Ringo 012: The Hug of Human Curation
recommendations from a trusted source
Hi! I'm Michael Donaldson, and I write about music on 8sided.blog, license and publish music through 8DSync, and make music as Q-Burns Abstract Message. I think about music all of the time. My guess is you do, too.
This is the twelfth episode of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a newsletter loosely about music-making and music-listening and how technology changes the culture around those things.
Each episode of this newsletter has a theme song. This episode we're exploring curation, discovery, and rabbit holes, so I’m revealing a song called “Tarkovsky.” This was recorded a while ago, obviously inspired by the work of the masterful Russian film director. It’s not unreleased but rarely heard, only appearing on the 2002 compilation Ibiza Chilled. I disguised it under the artist name Oja Kodar which is its own rabbit hole. So, here’s “Tarkovsky” and I hope you enjoy reading this weekend’s ramble.
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We need a hug! Isolation intensifies a craving for human connection. And as fans of music and film and the arts, one way we connect is through recommendations. The fancy 21st-century term is 'curation,' where discovery depends on a specially created selection of 'things to check out.' But over the past several years, algorithmic curation has swept us away. Spotify's Discover Weekly, for example, is seductive — the recommendations are uncanny. On more than one occasion, it's pulled a song I haven't thought of in decades from the ether, a favorite forgotten gem from my college radio days. How does it know me?
It's because I am connecting with a human being through Discover Weekly. That human is me. My activity and listening habits power the algorithm. Sure, it's mostly comparing my practices with those of an unknown pool of Spotify users. It's just a computerized "others who listen to that like this so he probably will, too" list. But the result is me looking into a mirror. And, like you, over the past six weeks, I've spent way too much time communing with a mirror.
I doubt I'm the only one in isolation with a renewed appreciation for human curation — otherwise known as 'recommendations from humans.' I can't have my friends here with me but I can ask them what they're listening to, what they're watching, what they're reading. Their selections reveal pieces of their personalities. There are often stories behind the recommendations, sometimes more interesting than the suggestions themselves. And personal recommendations are sloppy — they can miss the mark or make us scratch our heads. Sometimes that helps us understand each other more than a mutually loved offering might.
I haven't gotten an awful, completely-missing-the mark suggestion from Discover Weekly in a long time. I know Spotify considers that a feature, not a bug, but I wouldn't mind being challenged now and then. Sometimes those challenges turn into surprises, and I like being surprised. Bring it on — in these isolation days, I'm jonesing for the unexpected.
It's not only our friends doing human curation for us. There's also the 'trusted source' and the musicians, filmmakers, or authors we admire. I don't know about you, but I love those lists — an artist I dig lays out her top 10 or so most inspiring albums. It's part of deciphering that artist, connecting the dots, and unearthing unheard treasures. You see, rabbit holes are more than time-wasters. They're educational and have the power to set us on new paths.
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I somehow got ahold of The Industrial Culture Handbook when I was a teenager in Central Louisiana. The best part of the book wasn't the interviews with these various art-damaged weirdos. The coolest thing followed the interviews — each of the artists listed music, films, and books for the reader to seek out. Coming from the likes of Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire, the list items were subversive and tauntingly obscure. I spent a lot of energy tracking down what I could. I didn't find many of those suggestions, but a few of my successful acquisitions — like The Third Mind, which I wrote about previously — changed my course significantly.
I'm not saying it's impossible for an algorithm to have the same effect. But it seems to me that an algorithm's purpose is to help keep you on the same, undeviating, safe course. That's fine, but it takes a surprise to throw you off and onto something new — if that's what you want to happen.
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There's a terrific 2016 article in the LA Weekly on the fabled Nurse With Wound List. Inspired by a similar list in Frank Zappa's Freak Out!, Nurse With Wound's 1979 album debut included a square insert with the names of 291 artists and bands. These were artists that NWW challenged their listeners to seek out and, pre-internet, this roadmap through experimental music became legendary. Most of the groups were incredibly obscure — The Residents are one of the more 'famous' names — and there are rumors that a couple of the names are made up, an evil prank played on obsessive list completists.
From the LA Weekly piece:
"The obscurity of this music, that someone had found, catalogued and championed it pre-Internet, boggled my mind," [Los Angeles artist Ross] Bryant continues. "It was an esoteric document in the sense that it was full of obscure knowledge intended for a small number of people. But it was also esoteric in the sense that there seemed to be something mystical about it. A sort of musical Nag Hammadi Library of hidden music, rare artifacts, treasures reverently compiled, to be listened to in a ritual way."
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In early 2001 I moved to a new neighborhood, blocks from Rock N' Roll Heaven, one of the best used record shops in the southeastern US. I developed a weekly routine, walking down to the shop to browse and maybe grab a record or two. Over time I got to know the people working there.
After a few months, a curious thing started happening. I'd walk in the store, and the guy behind the counter would welcome me by name and say, "I've got some things here for you." He'd pull out a plastic bag with my initials on it, and inside would be 3 or 4 records, always precisely the type of records I was looking for — spot on!
This exchange started happening every week. I'd walk in the door and "Hey, Michael! I've got a bag for you!" And these wouldn't be cheap records but they'd be perfect. There was no way I was going to resist that rare '70s 12" with a synth-disco cover of the Battlestar Galactica theme, despite the $20 price tag (ouch).
Eventually, I stopped going to the store every week. Seriously — I couldn't take it anymore. Actually, my wallet couldn't take it. Those guys knew me too well and were curating with both sure-fire must-haves and risk-taking surprises. I think they got the hint. Once I stopped appearing weekly, the bag-behind-the-counter with my name ceased to appear, too.
