Saturday, January 21, 2012

Police State In UK - Closer Than You Think

The following recapping of scandals in British policing concerning domestic spying and agents provocateur makes me think about the movie "V For Vendetta". The police organizations described in this Guardian article have already crossed the line into being organizations that would be otherwise rogue except that they are officially sanctioned. When governments that are supposed to be "free" sanction illegal work against it's own citizenry, we are already sliding on a slippery slope to the world envisioned in "V For Vendetta".

Met facing mounting crisis as activist spying operation unravels

Senior police officers' judgment questioned as revelations emerge about the behaviour of undercover agents

and

guardian.co.uk,


It was shortly after 10am, in a corner at a primary school near Nottingham, that a police agent using the codename UCO 133 began whispering into a microphone hidden in his watch.

Mark Kennedy was a long-haired, tattoo-covered undercover police officer who had been living for six years as an environmental activist. But the covert agent with a long-term activist girlfriend was about to set in train a chain of events that would result in one of the most intriguing scandals in policing history.

"I'm an authorised police officer engaged in Operation Pegasus," Kennedy hissed into his £7,000 Casio G-Shock watch, equipped with a hidden microchip. "This weekend, Easter weekend, I am together with a group of activists that are planning to disrupt Ratcliffe-on-Soar power station. Shortly gonna go … and record briefings that subsequently take place throughout the day. So I shall now switch this device off."

He snatched a look at his wrist and read out the time. At that point – 10.06am on 12 April 2009 – one of the British constabulary's most closely guarded secrets remained intact; Kennedy, perhaps the most successful in a fleet of agents sent to live deep undercover among political activists, had maintained his cover.

More importantly, virtually nothing was known about the secretive police units which, for four decades, had been surreptitiously disrupting the activities of political campaign groups.

But now a series of revelations concerning a network of undercover agents has become a growing crisis for police.

At the centre of the latest controversy is a set of documents, obtained by the Guardian and the BBC's Newsnight, indicating that another police spy, Jim Boyling, who lived undercover among the environmental group Reclaim the Streets, concealed his identity in a criminal trial, giving false evidence under oath about his real name.

The accusation that police deliberately subverted the judicial process, and at worst sanctioned perjury, prompted outrage among lawyers and parts of the judiciary and led to the last-minute postponement of a major report into undercover policing of protests by the newly appointed commissioner of the Metropolitan police, Bernard Hogan-Howe.

Now questions are being asked about the judgment of Britain's most senior police officer, whose report – conducted in his prior role with the policing inspectorate – is being reviewed. Lord Macdonald, the former director of public prosecutions, described the court deception as a monumental misjudgment, saying police had "crossed the line". There are mounting calls for a full public inquiry.

The truth behind the police spies began to unravel late last year when activist former friends of Kennedy revealed his police background on the website Indymedia.

Two months later – in January this year – the Guardian published the first revelation in its long-running investigation into the undercover policing of protests, revealing how Kennedy, after leaving the Met, returned to his activist friends, expressed sympathy with their cause and attempted to continue living under his fictional identity, Mark Stone.

In the last 10 months, the Guardian has detailed the covert deployments of six undercover police officers. In addition to Kennedy and Boyling, police officers using the fake identities Mark Jacobs, Lynn Watson and Pete Black have been exposed. This week Bob Lambert, a well-known academic, was unmasked as a former spymaster who spent years deep undercover.

Writing in the Guardian , Lambert acknowledges police should learn from mistakes, but defends the work of undercover police officers in "countering political violence and intimidation".

Lambert, who later ran special branch's Muslim contact group, which was tasked with building relations with London's Muslim organisations, said he was not involved in any surveillance at that stage of his career. Boyling also went on to work for the same unit. "I did not recruit one Muslim Londoner as an informant, nor did I spy on them," Lambert said. "They were partners of police and many acted bravely in support of public safety and protection of fellow citizens."

A seventh undercover officer, Simon Wellings, was exposed by Newsnight in March.

All seven spies shared similar modi operandi: they appeared out of nowhere, often had access to vehicles and showed an unflinching willingness to help run the logistics of protest organisation. Unlike undercover officers who penetrate serious criminal gangs, typically for no more than a few weeks or months, agents deployed in protest organisations are authorised to spend years living double lives as campaigners. Only rarely have they been asked to gather evidence for prosecutions; usually, their mandate is to gather intelligence on activists while quietly disrupting their campaigns.

Most of the undercover police officers identified by the Guardian and Newsnight have also had sexual relationships with their targets, in some cases developing long-term relationships.

Some activists argue this has been the most disturbing element of the controversy, equating the operation to state-sanctioned sex abuse. They point to the anger, betrayal and psychological trauma suffered by some of the women who have spoken out about their relationships with men who later turned out to be police spies.

