Update

The Pashto translations are not going well. I think I need to hire the taxi man that gives me a lift to the airport. It is his native tongue.

Lately, I have developed a weather fetish.

Pitchmen, and the female grifters that love them.

There are a lot of people that have expressed surprise that Billy Mays, the Infomercial King of cable TV fame was doing cocaine. Especially to such a long term degree that the coroner ruled that it had contributed to the heart disease that he expired from.

Most people attributed his drug use to his quasi celebrity status as the pre-eminent pitchman for various and sundry products of debatable usefullness and worth. And the attendant stresses of fronting his own reality TV show; The Pitchmen.

But I suspect that the origins of his drug usage had less to do with his place in the world as a man in his fifties, and more to do with his formative years in the pitchman trenches of higher education. Where glib double speak spieling, and hypnotic pitch patter are fine tuned in the "make a killing" fields of middle America. Graduates of this hustler's school of conning rubes have "I love Robin Marks" tattooed on their soul for all eternity.
The vast majority of successful "fast talking pitchmen" are graduates of our nation's county fairs.

Except for the few that make it to the next level; "paid programming infomercial hell" most pitchmen remain minions, and gophers of the Carny barker bosses that are the seamy underbelly of midway mercantilers.

Most of these people will never be ready for prime time, as their penchants, and preferences run several degrees south of being merely pedestrian. Most likely due to their mostly being paid off for services rendered with drugs, fire crackers, switchblades, and sexual favors provided by midget hookers and the bearded lady.

Errr....Or so I've heard.

Is my above description of pitchmen in general some what exaggerated?

Of course it is.

Do they not love like we do?

Well...Do they?

If they are cut, do they not bleed? Or just leak some oil based lubricant of a heartless selling machine?

If their outrageously marked up commodity price is undercut by another pitchman that dares to be even more unscrupulous than the original purveyor of something or other, won't he nut up, and beat a prostitute senseless, like the ShamWow! pitchman did, for not filing her canines down, before uhhh, going down? Apparently.

Their lineage is ancient, and just as manic. The loud shrieking, arms flaying rug merchants of the Casbah. That never met a rug they didn't like.

The "cigars, cigarettes, tiparillo" pitch gals in pasties at the Copacabana. That were given a twenty dollar bill for a five cent cigar and told to "keep the change" because "It just seemed right." after Trixie, or Wanda leaned over to light your stogie, and your face was enveloped between her mammalian magnificence long enough to anesthetize your ability to calculate the difference between five cents, and twenty dollars..

The Traveling Medicine Show snake oil salesmen of the old west.

That rolled into small towns, and bucolic burgs preaching the gospel of Sister Henrietta's health infusing, ailment arresting, healing holy hooch. That was guaranteed to keep you so shit-faced that you thought you were healed long enough for these Prince of Darkness pitchmen to abscond with a good portion of the town folk's money, and one or two of their daughters.

They have gone by many names. Silver tongued devil. Barker. Huckster. Scammer. Liar. Thief. And "That's him sheriff!" Just to name a few. There is always something of value to sell, that a man can turn a decent profit on. These retail scamps and scallywags avoid products like that as if their life depended on it.

And in the most basic of ways, there life does depend on steering clear of affordable, useful items. That is; Their life as mesmerizing, merchandisers of the blatantly over priced cornucopia of corny, and crappy kitch. That they obviously have imported directly from the junk dimension. Via mainland China.

There is only one legendary pitch man that springs to mind when talk turns round to the question; "Is there a decent paying life, and an honorable reputation after pitching crap for decades to unsuspecting rubes by the use of deceptive claims?

His name was Ed McMahon. Johnny Carson's signature sidekick for the long run. And like most people, I liked, and admired Ed during those golden years of his pitchman existence. When there was nothing to sell to the audience, or viewers, other than that he found everything that Johnny said to be immensely funny.

But sadly, like a dog returning to his own vomit, or a pitchman returning to the seventh hub of pitchman hell, (where damned pitchmen spend an eternity trying to carve tomatoes, and cantaloupes into artistic creations, but instead, they all resemble tortured souls) Ed dove back into the pitch black, metaphorically murky waters of slick, and slimy double speak spieldom.

His di was cast, his fate was sealed, and the wheels on his roller coaster ride to hell were greased when he formed an unholy Trinity alliance with the Dorian Gray cursed poster boy of ageless pitch, Dick Clark,

and the soulless Dark Lord that is computer generated, person specific mailing lists.

