Greg Pavlik

 

This old, old technique of barrel curing tobacco in Louisiana - making perique - just produces some of the most interesting fig-meets-plum-meets-pepper tastes imaginable. Blend that with some bright virginias and there's something super special that results. 

Rarely do I want to purchase every book a publisher puts out. But there are exceptions to every rule.

 OK, so someone asked me why I had not included three bands in my Underground Americana post that seemed to fit the Americana profile: Wayfarer, Blackbraid and Wolves in the Throne Room. I guess the easiest answer is because they have had enough mainstream exposure that I didn't think of them as "underground." I'll say this about both Wayfarer and Blackbraid - their music is more polished and less experimental than the three bands I listed, but its probably fair to say that they are still far from the collective consciousness of American music listeners, so I will in fact take a moment to comment on them all in response.

Wayfarer - in some ways these guys are analogous to Grave Pilgrim: both bands take up themes in American history, though Wayfarer is more directly trying to evoke a kind of spirit of the "Old West." If you haven't heard them, they pull in influences that range from atmospheric black metal, sludge, to the alt country-ish "Denver sound." The album you want to listen to is American Gothic. I mean, its a really, really solid and original work - I like it more than their previous albums and even more so as an ex Denver resident. So, yes, they should get a mention. Wayfarer, by the way, is *way* more polished than Grave Pilgrim, so if you were put off by the rawness of the album I posted a link to, this is much different music stylistically (Grave Pilgrim remains one of my favorite rock bands recording today).

That brings me to Blackbraid. This is a one man act from the Adirondacks, which combines hard charging early black metal influences with native American themes and an attempt to evoke the surrounding landscapes of upstate NY. Its like a band made especially for me - I used to solo camp, trout fish and grouse hunt the Adirondacks in my earlier days as often as I could. The whole region has a special feel and I'd be happy if I was stuck there in a cabin for many months at a time. I don't listen to metal albums often, but Blackbraid II has probably been the one I have played on repeat more than anything else for a long while. Personal favorite: The Wolf that Guides the Hunters Hand. His cover of Bathory's A Fine Day to Die is better than the original - that may or may not be saying a lot depending on your point of view, but its a cool cover. By the way, you can't compare them to Pan Native American Front, the take on native American experience is completely different, so is the music.

Lastly, Wolves in the Throne Room. I realize they get credit for pushing local acts to try to express the Cascadian landscape sonically, but there music is consistently barely listenable, the occultish themes they weave in are just stupid, and to add insult to injury everyone I have known that has seen them live has said the shows are terrible. So the reason I didn't highlight them is simple: I don't think much of them and don't understand their appeal. Two Hunters is their best album, though.

 C Рождеством Христовым! Славим Его!

Christmas is almost upon us and during the preceding fast this year I've been drawn to the folk sounds of Appalachia. America has real culture, its just been hidden from us.

This beautiful - and really, I mean beautiful - folk carol And The Trees Do Moan is about as soulful as it gets. I don't know who these people are, but holy smokes are they good:

The original text:

Mainstream label music is almost entirely so awful that it drives me to despair to hear most popular music these days - let alone realize it is willingly consumed by anyone. Here I offer three bands that are both a complete "fuck you" to popular music in form and function, but tie into something deep within the American cultural dna that makes them something special:

1 Grave Pilgrim, The Bigotry of Purpose. Raw riffing rock, barked vocals. Tagline: chivalric violence and hideous cruelty. Best rock album of 2023 in my opinion. Best song, Rhiannon's Wake.

Their prior EP Molten Hands Reach West was just as good.

2 Panopticon, ...And Again, into the Light. Bluegrass meets atmospheric black metal on a journey through American geographies, old style anarchist complaints and the trials of life. Austin Lunn, the one man genius behind Panopticon, definitely uses music to exorcise his inner daemons (come to Divine Liturgy my friend to really get them out...). I have a lot of time for this guy. My favorite parts are the gravelly bluegrass ones, like....

Special mention for Panopticon's Kentucky. My forebears were coal miners. 

3 Pan-Amerikan Native Front, Little Turtle's War. Indigenous metal meditating on past battles in the bloody unfolding of the American nation. We probably can stop screwing over natives in this country now.