Senior officers have claimed sexual relations were never condoned or known about by the top ranks – a finding Hogan-Howe was expected to endorse in his report. However, the mounting evidence suggests otherwise.

Kennedy said he could not "sneeze" without his handlers knowing about his activities, and gave every indication they knew about the methods he used to gain the trust of activists, including his sexual liaisons. Black has said it was "part of the job" for fellow agents to use "the tool of sex" to maintain their cover and glean intelligence.

Together, these seven agents, and dozens more, have infiltrated a series of groups from across the political spectrum, including groups such as Stop the War, Youth Against Racism, Earth First, and Climate Camp. They have been regularly spying on activists at major demonstrations surrounding summits such as the G8 and G20, as well as local protests such as a campaign to protect Titnore Woods in West Sussex.

However, it was Kennedy's operation to prevent 112 activists from breaking into the Nottinghamshire power station in 2009 that placed the long-running operation under the spotlight.

Late last year, prosecutors refused to admit that the environmental campaigners had been infiltrated by an undercover police officer. The secret recordings made on Kennedy's Casio watch – which would have exonerated the activists if disclosed during their trials – were suppressed. An inquiry by Sir Christopher Rose, the former surveillance commissioner, is investigating claims made by police that their colleagues in the Crown Prosecution Service suppressed the recordings.

Transcripts of those recordings have now been obtained by the Guardian, along with other police materials relating to Kennedy's deployment marked "restricted" and "confidential".

They shed light on the extent of surveillance undertaken to keep tabs on a group of environmental campaigners. They reveal the minute details about the activities of campaigners being relayed by Kennedy, from discussions about football teams to types of biscuits eaten at a planning meeting.

In one document, marked "secret", police chiefs lay out what they believed to be the legal justification for Kennedy's surveillance operation, stating that the environmental campaigners could cause "severe economic loss to the United Kingdom" and an "adverse effect on the public's feeling of safety and security".

Those police claims, along with the broader suggestion that environmental activists threaten the national infrastructure of the UK, have been repeatedly challenged in court. All 26 activists police wanted to prosecute for conspiring to trespass at the Nottinghamshire power station either had their trials abandoned or their convictions quashed following the Kennedy controversy.

Sentencing 20 of the activists in January, a judge at Nottingham crown court said he accepted they had intended a peaceful protest and had the "highest possible motives", describing the group as "honest, sincere, conscientious, intelligent, committed, dedicated, caring".

When their convictions were quashed in July, three court of appeal judges, who included the lord chief justice, said "elementary principles" of the fair trial process were ignored when prosecutors did not disclose the secret recordings to activists' lawyers. In a damning ruling, the judges said they shared the "great deal of justifiable public disquiet", found that Kennedy's operation had been partly unlawful, and even proffered the suggestion he had arguably been acting as an agent provocateur.

What the judges did not mention – but is increasingly becoming clear – was that Kennedy was not a lone operator, but the latest in a long line of undercover police officers who have been spying on activists as part of a classified operation dating back four decades.

Previously known as the special demonstration squad, which operated under the command of the Metropolitan police's special branch, the undercover unit was first conceived as a tool to combat the anti-Vietnam protests at Grosvenor Square in 1968.

The infrastructure of long-term police surveillance of leftwing and far-right campaign groups has remained in place ever since – and continues today. What was previously conceived as a secret plan to disrupt the activities of "subversives" was, more than a decade ago, reinvented under the leadership of the Association of Chief Police Officers as part of a new drive to combat "domestic extremists". The secretive body that controls the spies, the National Public Order Intelligence Unit, was recently returned to the command of the Met.

It now falls to Hogan-Howe to grapple with the fallout of the latest controversy over Boyling, who has been placed on restricted duties and subject to a disciplinary inquiry since January, when it emerged he married an activist he met while undercover and fathered two children with her. That inquiry, which is investigating claims by Boyling's ex-wife that he encouraged her to change her name by deed poll to conceal their relationship from his superiors, has yet to conclude.

It is now likely to be overshadowed by the accusation that he lied about his real identity under oath. Details of his false evidence were revealed on Wednesday.

Besides prompting outrage among lawyers, the accusation that police subverted the judicial process appears to have shaken senior police officers. Within hours, Her Majesty's Inspectorate of Constabulary (HMIC) cancelled its planned publication of the report on Hogan-Howe's review.

The Hogan-Howe report had been expected to ignore advice from other senior police officers, who argued that the unfolding scandal in undercover policing revealed the need for a more robust system of independent oversight. HMIC said it would now seek further details about Boyling's alleged false evidence under oath before reviewing its report. However, what is unclear is how much information – if any – the Met disclosed to the inspectorate about Boyling, his marriage to an activist and his evidence under oath.