Faster than you can say; "Release the hounds of Hell!" Every man, woman, and child in the U.S.A. had several pounds of Publisher's Clearing House mailings proclaiming that; "You may already be a winner!" But you NEVER were!

No one that I ever knew ever won even the cheesy chaise lounge crap that they passed out as consolation prizes. Crap so pathetically cheap in quality that they bought a warehouse full of the stuff at rock bottom prices, after several babies, and elderly people were mangled, and strangled to death when the framework suffered catastrophic collapse at the precise moment that a person's neck was exposed, and ready to be mangled.

Every week. Every month. Every year. For many years, Ed, and Dick's face smiled up at you, from your kitchen, or coffee table. My mother, like millions of other elderly people bought over two thousand dollars worth of magazines a year for over ten years. She never read any of them. No one could convince her that her odds of winning were the same if she never bought a single magazine.

Without really saying so, (like all good pitch men) Ed, and Dick projected exactly the opposite. And mom trusted Ed, and Dick to give her the straight dope.

Ahhh Ed. You knew that there was great damage being done to millions of people that loved you. Trusted you. But you were a pitchman through, and through.

And you broke something in my Mother's heart that never healed. And she wasn't alone Ed. There were millions like her.

Which leads me to believe that you might find it impossible to "pitch one" across the plate when the great umpire in the sky says; "Play ball"

You are gonna have to do a lot better than; "It chops! It blends! It juliennes! It purees! It is a magical little gadget that saves you time, money, and aggravation! Sorry, due to an extremely limited supply, we can only let you order twelve at a time!"

Much better.

Dueling maestros! An east coast, west coast dust up at Tuxedo Junction!

Alan Gilbert "giving his all" for the music that he loves.


Alan Gilbert coducting the N.Y, Philharmonic's orchestra with his signature laid back, buttoned down style that the Big Apple's symphonic patrons have said that they prefer. At least since the Wunderkind Dudamel was lured to L.A. to add his legitimate glitz and glamour to the rouge and wrinkle cream variety that the city is known for. Gilbert's goal is to make a minimalist conductor look manic by comparison.



Dudamel showing that he can "reign it in" when necessary. But you know that Gustavo has reached the climax of his impassioned conducting when his eyes take on a crazed thousand yard stare and his facial expressions are as jerky, and frenetic as his flailing arms. One music wag was overheard saying to another; "I'll bet you a hundred that he just busted a nut." His friends response? "No bet."


Gustavo's exhuberence on the verge of effervescently bubbling up, out, and over everyone in the first three rows. One member of the audience became so excited by the caniption fit like jerks, shudders, and spasms associated with Dudamel's air thrashing commands to the orchestra members to reach critical mass musicaly that his bladder control problems reached critical mass as well. Which didn't stop him from gushing; "Not since Gallegher has an audience been soaked as thouroughly with the effluvia of an artist's passion! And Gustavo did it with a two ounce baton. Gallagher needed a twelve pound sledge hammer."

Below, you will find the LA Times music critic Mark Sweds assessment of the strengths, and weaknesses of L.A.'s and New York's lead philharmonic conductors. With "translations" of code word cultured music critic speak provided by me in; (parentheses) of those pertinent passages that reveal all of the myriad subliminal, subconcious levels that these "psyche war" attacks are launched from.

Until one week ago I had thought that movie critics had a monopoly on mealy mouthed dissin' of those movies and actors that didn't satisfy their "Morris the Cat" finicky cultural tastes. Until one week ago I was sure that sports columists had a pretty solid lock on trash talkin' the managment and players of teams that failed to perform to the "twelve trials of Hercules" level, that had been demanded of them by these arm chair, Monday morning quaterbacks at the beginning of their season. But the feral ferocity of regional fine arts critics on the attack place these allegorical axe murderers in a league of their own.

They are nefarious nuance Nazis extraordinaire. And when they storm some one else's cultural castle the "shock and awe" of their take no prisoners, bayonet the wounded, acid toungued assault would make Hannibal Lecter's scrotum suffer some shrinkage at the mere thought of being hunted by one of these Natural Born Critics.

Case in point. L.A. Philharmonic has a new Wunderkind. Gustavo Dudamel. Twenty-eight years young, this guy has taken most internationally famous philharmonic orchestras world wide by storm. He took up the violin at 10, and musical composition not long after. He debuted with the Israel, and L.A. Phil. at 24.