Also, their split Immortal Ceremonies: someone must have thought "go hard or go home" on that one.

The Turning of Lot's Wife

Scott Cairns

Genesis 19. 23-26

First of all, she had a name, and she had a history. She was Marah, and long before the breath of death's angel turned her to bitter dust, she had slipped from her mother's womb with remarkable ease, had moved in due time from infancy to womanhood with a manner of grace that came to be the sole blessing of her aging parents. She was beloved.

And like most daughters who are beloved by both a mother and a father, Marah moved about her city with unflinching compassion, tending to the dispossessed as if they were her own. And they became her own. In a city given to all species of excess, there were a great many in agony--abandoned men, abandoned women, abandoned children. Upon these she poured out her substance and her care.

Her first taste of despair was at the directive of the messengers, who announced without apparent sentiment what was to come, and what was to be done. With surprising banality, they stood and spoke. One coughed dryly into his fist and would not meet her eyes. And one took a sip from the cup she offered before he handed it back and the two disappeared into the night.

Unlike her husband--coward and sycophant--the woman remained faithful unto death. For even as the man fled the horrors of a city's conflagration, outrunning Marah and both girls as they all rushed into the desert, the woman stopped. She looked ahead briefly to the flat expanse, seeing her tall daughters, whose strong legs and churning arms were taking them safely to the hills; she saw, farther ahead, the old man whom she had served and comforted for twenty years. In the impossible interval where she stood, Marah saw that she could not turn her back on even one doomed child of the city, but must turn her back instead upon the saved.

The Master said, “Set your heart upon the Way, rely upon Virtue, lean upon Goodness, and explore widely in your cultivation of the arts.”

 Musk Ox is a fantastic instrumental chamber folk project from up in Canada. I recently stumbled on these guys and their guitarist Nathanael Larochette from some collaborations he did with the (now defunct, but often fantastic) Oregon-based post metal/neofolk band Agalloch. Here's a neat documentary on the making of their album Woodfall.

Another cool project is the acoustic spin off that Nathanael did from the last Agalloch album.

His solo stuff is great. Music about trees and such.

Hesychasm as a path to transcendence

The notion that what we call AI is somehow approaching a form on consciousness remains an absurdity: fantastical thinking by people who really ought to spend a minimal amount of time at least reading up on philosophy of mind. Generative AI fits perfectly into John Searle's Chinese Room (the main variation is probability replaces rules, which reflects the one major innovation of NLP over decades).

I don't mean to suggest the technology is not extremely useful - it is, and will become more so. But: reality check.

"Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause,
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose
Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance. The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph."

 

"Man is the creature who does not know what to desire, and he turns to others in order to make up his mind. We desire what others desire because we imitate their desires." Rene Girard

Mitsuyo Maeda > Carlos Gracie Sr. > Carlos Gracie Junior > Jean Jacques Machado > Eddie Bravo > Denny Prokopos > Alex Canders

Three of outstanding carols for the Christmas season.

1 In the Dark Night

A traditional Ukrainian koliady (carol): this is just heart-rendering in its simple beauty expressed in the Ukrainian language. The theme of a bright light in darkness is particularly poignant as Ukraine itself is presently plunged into darkness by the war. This holiday, I wish for peace: among Ukrainians, with brother Russians, and for the world.

In the dark night, above Bethlehem,a bright star shined out, covering the Holy Land.The Most Pure Virgin, the Holy Bride,in a poor cave gave birth to a Son.[Chorus] Sleep Jesus, sleep my little baby,Sleep my little star,About your fate, my little sweet,To you I will sing.She gently kissed and swaddled him,She put him to bed, and quietly started to sing,You will grow up, my Son, you’ll become a grown-up,And you will go out into the world, my baby.Sleep Jesus, sleep my sweet little baby,Sleep my little star,About your fate, my little sweet,To you I will sing.The Love of the Lord and God’s truth,You will bring faith to the world, to your people,The truth will live on, the shackles of sin will be shattered,[But my child], on Golgotha, my child will die.Sleep Jesus, sleep my sweet little baby,Sleep my little star,About your fate, my little sweet,To you I will sing.Sleep, Jesus, sleep my sweet little baby,Sleep my rose blossom,With hope on YouThe entire world is watching!