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Detroit electronic music legend Mike Huckaby died last week. He worked at the beloved record shop Record Time (and I met him a few times there). I was struck by these two paragraphs from Michelangelo Matos's moving memorial in the NY Times:
Rick Wade, a Record Time co-worker and close friend of Huckaby's, said, "People would come to the store and Huckaby already had records in a bag, their name on the bag." He added, "They wouldn't even listen to the records. They'd pick up the bag and head to the register. If Huck pulled it, they bought it."
Wade called Huckaby's sense of other people's taste "uncanny." Another Detroit D.J., Craig Gonzalez, recalled taking Huckaby's suggestions even when his own reaction was lukewarm. "I bought it anyway — maybe I wasn't ready for it yet," Gonzalez said. "There were a couple I remember listening to at the store and wasn't feeling particularly at the time, but then a couple months later: 'Oh!'"
There's mutual risk-taking in this type of curation. There's the risk the selector takes on in challenging your taste while staying within that taste. (I've always said the best DJs are the ones who ride that balance of what they want to play and what the audience expects to hear.) And there's the risk, or challenge, the recipient accepts — that, like Gonzalez in the above quote, the recommendation doesn't quite hit home right away. It might take some work and time to decode. The process isn't like the speed and immediate rush of the algorithm. But the potential for discovery goes deeper than the capabilities of Discover Weekly. And, right now, in The Strange Times, the human element and foibles of curation and discovery are more important than ever.
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And now, some recommendations of my own:
I've worked with Kansas City (AKA Kosmik City) psych-combo Monta At Odds for many years as a music publisher and recently as a label manager. In 2018 I released Argentum Dreams, the band's collaboration with Domino Recordings artist Your Friend, as the debut release on my 8D Industries imprint. Led by Dedric Moore and his brother Delaney, Monta At Odds are continuously experimenting, shapeshifting in sound but maintaining a thread that's woven through psychedelic music, free jazz, trip-hop, and post-punk. Each release draws on those sounds but often with one influence at the fore. On Friday, the group revealed a four-song EP, titled Zen Diagram, which pushes the post-punk leanings out into the open. Aided by a recurring but rotating crew of players, the EP craftily organically blends guitars, synthesizers, and drums — both live and machine — while the basslines dominate. And that's as it should be in a good post-punk influenced jam: the spine is the bassline. Yes, I helped put this out and might be a tad biased, but I hope you'll still give it a spin. Feel free to start with their wonderful and surprisingly groovy cover of Tones on Tail's "Movement of Fear," as featured this weekend on Slicing Up Eyeballs. [link]
My friend Dr Olive used to be in a well-known French alternative rock band named Little Nemo. And years ago, he took me to Mont Saint-Michel, which I'll never forget. Dr Olive has consistently produced superb music over the decades — and once claimed to be the first DJ on the moon — and it's always a pleasure to hear what he's up to. A couple of weeks ago, accompanied by his ragtag band The Hoperators, he released an album called Maybeland. This album is a trip, defined as both a journey and a psychedelic experience, and is directly inspired by Philip K. Dick's heady tome Ubik. That's especially apparent in the opening cuts which lull the listener with Dickian interludes and surreal 'radio commercials.' Once you've made it through with your brain fully integrated, there are some delightful, catchy songs to discover. The three-part kosmiche closer is especially tasty. And while we're mentioning cover songs, don't miss the rollicking version of Brian Eno's "Fat Lady of Limbourg" that waits near the end. [link]
Something else I'll never forget: that time I went to a small Winter Music Conference party in Miami, circa 2000, to see a different French music doctor. It was Doctor L and he had recorded some music with famed Nigerian drummer Tony Allen as Pysco On Da Bus. And there was Tony Allen at this WMC showcase playing alongside Doctor L (and one other musician who I didn't know) for 50-or-so people. The stage was makeshift and not too elevated, placed in the center of the medium-sized room. I was able to stand right next to Tony Allen as he played, experiencing his magic up close. It was an unbelievable experience. I bring this up because, as you might have heard, Allen unexpectedly passed away this week. His influence on all the music we're listening to now is incalculable. Allen's catalog is vast and eclectic, and it's tough to pinpoint one recommendation. Perhaps the Africa '70 record that Eno played for Talking Heads, causing them to completely rethink their sound by the record's end? Or one of Allen's more recent excursions into jazz — he remained at the top of his game to his final days. And there's that Psyco On Da Bus album, giving a glimpse of how the always-experimenting Allen was eager to fuse his drums with electronic music. Or, if you'd like a great overview, here's a two-hour radio mix tribute from Gilles Peterson on Mixcloud.
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I hope you enjoyed this episode of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care. I successfully compiled this one despite the distraction of a mid-morning headache so I’m a little proud of myself. As always, let me know if you have any comments or questions or need someone to write to in this challenging time. I'd love to hear from you. You can learn more about me, what I do, and contact me with your comments here.
If you can think of someone groovy who would like this newsletter, then please pass it on. And, yes, sharing Ringo on your favorite social media wasteland is also appreciated. There are some cool moves planned, so I'm into getting the word out. Your help with that means a lot more than you know.
Thank you so much for reading. Your mission this week: tell a few close friends what you’re reading, listening to, or watching. Let them know why. And of course, I also mean, let me know why. I’d love some recommendations, too. Hang in there and I’ll see you next week! 🚀