In the 4 years since, he has taken the baton at philharmoics in; Dresden, Germany; Royal Liverpool, London; La Scala, Milan, Italy; Vienna, (at 26 for Christ's sakes!); San Fransisco; Amsterdam; and too many more to enumerate, so I'll cap his world wide conquest of all things philharmonic with his "Command performance" for the Pope, in Rome/Vatican City. Ave Maria!

His conducting style is repetitiously referred to as; "Effervescent" or; "Exhuberant" by which they mean that he is a conducting genius, whirling dervish baton waving musical matador that will deliberately incite an entire orchestra to come charging from the gate in his direction. Some how, or another, he always manages to avoid being gored by the horn section, or savaged by the strings. He is rewarded with ovations, instead of Oles.

New York Phil.'s lead conductor is Alan Gilbert. And he is at 42 years of age not exactly the new kid, let alone the wunderkind on the block. But he IS the new face of New York's internationally famous Phil. As you can see by his photos, he is a buttoned down, "just give me a pinch more symphonic salt" sort of conductor. He might show evidence of a light sheen of sweat when he takes his final bow. But, then again, that could be the result of standing for a couple of hours under numerous klieg lights.

Needless to say, Gustavo Dudamel's long curly hair is slinging a steady down pour of his "wet and salty" exhuberance all over everyone in the first three rows of folding chairs set up for high paying VIP's in the orchestra pit.

Gilbert has a kind, and thoughtful face. Soon to be bloodied, and bruised by the brassy knuckled byline beat down that Mark Swed, unleashes in his "fists of catty fur flying fury" L.A. Times critique below.

Now that you have been brought up to speed on the east, and west coast conducting combatents,

LET'S GET READY TO RUMMMMMMBLE!
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mark.swed@latimes.com
Copyright © 2009, The Los Angeles Times


Last month, New York's public radio station WNYC hosted what it billed as a Los Angeles-versus-New York conductor "smackdown."

On one side, a controversial British music critic went to bat for Gustavo Dudamel, the Los Angeles Philharmonic's effervescent 28-year-old music director. On the other, the producer of the New York Philharmonic's radio broadcasts defended her orchestra's measured, conscientious 42-year-old music director, Alan Gilbert.

Norman Lebrecht praised Dudamel for driving orchestras into a kind of ferocity, (He's got mad, crazy skills!) in contrast with the "dull" Gilbert. Noting Gilbert's previous gig heading the Royal Stockholm Philharmonic for eight years, Lebrecht opined, "It was a third-rate orchestra when he started and it was a third-rate orchestra when he left." (Ouch! Right out the gate, Swed socks up EVERY musician that is a member of the Royal Stockholm Orchestra! By casting them "en toto" as a "third rate orchestra" he effectivly leaves them with no credible come back. I mean, what are THEY gonna say? "We're not third rate. We're second rate." That's not gonna help at all.)

Gilbert's champion, Limor Tomer, countered by dismissing Dudamel's opening-night conducting of Mahler's First Symphony as a collection of bad habits. (Try and convince anyone in L.A., or New York that a "Bad Boy" image in a musical genre that already suffers from "Nancy Boy Syndrome" is gonna draw b!tchy blood.) The New York Philharmonic's playing was pristine on its opening night beneath Gilbert's baton, she said. Tomer even took a shot at the curly-headed Venezuelan's unruly mane. "The hair thing," she sniffed, "will only take you so far." (Only around the world to acclaim and applause in less than 4 years.)

Much of the debate was entertainingly half-baked. No one on it, including host John Schaefer, had actually witnessed Dudamel live in Los Angeles. (We find him guilty of stealing our cultural love in abstentia! Get a rope!) Nonetheless, it was emblematic of the irresistible temptation many in the media and blogosphere have to pit Gilbert, music director of America's oldest symphony orchestra, against Dudamel, leader of the ensemble many critics now regard as the model for the 21st century. Both men debuted in their new posts this fall.

Ironically, such debates overlook the point that both orchestras have much more in common today than the last time a version of this cross-country musical matchup occurred: 30 years ago when the New York Philharmonic hired Zubin Mehta away from L.A. In fact, the spiritual godfather of both new conductors may be Esa-Pekka Salonen, who has influenced and empowered Dudamel and Gilbert to follow the groundbreaking path he cut during his just-ended 17-year directorship of the L.A. Philharmonic. (They both sat at the feet of their musical Master who handed the crown to the sweaty kid, and exiled his other student three thousand miles away.)