A draft of the HMIC report circulated over the summer, as Hogan-Howe believed he was nearing his conclusions, is not believed to have contained any reference to Boyling at all.

Jenny Jones, a Green party member of the London assembly who sits on the Metropolitan police authority, will be questioning Hogan-Howe at an MPA meeting next week. She said: "I will be pressing him to explain how we can stop such mistakes being made again and how we can bring some accountability to a police service which has been given almost carte blanche to spy on its own citizens."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/oct/20/met-crisis-activist-spying-operation

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Leonard Cohen has been one of my favorites since his first album Nice article today and from that I found a great speech given by Leonard Cohen when he received an award a few months ago.



Leonard Cohen: 'All I've got to put in a song is my own experience'

Sombre prophet, mordant wisecracker, repentant cad: Leonard Cohen is back with a great new album, Old Values – and more wit and wisdom





guardian.co.uk,

Leonard Cohen.
Leonard Cohen. Photograph: Darcy Hemley/Corbis Outline

On Leonard Cohen's gruelling 1972 world tour, captured in Tony Palmer's documentary Bird on a Wire, an interviewer asked the singer to define success. Cohen, who at 37 knew a bit about failure and the kind of acclaim that doesn't pay the bills, frowned at the question and replied: "Success is survival."

By that reckoning, Cohen has been far more of a success than he could have predicted. There have been reversals of fortune along the way but 40 years later he enters an ornate room in Paris's fabled Crillon Hotel to a warm breeze of applause. Looking like a grandfatherly mobster, he doffs his hat and smiles graciously, just as he did every night of the 2008-10 world tour that represented a miraculous creative revival. The prickly, saturnine, dangerously funny character witnessed in Bird on a Wire has found a measure of calm and, as he often puts it, gratitude.

These days, Cohen rations his one-on-one interviews with the utmost austerity, hence this press conference to promote his 12th album, Old Ideas, a characteristically intimate reflection on love, death, suffering and forgiveness. After the playback he answers questions. He was always funnier than he was given credit for; now he has honed his deadpan to such perfection that every questioner becomes the straight man in a double act. Claudia from Portugal wants him to explain the humour behind his image as a lady's man. "Well, for me to be a lady's man at this point requires a great deal of humour," he replies. Steve from Denmark wonders what Cohen will be in his next life. "I don't really understand that process called reincarnation but if there is such a thing I'd like to come back as my daughter's dog." Erik, also from Denmark, asks if he has come to terms with death. "I've come to the conclusion, reluctantly, that I am going to die," he responds. "So naturally those questions arise and are addressed. But, you know, I like to do it with a beat."

Cohen falls into the odd category of underrated legend. To his fans, including many songwriters, he is about as good as it gets, but he has never enjoyed a hit single or (outside his native Canada and, for some reason, Norway) a platinum album. He has said that a certain image of him has been "put into the computer": the womanising poet who sings songs of "melancholy and despair" enjoyed by those who wish they could be (or be with) womanising poets too. These days the database will also note that he wrote Hallelujah, a neglected song on a flop album that, via an unlikely alliance of Jeff Buckley, Shrek and The X Factor, eventually became a kind of modern hymn.

Its creator was born in Montreal on 21 September 1934, three months before Elvis Presley. When he first shopped his songs around New York, the ones that became 1967's Songs of Leonard Cohen, agents responded: "Aren't you a little old for this game?" By then he had already lost his father while very young, met Jack Kerouac, lived in a bohemian idyll on the Greek island of Hydra, visited Cuba during the Bay of Pigs invasion, and published two acclaimed novels and four volumes of poetry. In short, he had lived, and this gave his elaborate, enigmatic songs a grave authority to younger listeners who sensed that he was privy to mysteries that they could only guess at. He was neither the best singer, the best musician nor the best-looking man around, but he had the charisma and the words, and the eroticised intelligence. Perhaps because his style owed more to French chansonniers and Jewish cantors than American folk, he was always more loved in Europe than north America. An early write-up in folk gazette Sing Out! remarked: "No comparison can be drawn between Leonard Cohen and any other phenomenon."

Under interrogation he would explain certain details in his songs, such as whether his friend's wife Suzanne Vaillancourt really served him "tea and oranges" (kind of: she drank a brand of tea flavoured with orange peel) or whether Janis Joplin really gave him "head on the unmade bed" in the Chelsea Hotel (yes, but he later regretted his ungallant candour), but never their meanings.

