watson looked during the England warm-up, and as much as I prefer the variety of a right-hand/left-hand opening pair, I still think Hayden belongs at the top of the order alongside Gilchrist. He’s in fine form, and at the end of the day, he’s the better batsman capable of batting through 50, which is what we want to field. I was also far than impressed by Watson’s medium-fast bowling during the Challenge series. He looked rather pedestrian, and I envision him being launched all over Caribbean grounds throughout this tournament.

At 1-for, I’m expecting another stellar performance from our captain, Ricky Ponting, who’s also taken a fine turn as an AIDS advocate for UNICEF, an official tournament sponsor. Though Michael Clarke (our No. 4) seemed to lose his wicket more cheaply than almost any other specialist bat in the previous series, he’s a class act, who’s elegance at the crease reminds me a little of Damien Martyn, the most poetic of recently retired Western Australian batsmen. His left arm finger spin may certainly come in handy too.

Number five is a little less certain: Brad Hodge has been batting well recently, but should quite certainly lose the spot to Symonds for the South Africa match. Hodge does not bowl, and Symonds personality, power in the crunch, versatility with the ball and ability in the field (hopefully not tempered by his most recent injury) will make him one of the integral factors in whether Australia holds off this Cup’s stiff competition.

Hussey, another Westerner, who I was so chuffed to see make it into the national side after a lengthy wait, and even more pleased to see win a Bevan-like role at No. 6 in the one day team, will also be critical to our chances. I suspect he’ll have to nurse the strike and carry our tail quite often on big chases, which looks much weaker than past line-ups.

It’s at the seventh spot that things get interesting, and this is where I imagine you’ll see the most variety, as the coaching staff tweak and adjust according to pitch conditions and player fitness levels. This time around, we’ve no quality second all-rounder along the lines of a Darren Lehman, though Watson may just turn out to succeed in that role. If we want a full pace line-up, we should play Watson here, where his batting will by a handy bonus in the death. If he doesn’t perform however, either with bat or ball, I’d have Hogg come in here, with four quickies rounding out a rather long tail. The strength of our top six permits it.

There’s no question, in my mind, that Australia should play Hogg, despite the Caribbean pitches being far from spin havens. He has experience from the 2003 Cup, he’s bowled well without luck in Australia, and he adds much needed variety to a somewhat ordinary-looking attack. It would be most dangerous to rely only on part-timers Symonds and Clarke to take care of spin duties. Hogg’s wrong ‘un is hard to pick, and he should cause trouble–or at the very least, limit the run-rate during middle overs–for most teams, outside of the big three from South Asia.

Our shaky pace attack, more than anything, could mean the difference between Australia winning three straight or turning over the cup. Beyond McGrath, who is certainly beyond his best years but whose experience is vital, they’re all very green. I don’t think Mitchell Johnson deserves a spot: he’s been the most expensive, is far too wayward, and has trouble altering his line when charged by opponent batsmen. Much better for the left-arm spot is Bracken, who has been consistent, if not overly intimidating, and was the pick of the Commonwealth series. I think his reverse swing could be critical late in the game.

After his breakthrough performance in the Ashes, Stuart Clark was certainly snubbed over the pacy, though unreliable Shaun Tait. Look for these two to be alternated quite often. As expensive as he’ll surely be, Tait is the only true fast bowler we have now minus Lee, and if he can take wickets within the first and last ten overs of the game, he should be worth the runs. Shane Warne has advocated for Clark to open with McGrath, and as accurate as the two marksmen would be (not to mention rather boring), it’ll make for more exciting cricket to have Tait tearing down with the new ball. Wouldn’t Australia rather have opponents at 2 or 3 for 60 than 0 for 40 after 10? I suppose it depends on the pitches, as well as how big the scores are.

I am also expecting to see Hogg left out of some matches for a fast-medium McGrath/Tait/Clark/Bracken/Watson trot-a-rama. Though McGrath would disagree, he does make for a suitably zip-tight first change, and having he and Clark fill out the middle overs while Tait and Bracken take the new ball might just be our most strategic mode of attack.

As for the competition, I can’t say I’ve paid too much attention. I’m looking forward to seeing Sri Lanka, with slinger Malinga at the pedal, and India looks like a most competitive squad, despite their early loss to the Windies. As for the home team, as much as the world might be rooting for them, making the semi-finals will be quite possible; winning the Cup close to fantasy. With that said, though, the 2007 World Cup field really does look quite wide-open: New Zealand has been playing well, South Africa have the talent (if not the history of performing in the Cup) and it would even be rash to completely count out England and Pakistan, though I don’t fancy them making the semis.

My prediction? Australia to beat Sri Lanka in the finals, with South Africa and the Windies the other semi-finalists.

Here’s to a fun, close tournament! Go Aussie!

And so finally, to recap: Here’s Mark’s pick for the Aussie XI:

1. Matthew Hayden
2. Adam Gilchrist
3. Ricky Ponting
4. Michael Clarke
5. Brad Hodge / Andrew Symonds
6. Michael Hussey
7. Shane Watson
8. Brad Hogg
9. Stuart Clark / Shaun Tait
10. Nathan Bracken
11. Glenn McGrath

El-P. R.I.P. 1999-2007. March 10, 2007

It was a brilliant birthday set-up: Pippa and Sal, both turning 16, had hired a DJ and put in a dancefloor.

