I Just Read About That…

SOUNDTRACK: DRY THE RIVER-“Bible Belt” (Field Recordings, March 27, 2012).

The Field Recordings project was such a neat idea.  Kind of like the Tiny Desk, but not.  Many of them were planned ahead of time and some of t hem seem surreptitious.  It’s a wonder they didn’t do more or aren’t still doing them.

Since the whole NPR crew goes to SXSW, it just seems like these little songs would be easy to score.  I realize that they now do the South by Lullaby, but this is different (sort of).

This Field Recording [Dry The River: An Oasis Of Calm Amid The Feedback] is from a band I don’t know.  They were playing at SXSW and NPR got them to play on the secluded patio of Joe’s Crab Shack’s  overlooking the Colorado River (which is one thing that makes this cooler than a Tiny Desk).

“Bible Belt” is a gentle acoustic song with delightful harmonies–not unlike Fleet Foxes or Band of Horses.  Dry the River includes a violin which adds a slightly different quality.  But like those other bands, the song looks to soar:

Dry the River typically writes music with big, cathartic climaxes in mind: Songs on the band’s first full-length album, Shallow Bed, tend to start with miniaturized melodies that eventually burst into thunderous rock anthems.

You can feel like this song wants to be bigger, but they handle a quieter version nicely.

On this particular morning, Dry the River arrived in a more intimate formation, swapping electric guitars for acoustics and its full drum set for a single snare. While this performance of the gorgeous “Bible Belt” eases back on the loudness of the original, the band by no means lacks power. The result is a hushed, stirring performance that highlights the band’s many strengths.

My favorite part is the moment the band grows really quiet and you can hear some birds singing.  I’m very curious to hear just how big the original gets.

[READ: November 8, 2018] “Cattle Praise Song”

This is a story about genocide and cows.  The genocide is unavoidable but not explicit; the cows are the focus.

Starting in Rwanda, a seven-year old boy, Karekezi, watches his father with their herd of cows.  The cows are everything to them.  Karekezi even has a cow of his own: Intamati–all of the cows are named.  Every morning they look after the cows carefully–removing ticks or other insects, carefully inspecting them, calling them by their name and petting them–even worrying about a cow that takes too long to pee:

He’d hold her tail high and boldly lean forward–never mind that if the cow finally decided to urinate she might shower him.  Nobody dared to laugh.  Anyway, isn’t cow urine, amagana, considered to be a potent remedy?

The first few pages discuss the caring for and nurturing of these cows–the hand feeding, the fires to keep away flies; the special water only for the cows to drink.  And then the milking–a family event in which the best milkers milked and the others carried the bowls of milk like a priest with a chalice.  The young children drank hungrily from the fresh warm milk.

The cows are clearly worshipped.

Sometimes we assembled the cattle from all the kraals on the hill into a long procession; it was like a parade for a king.  Children clapped as the cattle passed, and women cried out with joy.

The men always looked after their cattle before themselves–never eating until the cows were settled.

Half way through, the story jumps to the present-ish. Karekezi’s family is now in Nyamata he and his Tutsi brethren were exiled from their home–from everything they knew–presumably their cows slaughtered

Karekezi’s father spent his day steering ghost cows throw the meadows.

His mother was more practical, using the sacred milk bowls for water–something his father was enraged by.  “It’s as if the priests were to fill the chalices with beer.”

But they had no cows.  They had very little.  And yet they still felt the need to mock Nicodeme who began herding goats.  Goats!

Then there was the day that Rukorera arrived. He came from Kibirizi as well.  But during the massacres in 1962 for reasons no one knows, his kraal was spared.  He walked with his herd all the way to Nyamata (about 250 miles) and was still fearing for his life.  But the villagers welcomed him.  The built him a hut, they helped with the watering.  They treated the family like a welcome relief.  He did not have many cows but the village was able to share the riches by bartering.

Everyone in the village wanted to help–wanted to touch the cows again–but they were too respectful.  Nevertheless, the rhythms of the cows brought the entire village to life.

And then one day they were gone again.

When Karekezi was older, like so many Rwandan Tutsi, he went elsewhere for work.  He took a job in Djibouti where he lives next to a Hutu.   But this story is not a happy one, for the ghosts of cows and family will always linger.