He still resists explaining them and his relentlessly dry self-deprecation works as a very effective, very entertaining shield. Two nights after the Paris playback, Cohen appears at one in London, hosted by Jarvis Cocker. A fan since adolescence, Cocker keeps running up against Cohen's reluctance to delve too deeply into the "sacred mechanics" of songwriting, lest they stop working. Songs come painfully slowly to him and when he has a good idea he perseveres with it: Hallelujah took around two years and 80 potential verses. During the playback, a screen shows pages from his notebooks, full of scribbled amendments and discarded verses. "There are people who work out of a sense of great abundance," he says. "I'd love to be one of them but I'm not. You just work with what you've got."

Cohen meditating, Mount Baldy, 1995. Cohen meditating, Mount Baldy, 1995. Photograph: Neal Preston

Cohen's modest star began to wane with 1977's raucous Death of a Ladies' Man. In the studio a crazed Phil Spector held a gun to Cohen's head and the producer handled the songs just as roughly. Columbia Records mogul Walter Yetnikoff declined even to release 1984's Various Positions (the one with Hallelujah), reportedly explaining: "Look, Leonard, we know you're great, but we don't know if you're any good." But his next album, I'm Your Man, was both. Armed with synthesizers, acrid wit and a voice that now sounded like a seismic disturbance, he was reinvigorated just in time to enjoy an avalanche of praise from younger admirers including Nick Cave and the Pixies. But on songs such as First We Take Manhattan, Everybody Knows and The Future his depression took on geopolitical proportions. He told the journalist Mikal Gilmore: "There is no point in trying to forestall the apocalypse. The bomb has already gone off." In Paris someone asks him what he thinks about the current economic crisis and he replies simply: "Everybody Knows."

In 1993, resurgent and well-loved but in a dark frame of mind, Cohen disappeared from the public gaze. He spent the next six years in a monastery on Mount Baldy, California, studying with his old friend and Zen master Kyozan Joshu Sasaki, whom he calls Roshi and who is now a resilient 104 years old. "This old teacher never speaks about religion," Cohen tells the Paris audience. "There's no dogma, there's no prayerful worship, there's no address to a deity. It's just a commitment to living in a community."

When he came down from the mountain his lifelong depression had finally lifted. "When I speak of depression," he says carefully, "I speak of a clinical depression that is the background of your entire life, a background of anguish and anxiety, a sense that nothing goes well, that pleasure is unavailable and all your strategies collapse. I'm happy to report that, by imperceptible degrees and by the grace of good teachers and good luck, that depression slowly dissolved and has never returned with the same ferocity that prevailed for most of my life." He thinks it might just be down to old age. "I read somewhere that as you grow older certain brain cells die that are associated with anxiety so it doesn't really matter how much you apply yourself to the disciplines. You're going to start feeling a lot better or a lot worse depending on the condition of your neurons."

Cohen onstage, Copenhagen, 1972. Cohen onstage, Copenhagen, 1972. Photograph: Jan Persson

Can it really be that simple? Can the mood of his classic songs really be explained by unfortunate brain chemistry? He recently told his biographer Sylvie Simmons that in everything he did, "I was just trying to beat the devil. Just trying to get on top of it." As well as Judaism and Zen Buddhism, he briefly flirted with Scientology. He has never married but has had several significant relationships, including Joni Mitchell, actor Rebecca De Mornay and the woman with whom he had two children in the early 70s, Suzanne Elrod (no, not that Suzanne). He was a serious drinker and smoker who experimented with different drugs. On his 1972 tour, as documented in Bird on a Wire, he christened his band The Army and they in turn dubbed him Captain Mandrax after his downer of choice.

In that film he appears fractious and exhausted: a "broken-down nightingale", addressing audiences with irritable humour. Yet on his comeback tour he looked profoundly grateful for every cheer or clap. "I was touched by the reception, yes," he says. "I remember we were playing in Ireland and the reception was so warm that tears came to my eyes and I thought, 'I can't be seen weeping at this point', then I turned around and saw the guitar player weeping."

The tour was partly triggered by financial necessity after his business manager siphoned off almost all of his savings. Was he reluctant to go on the road again? "I don't know if reluctance is the word but trepidation or nervousness. We rehearsed for a long, long time – longer than is reasonable. But one is never really certain." He hopes to play more concerts and to release another album in a year or so. He is already older than Johnny Cash was when he released his final album; soon he'll creatively outlive Frank Sinatra. On the back of one of his notebooks he has written: "Coming to the end of the book but not quite yet."

In Paris, after the press conference, I'm discreetly ushered into a back room for a rare interview alone with Cohen. Up close, he's a calming presence, old world courtesy mingled with Zen, and his smoke-blackened husk of a voice is as reassuring as a lullaby. I ask him if he wishes the long and painful process of writing his songs would come more easily.

