doveman.

farewell

As you can see, this blog is dead. It as an ex-blog.

I am now blogging with a posse of my best homesleeces over at Speak, Peppery.

more of them

On Daytrotter this week, a session we recorded at their awesome studio when we were on tour in June with David Thomas Broughton (who sits in on assorted birdcalls and such).

On La Blogotheque, a couple of videos of me and Sam playing Doveman songs in the Steinway factory, filmed by the brilliant Vincent Moon.

And yes, as both sites report, I'll be going on tour with Antony and the Johnsons for a series of shows in November.

happenings

Tonight @ Pianos, 11pm: Samamidon

Tomorrow @ Tonic, 9:30pm: Doveman + Nico Muhly

Thursday @ Tonic, 8:30pm: Elysian Fields (Oren and Jennifer + Me, James Genus, Matt Johnson)

nevermind

It's all fixed. (The Myspace page, that is)

Tonight, going to see the Tall Firs. Sam is sitting in with them. Provided he finds a bow in time. His violin bow is being re-haired, and he has so far not been able to find another one to borrow.

meh

Doveman's Myspace page appears to have been deleted. I certainly didn't do it. Any insights?

yolk

Yesterday my dad bought a 1.5 million candle-power flashlight. A bit like measuring cars in mouse-power. We tested it out, and mom and I are quite sure that a million and a half candles would make more light than that.

Mom, in a conversation about vegetarianism, fair treatment of animals, etc: "I would like to buy eggs from a farm that plays the Allelujah Chorus every time a chicken lays an egg. Into that chicken's particular headphones."

best wishes

Every morning Hopkins leaves us a mouse as a present.

This morning, as a special treat for mom's birthday, he thoughtfully included a preparation suggestion:

from a wander off list

E.M. Forster on Proust (on Scott Moncrieff's translation). Brilliant, hilarious, wrong:

"All the difficulties of the original are here faithfully reproduced. A sentence begins quite simply, then it undulates and expands, parentheses intervene like quick-set hedges, the flowers of comparison bloom, and three fields off, like a wounded partridge, crouches the principal verb, making one wonder as one picks it up, poor little thing, whether after all it was worth such a tramp, so many guns, and such expensive dogs, and what, after all, is its relation to the main subject, potted so gaily half a page back, and proving finally to have been in the accusative case."

cbdip

Labor Day theme on Canadian public radio's morning classical music program: "Music and the Work Ethic."

"The Madam was a little more remote than the President, but more decorative."
--Henry Adams

it being

I'm in Nova Scotia for a week now, visiting my parents. They have a little house (pink) that is a paradise to read in. I intend to resist all parental exhortations to explore the outdoors (which is, indeed, magnificent around here) and stay in the sitting room, which looks out onto the ocean on both sides, reading, all the day long.

My intended reading list:
Henry James' "The American Scene
(for Gabe: "Heavy with fruit, in particular, was the whole spreading bough that rustled above me during an afternoon, a very wonderful afternoon, that I spent in being ever so wisely driven, driven further and further, into the large lucidity of—well, of what else shall I call it but a New Jersey condition?")
Chekhov's stories
Thomas De Quincey's "Confessions of an English Opium Eater"
(mom: Opium? Ed must have a copy of that. -- Ed! Do you have "Confessions of an English Opium Eater?" -- No, his copy is in Vermont)
Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy
"The Education of Henry Adams"
(marian adams: Yay!
me: What, is he your uncle?
marian adams: No, my great-great-uncle.)

KFC in Nova Scotia offers you the opportunity to "Poutine Your Fries" for $1.50.
I wonder is the word as infused with whoreishness to an actual french speaker as it is to my unschooled ears?