Madame Duffey was a fascinating woman. She had coiffed red hair, a southern accent and that certain wackiness that all high school language teachers must possess in order to get the job.  I suspect that Madame Duffey aced her qualification exams because of the fantastically strong field of wackiness she emitted. Completely off the charts.

In Madame Duffey’s class the very first thing you learned was how to pronounce the teacher’s name.

“Madame” is easy, anybody can do that.
Maaaahhhh-daaaahhhhmmm.   Good, you’ve got it.

Now for the last name. She liked for us to pronounce it “Doo-Fay”.

Maaaahhhhh-daaaahhhhmmm Doo-Fay.

Did I mention this was French class?

The first few days were laugh riots as we intentionally butchered the French language, pronouncing everything as literally as possible.

“Bon Jower, Phillip! Ka Va?”

“Oooo-eeee, Ka Va! Ettt toy?”

“Oh, Komkye Kavah.”

As if Madame Duffey hadn’t seen that routine at the beginning of every French class since the very first time that SHE sat down to learn the language.

One day, Madame Duffey and the Spanish teacher hatched an idea to expand the minds of the entire school by force-feeding us culture.  They convinced the principal to allow them to use the school’s intercom system like a Honduran discotheque, piping music in to the lunchroom.

But not just any kind of music.

This was hardcore alpaca sweater weaving music.  It was music that drunken Venetian gondoliers would sing after a hard night of pushing honeymooners around the city.  It was Mongolian donkey-skinning music, Singaporean goat-wrestling music, Tlinkit whale-butchering music.

It was the world visited upon our school’s cafeteria and OH BUDDY was the world ever so LOUD!

Adjusting to the howl of world music was difficult, it was impossible to have normal conversations. You learned to sit between the people you needed to speak with the most and if you needed to talk with someone across the table it was entirely through hand gestures.

On the third day of World Music Torture I noticed The Girl. She was at the next table over from ours, on the far side of the table, facing me.  The reason that she stood out from the crowd is because she was crouched in her chair. By that, I mean that she was squatting in her chair with her feet underneath her… like a baseball catcher.

It was a such a novel way of sitting, especially in the lunchroom, that I thought it worth pointing out to the dude sitting next to me… so I punched his arm and hollered “Hey!!! Look at that girl!” and pointed.

“What squirrel?” he shouted back at me, suspiciously beginning to poke at his chicken with a fork.

I jabbed him again and pointed in the direction of the girl, only to discover that she was sitting calmly in her chair acting as if she’d never been perched in it like Johnny Bench.  I started to explain what I’d seen when somebody to my left let out a startled yelp.

I whirled back around and there was that girl again!, but this time she wasn’t squatting in her chair…. no, she was standing on top of her table, facetiously “rocking out” to the catchy Guatemalan toothache ballad currently grating over the tinny lunchroom speaker. She gyrated feverishly, as if possessed… as if every off-key note curdling out of the singer’s mouth was as super-cool-awesome as David Lee Roth* from Van Halen (remember, this was the 1980s, when DLR was actually super-cool-awesome).  The Assistant Principal (known as “Radar” by the student population) quickly zeroed in on Dancing Girl and hustled her down off the table and escorted her away, no doubt to some secret work camp on the outskirts of the county.

But Dancing Girl did not mock rock in vain!!! Her selfless act of rock-mockery made the school shut down World Music Week far, far sooner than the language department had ever anticipated. To this day I do not know who she was or how she worked up the courage to make a stand for a nice quiet lunch hour (or if she went on to have a career dancing on tables).

All I know is that I’m thankful World Music Torture Day was foiled.

* it should be noted that in the early 21st century it was discovered that David Lee Roth’s musical stylings were in fact based entirely on Guatemalan toothache music

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I’m a huge Tongo Hiti nerd and can’t wait to stop typing this entry and drive down to the Atlanta Trader Vic’s to see them perform live and in person…. the video posted here is from last Thursday night and it’s *amazing*….. I’ve personally watched this thing 40 times and I’m sure I’ll watch it 40 more…. totally mesmerizing…. your journey begins with the powerful beauty of Celine Dion and ends in dark majesty. Sit back and enjoy Tongo Hiti at the Atlanta Trader Vic’s as they weave the most magical performance ever seen on YouTube at this particular time of the day (or night)….

