Politics, politics

Upfront warning: if you're reading this and are one of the legion who believe Barack Obama should not be questioned about anything, you might want to skip this one. It's likely to piss you off just about as much as everything he's touched in the past couple of weeks has pissed me off.

Starting with the FISA vote. And Oh, looky, the Democrat's Shiny New Feerliss Leedur couldn't be arsed to vote, AGAIN.

So, Obama announces that he'd support the FISA bill with the telcom immunity in place, Telcom gets immunity and a free ride, and they all fall down like little groupies.

What a shock, NOT.

Let's see what we've got here, shall we, in the way of "progressive" values on the part of Senator Jasmine (Buffy fans will know whereof I speak):

1. He thinks women should "get over it" to make his life easier, so that he can concentrate on important stuff. (memo to Barack: women think you should get a clue and figure out that we do not owe you anything, so just deal with it, already.)

2. He thinks women should have "some" autonomy over their own reproductive rights. (memo to Barack: aw, how sweet of you. Would you like me to fling thong panties at you as a gesture to express my gratitude for your magnanimity, or shall I just hold a placard and chant "chaaaaange"?)

3. He thinks that decision (reproductive rights) should be between "a woman and her pastor". (memo to Barack: sod off, you theocratic prick. I KNEW you were heading this way, all the way back in 2004. AWESOME god! BLUE states!)

4. He has no problem with the death penalty, under certain circs (memo to Barack: up until not too long ago, being black was enough of a circ in a scary number of American states. Please allow me to point you towards a book called "To Kill A Mockingbird".)

S. He couldn't be bothered - yes, AGAIN - to commit to an important piece of legislation, which is one reason Telcom gets a free pass for spying on us.

Ah, screw the parentheticals.

Memo to Barack: you are about as progressive as Ronald Reagan.

Do. Not. Want.

R&RNF stuff!

First of all, here's the 3:30 minute actual video trailer for the first Kinkaid:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoQtJojWTGc

Click on the "watch in high quality" icon, and, for a real WHOA moment, click the small envelope-looking icon, bottom right of the video screen. That'll give it to you full screen.

Is it not Of The Awesome?

There will be more tour dates added shortly; I'll be doing an event at Partners & Crime, with the splendid actor and writer Michael Boatman reading JP Kinkaid to my Bree, in NYC on 27 August. On 23 August, I'll be the guest on Jim Freund's splendid Hour of the Wolf radio show on WBAI.

And I am, at this moment, staring with deep love at my first actual hardback copy of Rock & Roll Never Forgets. And dear goddess, it's pretty!

STARRED review!

Just discovered that the Library Journal review is starred! And with the cover nice and prominent!

Am seriously, seriously pleased with this.

Goodnight, Bo

Bo Diddley's gone.

He was in my head a lot while I was writing the fourth Kinkaid (Graceland); it deals with the emigration of blues, and the roots of certain musical styles. Farris "Bulldog" Moody, the octagenarian bluesman session player who is JP's idol and seminal influence, comes from a background of son and clavé, those odd rhythmic chucks from the bata drumming of Yoruban priests out of Africa, through Cuba and from there to the Delta.

Bo took that style mainstream, making that three-five chuck - BOMPdeBOMPdeBOMP beat BOMPBOM - as recognisable to listeners as any signature could ever hope to be. It's the base for "Not Fade Away", "Mona", "Who Do You Love"....

In memoriam, from Graceland, an excerpt: the scene is the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco, the band is JP Kinkaid's pickup band, the Fog City Geezers, and Ches Kobel, the man talking, is a music historian:

* * *

A couple of minutes before we were ready to head back onstage, Ches leaned over toward Billy.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Billy's fingers had been doing their thing, tapping away on the table. He's a drummer all through, Billy is; no matter what he's doing, there's always a rhythm going on in there, somewhere. "What's up?"

"That thing you're doing, with your fingers." He nodded his head at Billy's hands, which gradually stopped tapping and went quiet. "That particular beat. I'm curious - sorry, man, it's the nosy writer in me, tell me to back off if I'm getting on your nerves. But I really am curious - you must have listened to a lot of Cuban music, the old son stuff from Havana, a lot of clavé from the fifties. Right?"

"Huh?" Billy blinked; the houselights had flickered twice, which meant we were just about due back onstage for the second set. "I know what son is, vaguely, but I have no idea what that other one is. What did you call it? Klah-vay? Because whatever it is, well, no. That rhythm I was just doing? That's basic Bo Diddley."

He ran it again, his fingers tapping it out on the table: bomp ba bompa bomp, pause, babomp-BOMP. On Bree's other side, Patrick was watching Billy's fingers. He looked absolutely fascinated. So did Miranda. "You mean this, right?" Billy told Ches. "Basic Bo, dude."

"Nope. Basic clavé. Bo Diddley made it mainstream, but his stuff comes straight from the Havana beat, and that came straight from son. All from the original slave population in Cuba." Ches grinned at me. "Scary thought, isn't it, JP? The stuff all you rockers do, that three-beat thing? Sallie's great-grandfather was doing that back in Santiago de Cuba, a hundred years ago."

* * *

Damn. Good night, Bo. Go hang out with the other rockers, jamming in the ether.