The rivalry, such as it is, is not so much between the conductors themselves -- Dudamel and Gilbert are said to be friends. At least for now. (Until Gilbert reads this.) Dudamel has been getting the lion's share of attention. New Yorkers are envious. Angelenos, losing out in baseball to those Yankees, are glad for something to gloat about. (Take that, you Damn Yankees! You swing a mean bat, but we wave a wildly exhuberant baton!)

In our dugout, then, is a dazzling Venezuelan who attracts a large and diverse new audience. He has the potential to reshape the cultural landscape of Los Angeles through his advocacy of music education and obvious connection to Southern California's Spanish-speaking millions. (Millions of "hope to die", livin' La Vida Loca homies have his back. So watch it New York!) He is a delight to watch and fabulously photogenic. Musicians are maybe even more mesmerized by him than are audiences. He is already one of the conductors most in demand anywhere. (You have to take a ticket, and get in line to take a ticket, and get in line to put your name on the list of those that want him to conduct their home town orchestra. But he never will.)

Gilbert, a native New Yorker, can boast none of these traits or accomplishments. (Damn! The dude isn't even a One Trick Pony!) He is well-enough liked. (By his mother. Or, so she says.) He brings a relatively youthful zest (Youthful zest is a glandular, hormonal thing that shuts down before you're thirty. At 42, the ONLY zest that Gilbert has is grated off of a lemon, or lime when he orders fish when dining out.) to America's oldest orchestra by succeeding such senior-citizen conductors as Kurt Masur and Lorin Maazel. (Tales from the Crypt!) He is musically responsible (He can jerk a two ounce baton around and eschew exhuberance at the same time!) and doesn't take the fearless interpretive risks Dudamel sometimes does.(He would never try and adapt an Eagles melody for full orchestra. O.K. that's to his credit.) If Gray's Papaya ever decides to serve an Alan Gilbert dog to match Pink's Dudamel dog in L.A., the Upper West Side hot dog stand is not likely to add jalapeño.(His conducting is bland.) Nor pile on junk food. (He's not like you, me, or anyone else that you are comfortable with. He's a musical Vegan!) Indeed, for Gilbert the freshness in the music is found in bringing out the natural ingredients with minimum fuss. (He's the conducting equivalent of a Denny's Resturant short order cook.)

Each conductor is in the right place. Dudamel needs time to grow and mature away from the glare of New York's music establishment. (They glare because their jealous!) Gilbert doesn't have the glitz for L.A. (He was "conducted" out of town, accused of being a musical dead beat.) Why not, instead, just say all this media interest in American orchestras is great for classical music? That, so far, has been the brunt of reasoned commentary. But who's kidding whom? (Gilbert is a joke, but nobody is laughing.) Thanks to PBS, television audiences were able to watch both orchestras' opening-night galas. Dudamel easily won the personality contest. (Dudamel actually having some personality made it an unfair contest New Yorkers said.) In the Arizona Republic, Richard Nilsen wrote (Gilbert's professional epitaph.) that "while Dudamel and his orchestra showed why classical music matters, Gilbert and his showed why audiences are dwindling." (One Adam twelve. Shots fired. Conductor down!)

What is really going on in New York, however, is not so much L.A. envy as L.A. influence. (West coast O.G.'s {Orchestral Gangsters} emptied their clips of lead laced cultural love into the reputaion of the Big Apple's biggest baton swinging maestro. Then hustled his still warm corpse out the 50th floor window of opportunity that he never took advantage of. His body, is being stored at the City morgue. Where it has already started decomposing.) The Gilbert changes that critics in New York are cheering come straight out of the Salonen playbook. In L.A., Salonen built a uniquely flexible orchestra. He created an audience for new work and turned the new music series, the Green Umbrella, into a major audience draw. He programmed with a rare intelligence, placing classics and contemporary works in meaningful context.

