Manafonistas

San Francisco in the late 1960s was a place for lovers, poets, and peace-makers. Positivity and goodwill were as omnipresent as the fog, and people were greeted with open arms and rosie cheeks. Unless, of course, you were on the second story of Sam Wo Restaurant in the heart of Chinatown.

Past steaming woks and chopping blocks and up a narrow, creaky staircase, Edsel Ford Fong — the world’s most insulting waiter — greeted patrons with a “sit down and shut up!” Routinely, he cussed out his customers, sexually accosted female companions, and unapologetically spilled soup across laps. According to one diner, he was so malicious that he “made the Soup Nazi look like the Dalai Lama.”

Here is the whole story: 
 
„The Worst Waiter In History“

Parental advice: you can hear the word „pornography“ at the end of the album!

A few days ago I sat next to Eiléan Ni Chuilleanáin, who was described on Wikipedia or maybe somewhere else as one of the most famous Irish poets. As you would have expected it from a female irish poet, her hair reached at least to the seat of the chair she sat on. (By the way her hair was not red, just in case you would have expected also this feature from a female irish poet.) I remember one of her poetic pictures, children being thrown in language like in cold water. Later, in the discussion, one of the guests made a political comment about it. How the prohibition of speaking the own language was used as a weapon and – his voice became louder – could even kill people. I guess it had nothing to do with the poem, but some time ago I read somewhere, in every public lecture with following discussion there was this man who would talk und talk unless the organizer would stop him. The incessantly talking man was asked to translate his comment in italian language as most of the people were italians. A good idea: the man suddenly was quiet. The Greek poet Titos Patrikos is far more than 80 years old, but his eyes were shining bright, as he quoted another poet, who said, it was no problem to repeat one and the same thought in all the poems one writes as the poet thus would succeed in expressing more profoundly. Unfortunately I forgot the name of this intelligent poet, and I had no opportunity to ask Titos Patrikos later. So @ Titos Patrikos: if you read this, I would be pleased if you could make a comment and leave the name of that poet. Don´t worry: No one but Manafonistas will be able to read your e-mail-adress. I said I was grateful to Titos´remark as I had recognized all my poems circled around one theme: disappearance. (I never planned it and fortunalety it is not my job to analyze it.) And this, dear campfire friends, may be the main reason why I love the work of Labradford and the voice of Mark Nelson so much. Although very often it does not matter what someone says, but how, I especially love track No. 3 (PICO) from the album “Labradford” (1992) and the way Mark Nelson is whispering (not really singing) some words which sound like “somewhere alone / the light, street corners, city blocks, apartments abandoned to their drift“. And although I would love it to read the complete lyrics it is not really necessary as one can feel every single word.

Yes, that’s the way to look at it! Of course you don’t have to bow your head, in your vinyl collection you can make the player stand up. The record came to me long before its release. And now I will no longer wait. Possibly you know it‘s a typical Glenn Jones cover, if you look at one. It‘s a fairytale mood of animals playing the guitar. Or ukulele. Or banjo. There’s something quintessential about Vade Mecum; documenting an acoustic guitarist and banjo player of gentle curiosity and questing spirit, it captures the core of what Jones does. Always his compositions are assured, his playing is never overwrought, whether essaying loving countryblues, or sweet hypnotism.. There may be other guitarists, of a similar stripe, more vocal about their abilities, pushier about their ‘career’, but when Jones shows up, unassuming and eloquent, knowing and poetic, everyone’s the better for it. And you can believe his alter ego on the cover. I love his stories soundwise, I like the  ambiences, too, an open window here, an aereoplane from far there. Or was it a steam engine? No matter which chord, which silence, always a warmth, a match, a breath   (written  by Jon Dale and heavily extended by Michael E.)