"Well, you know, we're talking in a world where guys go down into the mines, chewing coca and spending all day in backbreaking labour. We're in a world where there's famine and hunger and people are dodging bullets and having their nails pulled out in dungeons so it's very hard for me to place any high value on the work that I do to write a song. Yeah, I work hard but compared to what?"

Does he learn anything from writing them? Does he work out ideas that way?

"I think you work out something. I wouldn't call them ideas. I think ideas are what you want to get rid of. I don't really like songs with ideas. They tend to become slogans. They tend to be on the right side of things: ecology or vegetarianism or antiwar. All these are wonderful ideas but I like to work on a song until those slogans, as wonderful as they are and as wholesome as the ideas they promote are, dissolve into deeper convictions of the heart. I never set out to write a didactic song. It's just my experience. All I've got to put in a song is my own experience."

In Going Home, the first song on Old Ideas, he mentions writing "a manual for living with defeat". Can a listener learn about life from his songs?

"Song operates on so many levels. It operates on the level you just spoke of where it addresses the heart in its ordeals and its defeats but it also is useful in getting the dishes done or cleaning the house. It's also useful as a background to courting."

Is a cover of Hallelujah a compliment he has grown tired of receiving?

"There's been a couple of times when other people have said can we have a moratorium please on Hallelujah? Must we have it at the end of every single drama and every single Idol? And once or twice I've felt maybe I should lend my voice to silencing it but on second thought no, I'm very happy that it's being sung."

Does he still define success as survival?

"Yeah," he smiles. "It's good enough for me."

He's your man Leonard Cohen's greatest albums

Songs of Leonard Cohen Columbia, 1967

Cohen resented John Simon's lush production but the songs, starting with Suzanne, are impeccable. Robert Altman memorably used three of them in his deconstructed western McCabe and Mrs Miller.

Songs From a Room Columbia, 1969

Stark and haunting in sound and theme, his second album took in war, revolution and Biblical sacrifice. Kris Kristofferson said he wanted the opening lines of Bird on the Wire on his gravestone.

Songs of Love and Hate Columbia, 1971

Cohen may be smiling on the record sleeve – but nowhere else. Depression and rage circle these viciously beautiful songs, including Famous Blue Raincoat and the goth-predicting Avalanche.

I'm Your Man Columbia, 1988

His self-produced creative rebirth, by turns funny and frightening. First We Take Manhattan is a terrorist's fever dream; the wry, reflective Tower of Song could be Cohen's theme tune.

The Essential Leonard Cohen Sony, 2002

This excellent anthology, spanning 1967-2002, contains all the classics but also sweeps up some highlights from his patchier albums. Hear his voice get ever lower.

Old Ideas Columbia, 2012

Cohen revisits some favourite roles – the repentant cad, the mordant wisecracker, the sombre prophet, the lost soul – in a voice that sounds as old as time.


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From the web site Heck Of A Guy - A transcript of a talk given by Leonard Cohen at the Prince Of Asturias Awards ceremony in 2011 where he was honored. At the web site there is a video of the talk.

The Direct Transcript

Coco Éclair, who also serves as one of Heck Of A Guy’s Chocolodka Goddesses, prepared a complete, direct transcription of Leonard Cohen’s words. I provided a modicum of editing based on my own knowledge of Cohen’s phrases used in telling the anecdotes in the past and, of course, on the English-only tape of the speech not available to Ms Éclair.

The transcription begins just after the Cohen’s opening salutations to the audience.

Transcription:

It is a great honour to stand here before you tonight. Perhaps, like the great maestro, Riccardo Muti, I’m not used to standing in front of an audience without an orchestra behind me, but I will do my best as a solo artist tonight.

I stayed up all night last night wondering what I might say to this assembly. After I had eaten all the chocolate bars and peanuts from the minibar, I scribbled a few words. I don’t think I have to refer to them. Obviously, I’m deeply touched to be recognized by the Foundation. But I have come here tonight to express another dimension of gratitude; I think I can do it in three or four minutes.

When I was packing in Los Angeles, I had a sense of unease because I’ve always felt some ambiguity about an award for poetry. Poetry comes from a place that no one commands, that no one conquers. So I feel somewhat like a charlatan to accept an award for an activity which I do not command. In other words, if I knew where the good songs came from I would go there more often.