2 The Cherry Tree Carol

An Old English carol based on medieval legends about the Holy Family. This version is rendered in modern English and accompanied by a simple harp (Anonymous4 does another version that is a cappella in Old English, but something about this short version with the harp is just pleasant to the ears and to the soul).

3 Georgian Alilo

If you get some Georgians together for a holiday there will be singing (also, alcohol in my experience). I can't understand a word when they do, but its pretty cool.

Since Georgian is such an interesting language, I list here the lyrics / transliteration / translation from comments:

ალილო და ჰოი ალილო და ჰოოalilo da hoi alilo da hooHallelujah Hallelujahქრისტეს მახარობელნი ვართ ქრისტეშობას მოგილოცავთოოkrist’es makharobelni vart krist’eshobas mogilotsavtoo We are heralds of Christ wishing you a Merry Christmasოცდახუთსა დეკემბერსა ქრისტეიშვა ბეთლემშინაოotsdakhutsa dek’embersa krist’eishva betlemshinao On the twenty-fifth of December, Christ was born in Bethlehemანგელოზნი უგალობენ დიდება მაღალთა შინაოangelozni ugaloben dideba maghalta shinao Angels sing praises to the highest of the houseეს რომ მწყემსებმა გაიგგეს მივიდნენ და თავანი სცეს მასes rom mts’q’emsebma gaigges mividnen da tavani stses masPastors heard the good news and they went to worship Him.ვარსკვლავები ბრწყინვალებენ ანათებენ ბეთლემსაოოvarsk’vlavebi brts’q’invaleben anateben betlemsaooThe stars are shining, Illuminating Belém!შორი ქვენიდან მოსულმა მოგვებმა ძღვენი შესწირესshori kvenidan mosulma mogvebma dzghveni shests’iresComing from distant lands, The magicians gave Him a giftქრისტეს მახარობელნი ვართ ქრისტეშობას მოგილოცავთოkrist’es makharobelni vart krist’eshobas mogilotsavtoWe are heralds of Christ wishing you a Merry Christmasოცდახუთსა დეკემბერსა ქრისტე იშვა ბეთლემშინაოotsdakhutsa dek’embersa krist’e ishva betlemshinaoOn the twenty-fifth of December, Christ was born in Bethlehem

While Christmas is properly celebrated on January 7, being an American, I'm stuck with this weekend ending the season. Fortunately I am not stuck with the commercial music/dreck that American culture imposes on the season: the 12 days of Christmas until Epiphany/Theophany are still a good time to continue to enjoy this fine singing with all that behind us. 

 Full live performance. I've been enjoying these funk-folk-jazz songs for some time. Allegedly the music is in "old Ukrainian" - I don't speak Ukrainian or the closely related Carpatho-Russian dialect of Transcarpathia, so I can't really discern what that means - but consider the vocals as instrumentation in any case. In any case, this music is great fun at times and always stirs the human emotion. 
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A barely related side note: as a case study in creative folk-culture appropriation to modern forms, I recommend the Ukrainian musical film Hutsulka Ksenya. The plot revolves a young American whose late father leaves him his fortune on the condition he marry a Ukrainian woman. Distinctly unenthusiastic he visits the Carpathian region (presumably Zakarpattia Oblast, from which the Pavlik family emigrated) and falls for a young Hutsul woman.... I won't say more, its a terribly creative film and thoroughly enjoyable.

Hutsuls, as an aside, are not strictly speaking Ukrainians in the ethno-cultural sense, but in the broader sense of Ukraine as a multi-cultural nation. 

My second (and more careful) read of Brothers Karamazov (this time the Pevear/Volokhonsky translation) established it as the most influential piece of world literature I have to date encountered. I regard it as the pinnacle of modern forms, but also amongst the most piercing of critiques of modernity as such. For years I have re-read it in part and in full, as well as numerous commentaries on the novel, Dostovesky's corpus en toto, and of course works on Dosteovsky himself more generally. Of the latter, I cannot imagine a finer literary biography than the work of the late Joseph Frank.