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Last Thursday I met up with some people at Trader Vic’s for Mai Tai Thursday and a dosh of the ultra-hawaiian courtesy of Tongo Hiti. This time around I shot a bunch of great videos, including this mellow island version of Joe Jackson’s hit “Steppin’ Out”. Enjoy!

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Strangely familiar music at that.
Oh wait, that’s just Donald Fagen’s new album Morph the Cat.

What a dumb name.
That’s exactly what I thought when I was standing in line to buy the album: “What a dumb name.”

Everyone knows that the hardest part about buying an album from a performer you enjoy is trying not to compare it to their past work. By and large I’ve done pretty well at avoiding that trap though I’ll be quick to say that to this point ‘Morph the Cat’ falls far behind Fagen’s other two albums The Nightfly and Kamakiriad (my personal favorite, an album I’ve listed to hundreds of times over).

First time out of the box I listened to the entire album three or four times through before locking it onto ‘The Great Pagoda of Funn’ for about a week. Yes, one song playing over and over again as I drove around town. For a week. You know, to get the feel of the song. Don’t musicians do this?

I finally went back to listening to the entire album and am now gravitating toward ‘The Night Belongs to Mona’ as it reminds me of someone I once knew (though her name, to the best of my knowledge, was not ‘Mona’)…

Cause the night belongs to Mona
When she’s dancing all alone
Forty floors above the city
CDs spinnin’
AC hummin’
Feelin’ pretty

I know that my perception of the album will mature over time, but I’ll hazard a guess and say that this is my third favorite Donald Fagen album of all time. Though I missed out on the special ’studio tour’ that helped to kick off the ‘Morph the Cat’ release, I was happy to grab some tickets to the Steely Dan concert that’s coming into Atlanta this August. Michael McDonald is sharing the billing with Becker and Fagen, and it should be a very laid back evening.

Hipster jazz my ass.

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So I wandered around, trying not to look like a shoplifter – ’cause I’m not a shoplifter, but it’s something that I’ve worried about since I was about 13 because there’s never been any good come of even slightly resembling a shoplifter. I’m sure that little slice of paranoia is the result of something I saw in an ABC After School Special.

Boom. Back in the CD singles section I picked up the scent. Keane. I’d been meaning to get the album with “Somewhere Only We Know” on it. The single would probably suffice, only, they didn’t have it. They -did- have the single for “This is the last time”, which I picked up (and held in such a manner that even an casual observer might remark, “Well, look at that guy. He is obviously going to purchase that compact disc and does not at all appear to be a shoplifter.”)

I am such an idiot.

The single? Is awesome. I’m glad that I accepted the substitute. The third song (of three), “Allemande”, is exceptional. The lyrics, the arrangement, the vocals are very evocative of something special, something that’s gone missing; not sure what it is, but whatever it is, dude lost it – check out a few lyrics:

Allemande, where have you gone?
Did I know anything about you?
Many moons have come and gone
They wane so easily without you

All along I said we’d be sorry
Sorry, and so we are
But ain’t that the way that
The way that the wind blows
And ain’t that the way that
The way that the wind blows
And ain’t that the way that
The way that the wind blows you home?
Sorry, sorry, and so we are

I did some checking on the internet and it turns out that this CD is a limited release, probably numbering 4,000 or less. The songwriter was allegedly inspired by some sheet music on his family’s piano with the word ‘Allemande’ written at the top. The Wikipedia says that the Allemande was a dance that originated in the 16th century and evolved its way into the 18th century.

I like the song better with the idea that Allemande is a girl. Or maybe a lost dog. Or perhaps a kite? Maybe a model rocket.

No….no, it’s a girl. Definitely a girl.

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