I was compelled in the midst of that ordeal of packing to go and open my guitar. I have a Conde guitar, which was made in Spain in the great workshop at number 7 Gravina Street. I pick up an instrument I acquired over 40 years ago. I took it out of the case, I lifted it, and it seemed to be filled with helium it was so light. And I brought it to my face and I put my face close to the beautifully designed rosette, and I inhaled the fragrance of the living wood. We know that wood never dies. I inhaled the fragrance of the cedar as fresh as the first day that I acquired the guitar. And a voice seemed to say to me, “You are an old man and you have not said thank you, you have not brought your gratitude back to the soil from which this fragrance arose. And so I come here tonight to thank the soil and the soul of this land that has given me so much.

Because I know that just as an identity card is not a man, a credit rating is not a country.

Now, you know of my deep association and confraternity with the poet Frederico Garcia Lorca. I could say that when I was a young man, an adolescent, and I hungered for a voice, I studied the English poets and I knew their work well, and I copied their styles, but I could not find a voice. It was only when I read, even in translation, the works of Lorca that I understood that there was a voice. It is not that I copied his voice; I would not dare. But he gave me permission to find a voice, to locate a voice, that is to locate a self, a self that that is not fixed, a self that struggles for its own existence.

As I grew older, I understood that instructions came with this voice. What were these instructions? The instructions were never to lament casually. And if one is to express the great inevitable defeat that awaits us all, it must be done within the strict confines of dignity and beauty.

And so I had a voice, but I did not have an instrument. I did not have a song.

And now I’m going to tell you very briefly a story of how I got my song.

Because – I was an indifferent guitar player. I banged the chords. I only knew a few of them. I sat around with my college friends, drinking and singing the folk songs and the popular songs of the day, but I never in a thousand years thought of myself as a musician or as a singer.

One day in the early sixties, I was visiting my mother’s house in Montreal. Her house was beside a park and in the park was a tennis court where many people come to watch the beautiful young tennis players enjoy their sport. I wandered back to this park which I’d known since my childhood, and there was a young man playing a guitar. He was playing a flamenco guitar, and he was surrounded by two or three girls and boys who were listening to him. I loved the way he played. There was something about the way he played that captured me. It was the way that I wanted to play and knew that I would never be able to play.

And, I sat there with the other listeners for a few moments and when there was a silence, an appropriate silence, I asked him if he would give me guitar lessons. He was a young man from Spain, and we could only communicate in my broken French and his broken French. He didn’t speak English. And he agreed to give me guitar lessons. I pointed to my mother’s house which you could see from the tennis court, and we made an appointment and settled a price.

He came to my mother’s house the next day and he said, “Let me hear you play something.” I tried to play something, and he said, “You don’t know how to play, do you?’

I said, “No, I don’t know how to play.” He said “First of all, let me tune your guitar. It’s all out of tune.” So he took the guitar, and he tuned it. He said, “It’s not a bad guitar.” It wasn’t the Conde, but it wasn’t a bad guitar. So, he handed it back to me. He said, “Now play.”

I couldn’t play any better.

He said “Let me show you some chords.” And he took the guitar, and he produced a sound from that guitar I had never heard. And he played a sequence of chords with a tremolo, and he said, “Now you do it.” I said, “It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly do it.” He said, “Let me put your fingers on the frets,” and he put my fingers on the frets. And he said, “Now, now play.”

It was a mess. He said, ” I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He came back tomorrow, he put my hands on the guitar, he placed it on my lap in the way that was appropriate, and I began again with those six chords – a six chord progression. Many, many flamenco songs are based on them.

I was a little better that day. The third day – improved, somewhat improved. But I knew the chords now. And, I knew that although I couldn’t coordinate my fingers with my thumb to produce the correct tremolo pattern, I knew the chords; I knew them very, very well.

The next day, he didn’t come. He didn’t come. I had the number of his, of his boarding house in Montreal. I phoned to find out why he had missed the appointment, and they told me that he had taken his life. That he committed suicide.

I knew nothing about the man. I did not know what part of Spain he came from. I did not know why he came to Montreal. I did not know why he played there. I did not know why he he appeared there at that tennis court. I did not know why he took his life.

I was deeply saddened, of course. But now I disclose something that I’ve never spoken in public. It was those six chords, it was that guitar pattern that has been the basis of all my songs and all my music. So, now you will begin to understand the dimensions of the gratitude I have for this country.

Everything that you have found favourable in my work comes from this place. Everything , everything that you have found favourable in my songs and my poetry are inspired by this soil.

So, I thank you so much for the warm hospitality that you have shown my work because it is really yours, and you have allowed me to affix my signature to the bottom of the page.


http://1heckofaguy.com/2011/10/25/upgraded-video-of-leonard-cohen%E2%80%99s-prince-of-asturias-awards-speech-with-no-overdubbing/

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Interesting Intro To Jamaican Food

First published in June 2008 in Food and Wine magazine - travelling on the stomach so to speak.