I wanted to bring something special to the party, not just a bill stuck in a card or some over-priced Billabong shirt bought from Hilzeez Down South Surf Shop.

And that’s when I came upon you, little panda. You had been sitting on my mantel, quiet and watchful as always, and thus far in our relationship, I had ignored you quite bluntly. A gift from Dad following his first business trip to China, you had been appreciated but never flaunted: the pubescent transition into manhood meant that as a stuffed toy, you were better off hidden far, far, very far from schoolmates’ eyes. And so I never considered what might have been when I decided you’d make a perfectly suitable birthday present. It was the tag that prevented true disaster: the small card attached to your neck that read “I LOVE YOU” in both English and Chinese. It might have sent Pip the wrong idea.

And so you stayed. You travelled across the oceans to North America with your adopted family, where you sat patiently upon another dusty mantel. It was only when I reached the age at which I would set out on my own that you truly blossomed into your true self. Having sat in silent meditation for so long, you had been ready and waiting for that moment. Finally, it was during my junior year of college Summer trip back to Australia that you gracefully leapt from caterpillar to butterfly, trading in your lengthy post as companion to my brother’s seal and giant teddy for the enviable promotion to globe-crossing backpacker. You were “Panda” no longer.

You were now “El Pandita.” Or, as you came to be known to so many: “El-P.”

To Australia we returned, where you quickly became a mainstay at the dinner table. In Melbourne you shared in dumplings with my cousins, then in Perth for home-made dinners with childhood friends and quiz nights.

From Darwin we travelled together to East Timor, which it quickly became apparent you had considerable political attachment to. There you were lovingly abused and assaulted by William and Clara, the two pint-sized children of my hosts, hugging then launching you skyward with Cadbury chocolate-splattered fingers in the youthful embrace of food and detachment.

Then to California, which you took to in like a graduate student at Berkeley. Who can forget the day you befriended the Korean man with the parasol in MacArthur park in Los Angeles? After helping to thaw long-standing East Asian regional hostilities, you took in the Spanish Renaissance joys of the Stanford University campus, even making time for a reflective moment in the San Mateo mountains nearby.

Malaysia was a field day: more children, mountain-climbing and open-air markets. Once, as we perused the remarkably lively fish market in Kota Kinabalu and its colorful hawkers, I turned to find a curious little boy’s hand on your head. But of course, he wasn’t going to steal you. No, he was simply saying hello! Of course, you were more pleased to meet Jiselle, the Philipina R&B singing bombshell we took out to dinner on the beach our last day in Sabah.

Last summer in Toronto, you took up position at the International AIDS Conference, watching over events while I interviewed AIDS activists. Being from China, you were particularly interested in the rise of civil society and youth engagement programs, and made sure that I attend the relevant plenary sessions. Good looking out, El-P. On a bicycle tour of the city, we met Molly, playing at the fountain with her Dad. You always had an effortless way with children. Everywhere we journeyed, no matter their color or background, you spoke a universal language, helping to articulate the playfulness and benevolence that I sometimes could not.

And so it was that we set out together on a perfectly straight-forward vacation in Europe. Going by previous standards, this was nothing more than a two-week jaunt in the ‘parque’ for a seasoned traveller such as yourself. And it started off as such: we wandered the Red Cross and Patek Phillipe museums of Geneva, popped over to France for a little day excursion. You even warmed to Snelie, the resident snail at our temporary home in Geneva.

But it was in Barcelona, that most sunny and lively of Mediterranean ports that we parted ways. I had been careless enough to place my backpack to the side of my chair as opposed to between my legs (you had warned me before we’d left home), and those two cooly efficient thieves took full advantage of my absent-minded error. While the others searched around outside half-heartedly, my own heart had already sunken.

The last picture I have of you is in a little record store that sold obscure 60s Spanish records. When I asked the store owner if I could take a photograph of him and his store, he didn’t know why I would want him in it. When I asked him if he could take it whilst holding on to you, he warmed up immediately. Though V was surprised, I simply chalked it up as another successful El-P icebreaker. It was just another day on the road for you: breaking down culture and language barriers, and extending the branch of common humanity that open-minded travel tends to bring out.

Indeed, V’s father was right in asking–before thought of passport or wallet–in that moment of initial crisis: “But what about that poor bear?”

What has become of El-P, indeed. Much more than the synthetic fibers and Chinese factory in which you were assembled, it is the people I’ve met and the places I have visited that you represented. Taking you along in the front pouch of my backpack on every trip I set out on–whether to the opposite coast or the other hemisphere–was a small, omnipresent reminder of the places I have been and those I’m still to visit. Ironically enough, the next trip we’d been looking forward to would have been the long-awaited return to your homeland. Alas, the China and El-P reunion will not take place.

We’ll always have the memories little friend. My backpack never knew a better partner, and I doubt it ever will.