Below I quote at length DB Hart on intentionality and the horizon of rational agency. If you take a moment to think about this point, it really ought to be obvious that it is almost certainly correct. And the fact that we can share a meaning and interest in "correctness" as an end - ie, we care about that which is true - underscores the point directly. The only reason this may seem abstruse is the unconscious prejudices we carry from living in a late modern culture founded on reductive models of consciousness that are almost certainly irrational - meaning, wrong. 

"Neither doctrine nor metaphysics need be immediately invoked to see the impossibility of rational agency within a sphere of pure nature; a simple phenomenology of what it is we do when we act intentionally should suffice. The rational will, when freely moved, is always purposive; it acts always toward an end: conceived, perceived, imagined, hoped for, resolved upon. Its every act is already, necessarily, an act of recognition, judgment, evaluation, and decision, and is therefore also a tacit or explicit reference to a larger, more transcendent realm of values, meanings, and rational longings. Desire and knowledge are always, in a single impulse, directed to some purpose present to the mind, even if only vaguely. Any act lacking such purposiveness is by definition not an act of rational freedom. There are, moreover, only two possible ways of pursuing a purpose: either as an end in itself or for the sake of an end beyond itself. But no finite object or purpose can wholly attract the rational will in the latter way; no finite thing is desirable simply in itself as an ultimate end. It may, in relative terms, constitute a more compelling end that makes a less compelling end nonetheless instrumentally desirable, but it can never constitute an end in itself. It too requires an end beyond itself to be compelling in any measure; it too can evoke desire only on account of some yet higher, more primordial, more general disposition of reason’s appetites. Even what pleases us most immediately can be intentionally desired only within the context of a rational longing for the Good itself. If not for some always more original orientation toward an always more final end, the will would never act in regard to finite objects at all. Immanent desires are always in a sense deferred toward some more remote, more transcendent purpose. All concretely limited aspirations of the will are sustained within formally limitless aspirations of the will. In the end, then, the only objects of desire that are not reducible to other, more general objects of desire, and that are thus desirable entirely in and of themselves, are those universal, unconditional, and exalted ideals, those transcendentals, that constitute being’s abstract perfections. One may not be, in any given instant, immediately conscious that one’s rational appetites have been excited by these transcendental ends; I am not talking about a psychological state of the empirical ego; but those ends are the constant and pervasive preoccupation of the rational will in the deepest springs of its nature, the source of that “delectable perturbation” that grants us a conceptual grasp of finite things precisely by constantly carrying us restlessly beyond them and thereby denying them even a provisional ultimacy.

In fact, we cannot even possess the barest rational cognizance of the world we inhabit except insofar as we have always already, in our rational intentions, exceeded the world. Intentional recognition is always already interpretation, and interpretation is always already judgment. The intellect is not a passive mirror reflecting a reality that simply composes itself for us within our experience; rather, intellect is itself an agency that converts the storm of sense-intuitions into a comprehensible order through a constant process of interpretation. And it is able to do this by virtue of its always more original, tacit recognition of an object of rational longing—say, Truth itself—that appears nowhere within the natural order, but toward which the mind nevertheless naturally reaches out, as to its only possible place of final rest. All proximate objects are known to us, and so desired or disregarded or rejected, in light of that anticipated finality. Even to seek to know, to organize experience into reflection, is a venture of the reasoning will toward that absolute horizon of intelligibility. And since truly rational desire can never be a purely spontaneous eruption of the will without purpose, it must exhibit its final cause in the transcendental structure of its operation. Rational experience, from the first, is a movement of rapture, of ecstasy toward ends that must be understood as—because they must necessarily be desired as—nothing less than the perfections of being, ultimately convertible with one another in the fullness of reality’s one source and end. Thus the world as something available to our intentionality comes to us in the interval that lies between the mind’s indivisible unity of apprehension and the irreducibly transcendental horizon of its intention—between, that is, the first cause of movement in the mind and the mind’s natural telos, both of which lie outside the composite totality of nature."

DB Hart, You are Gods. University of Notre Dame Press, April 2022