Real Flavor Of Jamaica: A Fast & Fabulous Road Trip

Despite his haute-cuisine background, chef Bradford Thompson’s dream is to open a Caribbean restaurant. For research, he and his wife embark on a crisscrossing tour of her native Jamaica.

    By Mark Kurlansky

It had been 20 years since I’d last been to Jamaica.

As a Caribbean correspondent for the Chicago Tribune, I hung out with street gangs in Kingston, stayed up all night with Prime Minister Edward Seaga at Afro-Jamaican religious ceremonies, traveled 90 miles an hour down winding, narrow roads with Prime Minister Michael Manley as he tried to charm every last Jamaican for a political comeback. But I had never traveled through Jamaica with a chef.

This was to be a particularly promising trip because the cook, Bradford Thompson, is a thinking chef who cares deeply about the cultural roots of the food he prepares. Bradford, who looks like the college football player he used to be, worked at Daniel, in Manhattan, before gaining fame as the chef at Mary Elaine’s at the Phoenician in Scottsdale, Arizona (where he was named an F&W Best New Chef 2004). But his passion for Jamaican food, which can be partially credited to his wife, a smart and beautiful Jamaican woman named Kerry-Ann Evans-Thompson, has him planning to open his own Caribbean restaurant in New York City. Bradford, Kerry-Ann and I were to take a tour around Jamaica to visit some of the best off-the-beaten-path food stops in the country.

Our journey began in Hellshire, the marshlands just outside the capital of Kingston, on the southern coast. Although Hellshire was once thought of as useless swampland, its fine-sand beach has become increasingly popular with Jamaicans. It was fun to be on a Caribbean beach where no one asks to braid your hair. Bradford doesn’t have much hair anyway. Fishermen pulled their catch from a turquoise sea: gold-spotted red snappers (some really too small to be harvested without endangering the stock), angry red lobsters, yellow parrot fish with iridescent turquoise fins. Fishermen scraped off scales during a tangerine-and-violet sunset while Bradford and Kerry-Ann strolled on the beach holding hands, still looking like newlyweds after almost two years of marriage.

Vernon Whyte, a small, wiry oysterman, came over with a bucket of little dark oysters from the mangrove swamps between here and Kingston harbor. Bradford, Kerry-Ann and I disposed of about a dozen each. “Not a lot of flavor,” said Bradford, somewhere around the ninth. “Subtle.” Vernon said he can easily harvest a hundred dozen a day, but he only goes oystering once a week—there is not much market for these bivalves that sell for less than $3 a dozen.

We had dinner at Aunt May’s, a dirt-floored beach shack where Kerry-Ann has eaten since she was a child. By the time she had embraced May Byrou, the motherly owner, Bradford was already in the kitchen, politely saying “Excuse me” as he poked fish and peeked into pots. May grilled parrot fish, snapper and goatfish (local red mullet) rubbed with salt and pepper while Bradford observed her every move. She also wrapped snapper in foil with herbs and “provisions” (root vegetables such as yam and sweet potato), then steamed it to make what Jamaicans call “roasted” fish. In Bradford’s version, he swaps out the yam and sweet potato for okra, tomatoes, scallions and carrots.

May serves her seafood with festival, a fried cornmeal fritter. Bradford, who plans to serve festival at his new restaurant, questioned May intently on her batter, which was a bit wetter than usual. According to Bradford, it made the festival “wonderfully chewy.”

“Heavy,” said Kerry-Ann.

“Chewy,” said Bradford.

I never enter into marital disputes, but I agreed with Kerry-Ann.

May also served bammy, a kind of bread made by crushing cassava root to remove the toxic juices, shaping it into a disk and frying it. Also known as yuca and manioc, cassava is a potent political symbol throughout the Caribbean because it is one of the few pre-Columbian foods that the locals still eat. The native Arawaks and Caribs, in fact, dipped arrows in the poisonous juice and shot them at Columbus’s men. Most Caribbean food today, like most Caribbean people, has roots in either Asia or Africa. Coconuts, sugarcane, mangos and bananas, for instance, were brought to Jamaica from Asia by the British, who regarded the fertile island as a kind of botanical laboratory.

From Kingston, we drove west along the southern coast, passing stands selling huge, bulbous jackfruit and hard, green June plums (both brought to Jamaica from Asia) and yellow star fruit (indigenous to Jamaica). Bright red ackee fruit hung from trees like Japanese lanterns. After about two hours, we turned off the road and drove up a small hill to the Yam Centre. The 12 small stalls all sell yams, the big tubers brought to Jamaica from Africa. Here they are roasted, split, buttered and served with saltfish—small pieces of salt cod originally imported from New England as cheap food for slaves. Usually, saltfish is soaked in water to soften and desalinate it, but here it is simply thrown on the grill. The yam stall we chose was Shine Head One Stop, next to Graney Razor One Stop. Shine Head, not surprisingly, was a man with a shaved and shiny head not unlike Bradford’s. I didn’t see what Graney Razor looked like.