These are all steps that Gilbert, whom Salonen repeatedly invited to guest conduct in L.A. in recent years, has now initiated in New York. (He's just started? The slacker!) One of his first orders of business was to appoint Salonen's closest friend, Magnus Lindberg, as composer in residence. Gilbert has also begun a new music series in the Green Umbrella mold. (Lacking ideas of his own, he is stealing from our Wunderkind!) As L.A. did several years ago, the New York Philharmonic will have a Stravinsky festival. Though it will be conducted by Valery Gergiev. (Because Gilbert would only screw it up. Like everything else he touches.) Dudamel, though, is in the lucky position to build on Salonen's foundation. (The foundation of the musical temple of Salonen!) While the New Yorkers commissioned two new works for Gilbert's first season, the Angelenos are celebrating Dudamel's with nine. (New York has no game!) The Disney Hall festivals are far-reaching, concentrating on West Coast and Latin American music, and include little tried and true. Dudamel has invited John Adams, America's most lauded living composer, to be his orchestra's creative chair. (Ahhhh! Life is good! If you are not Gilbert.)

Gilbert thus has the harder job. (And he couldn't even do the easier one.) He must change a more traditional culture, which is going to take time. (Which there is no way in Hell that those "gotta have it now!" New Yorkers are gonna give him.) He was not, as Dudamel was in L.A., the first choice. (Right here is where they commence to stomping the bloody, mangled remains of his dignity into the dusty dirt of subconscious thoughts. The feeding frenzy to strip him of every last shred of professional pride is in full swing now!) Players admitted to the New York Times that they preferred the distinguished 68-year-old Italian, Riccardo Muti, who chose Chicago instead. (OMFG! Every one of his orchestra's musicians has joined in to the blood crazed, attempt to gelatinize every musical reputation bone in his body! Some body stop this! This has gone to far!) Building new audiences and staying in the limelight will be a challenge for the thoughtful but cautious Gilbert. (After this night of the long knives; "Et tu New York Philharmonic?" I would re-catorgorize it as more of an "Impossible Dream.") Last month, he took his orchestra to Vietnam for its first visit, and the New York media barely noticed. (It may be a back woods, third rate communist dictatorship, but it comes with a lifetime appointment, and a "captive" audiance that keeps clapping furiously, until I wave my baton to indicate SILENCE!)

Dudamel, on the other hand, is a paparazzi-magnet anywhere he goes. That includes New York. (Every one of these Damn Yankees loves our guy more than their own! Even his Mother!)

In the spring, Dudamel will bring the Los Angeles Philharmonic to perform at Lincoln Center. Human nature being what it is, in some quarters of Los Angeles' music establishment, it's already being called the "eat-your-heart-out tour." (Or... The; "Eat your lead conductor's still beating heart, with a nice Chianti, and some fava beans! Fsssst, fsssst, fssssst, fssssst, fssssst!")

It's good to be King. Err..., I mean back!

"One small step for mankind. One giant leap for me!"

And just so you know, I like purple, no matter what color it is!

It is the color of Royalty!

It is the color of Passion!

And as my mother's maiden name is King, it is soooo me!

I mean, I could do that whole "Off with their heads!" thing in my sleep!

Wait... I forgot, that was a Queen.

But I could do that whole; "Let it be said. Let it be done!" thing while reading the morning paper.

Hold on... Sorry. That was a Pharaoh.

Anyway...You get the idea.

Thanks for the Royal treatment upon my triumphant return from doing battle with the dreaded, many headed Dragon...


O.K...

I wasn't slaying Dragons.

I wasn't in secret negotiations to be on; "Who wants to be a millionaire?"

I wasn't being rolled around on a moving dolly wearing a straight jacket, and a hockey mask. Dining on some liver, Chianti, and fava beans. "Fssst, fssst, fssst, fssssst!" (Although, that would have been some straight up cool s**t!)

I was just one of the many millions of people in California that has discovered that our states financial implosion is the worst of all 50 states. The unemployment numbers are the highest nationally. The recession will probably last 9 months, to a year and a half longer here than other places.

Just like there is no free lunch, there is no free electricity. There are no free on line services. And the easy days of hitching a ride on someone else's signal are over my friend. Even Starbucks wants five dollars a day to be a cyber flea on their internet dog. That's $150.00 a month. IF you have a laptop. Which I don't.

I'm not grousin'. Just explainin'. I'm a big boy, and I know how this old world turns. You play the game, you take your chances.

So...I will quit shaking my fist at the internet God's, before they huck a lightning bolt at my easy to target asz and the power surge ruins my ability to continue my conversations with you folks.

I will close with the wise words of a wise song writer, Van Morrison;

Precious time is slipping away.
You know, you know you're only King for a day.
It doesn't matter to which God you pray.
Precious time is slipping away.

So get ready folks! While there is still time, this King is gonna purple things up around here.

What ever the Hell that means!