Advent

As we enter the season . . .

Oh, how appropriate

Sent by a friend. Too true.

A can of Off! isn't going to do it

From the New York Times:

In 2000, when the World Health Organization endorsed treated nets as a weapon against malaria, fewer than 2 percent of African children had them.

So even though coverage has increased sharply, 90 million children are still unprotected.

The study’s authors, from Oxford University, are based in Kenya and sponsored by the Wellcome Trust. They collected survey data in regions of 40 countries. (The global extent of malaria is guesswork because so much data is lacking or outdated, but the Oxford-Wellcome collaboration’s work is widely admired. For example, to map poverty, they used satellite images showing light at night, indicating
electricity.)

Donor contributions for malaria have greatly increased since 2002, but distribution of the nets has been spotty. More than half of the 90 million missed children were in just seven countries, and 25 percent in Nigeria alone.

A few small countries did particularly well; Eritrea reached 85 percent coverage. Some medium-size ones, like Kenya and Madagascar, did moderately well.

But some large or populous countries, like Nigeria, Uganda, Mozambique, Ivory Coast, Cameroon, the Democratic Republic of Congo and Sudan — the last two of which are at war — were below 15 percent.

Free distribution of nets worked best, the authors said.

Here's how you can help.

A Night at The Red and the Black: Truth, Beauty, and The Shackeltons

It is not often that you hear an indie band that you cannot compare to a more well-known band—that is, lesser-known bands almost always have a sound comparable with a more popular band. Were I to try, I would liken The Shackeltons to Modest Mouse in terms of eccentricity, and to the Killers or the Old 97’s as far as the instrumental goes. I would compare lead singer Mark Redding’s voice to that of Fred Schneider of the B-52’s—but Mark’s has more energy. But even as I type that, I’m shaking my head. Really, The Shackeltons have a sound like no other.

On a cold night in November, a friend and I found our way to The Red and the Black Bar in the Atlas district of Washington, D.C., a perfectly dark and darkly perfect dive of a place where we found moments of joy, sometimes unexpectedly. The Shackeltons opened the night with their unmatched style. While the audience stood wanly, sipping their longnecks, the band members poured their art out on stage.

Interacting with the audience between songs, Redding drew the listeners into the grand story he was weaving in the music—countering their stagnant presence with his animated one. He prefaced his songs with brief descriptions: “This one is about my mom.” Or, “This one is about the Chicago Fire of 1871.” Even, “This is about reaching middle age and not getting enough sleep.” There was definitely nothing tiring about The Shackeltons: They were enlivening.

They also touched the listener deep inside.

My friend Angie said their music was “like performance art,” adding that it really moved her. I felt I was listening to poetry. It was definitely more than mere entertainment.

Recently in Rolling Stone, Bono said of Bob Dylan, in his album Shot of Love, that his “voice becomes the words. There is no performing, just life—as Yeats says, when the dancer becomes the dance.” And Sam Cooke's description of Dylan: “ . . . from now on, it’s not going to be about how pretty the voice is. It’s going to be about believing that the voice is telling the truth.” And that is art—as it should be anyway: It tells the truth.

With The Shackeltons, you don’t just hear something easy on the ears, some Top-40 schlock. You hear a part of yourself you might not have wanted to confront. Some might call the band’s music discordant. But so is life. And in that discordance, you hear truth. In that is beauty, and that is good.

Not many bands express human longing with any truthfulness—with sincerity, maybe, but not stark truth. It is this reality of human longing that The Shackeltons exude so well. Listen closely, and you’ll hear your own.

(All photos by Angela Aveta)

Obama the Father

Well, he's been sneeringly called the Messiah, so might as well tack on the Father.

But seriously, lifting these observations from friend Kevin, even if you disagree with Obama's views, you have to admire him as a father.

Bush does.

Wish I had a father like this. Wish even more that my kids did.

Completely amazing

As friend Erik Lokkesmoe, whose group Different Drummer promoted Call+Response, called it, the anthem for our generation: Matisyahu singing "Redemption Song." Just beautiful.

This is so me and my daughter