We continued west to the village of Middle Quarters, where locals stand by the road selling bags of shrimp caught in the Black River and cooked with peppers. These shrimp inspired Bradford’s shrimp dish, though in his recipe, he serves them with avocados in a delightful salad. We stopped by a stand that sold shrimp as well as thick, spicy crayfish soup. “Look at that,” Bradford said admiringly as he watched a customer take a whole Scotch bonnet chile pepper, quarter it and drop it into a little cup of soup—enough chile to keep a mouth stinging for days. Jamaicans often like their food like that.

Five parishes west of Kingston, still on the southern coast, we entered the small town of Black River. From there, a fisherman named Austin gave us a lift on his boat to a place called the Pelican Bar, which sits on stilts in the sea a few hundred feet from land. Here we visited Delroy “Floyd” Forbes, an only slightly loony Jamaican who built the bar with his own hands. That he built it himself seems apparent from the construction: Rough-hewn branches serve as a ladder up to the crude wooden hut, which has a thatched roof and a plank floor.

Unbelievably, a boatload of men in Red Sox shirts and a very drunk Swede showed up at the shack. Bradford muttered something about being a Yankees fan, but really it was more humiliating for me, because I am a Red Sox fan. Local fishermen stop by to sell to Floyd, and he grilled us fresh mackerel that was surprisingly mild-tasting, not dark and oily. Bradford said this was because the fishermen had scored the mackerel above the gills immediately after catching it. He has tried to get fishermen in the U.S. to do the same thing, but they are unwilling to take that extra step.

To get to the northern coast we drove through the western interior of the island. These wild rugged mountains and rock outcroppings, known as Cockpit Country, are where many of the descendants of runaway slaves, called Maroons, still live. The Maroons learned the Arawak way of preserving meat by cooking it very slowly on the branches of allspice trees, known here as pimento trees, and rubbing allspice and other wild spices and herbs on the meat. The result is called jerk, a mispronunciation of a Spanish mispronunciation of the Arawak word. Looking for jerk was our prime objective along the northern coast.

The northern coast is the most beautiful in Jamaica, with the clearest, gentlest water. But developers have built more and more large hotels, shops and other tourist installations, turning the stretch from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios into something resembling a very long mall.

Then there’s Scotchies, a restaurant in a concrete building with a corrugated-tin roof. In a flash, Bradford was in the kitchen. “Excuse me. May I?” he said as he looked at the pork and chicken slowly cooking on allspice branches over a charcoal fire. Scotchies’ pork comes from local pigs raised to the restaurant’s specifications and is so succulent that, despite the ugly setting by the highway, I don’t know when I have ever had a better piece of pork.

Almost two hours further east, past the tourist zone, the road gradually narrows to little more than a single lane of hairpin turns surrounded by steep walls of dense tropical growth. It is bad roads that save all the best parts of Jamaica. We were heading for Port Antonio, a town that the United Fruit Company built up early in the last century as a place from which to ship bananas. Kerry-Ann has deep roots in this part of Jamaica, where her father had a farm that’s still marked on most maps. Every hour, her Jamaican accent grew thicker and more lilting.

From Port Antonio we took a quick boat ride to Boston Bay, where Maroons introduced the rest of the island to jerk. For many years, it was the only place in Jamaica to get jerk. Our destination, Boston Jerk Centre, has outdoor stands surrounded by ackee and breadfruit trees and is a lot more atmospheric than Scotchies. But Bradford was a little crushed. First, a small bus group showed up. Then the jerk pork wasn’t as good as it had been at Scotchies; it seemed a bit dry. “But the lobster’s good,” Bradford murmured. Kerry-Ann and I liked the light, crisp festival, though Bradford insisted May’s were better.

On their return to the States, Bradford and Kerry-Ann set off to visit her family on Long Island, where Bradford resolved to get into the kitchen and start cooking. Kerry-Ann’s family, including her mischievous nonagenarian grandmother, who wore a broad-brimmed black hat that seemed permanently affixed to her head, reveled in the disagreement that unfolded as we discussed island food traditions. “Why is an avocado called a pear?” Kerry-Ann asked. Because it is shaped like a pear, her family answered. “But then why do Jamaicans call a pear an apple?” she countered. At least everyone agreed on one thing: The crisp festival that Bradford learned at Aunt May’s was the best.

Mark Kurlansky is the author of 15 books, including Cod and Salt: A World History. His latest book is The Last Fish Tale.