Darby Strong

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The Resurgence of Wormwood

“What difference is there between a glass of absinthe and a sunset?”
-Oscar Wilde

Native N’awlins microbiologist, Ted Breaux, has been working on debunking the bad reputation of Absinthe, as well as producing the best tasting, authentic Absinthe made in a century, one molecule at a time. Absinthe, long suspected as the cause of “criminal dementia” due to its key ingredient, bitter leaves of Artemisia absinthium, or Wormwood, may not be so bad after all. Plus, its lovely green hue and anise flavorings are romantically alluring, and help even the most mundane feel artsy and sophisticated.

From Wired:

Breaux begins to prepare it in the traditional French manner, a process as intricate as a tea ceremony. First he decants a couple of ounces into two widemouthed glasses specially made for the drink. A strong licorice aroma wafts across the table. Then he adds 5 or 6 ounces of ice-cold water, letting it trickle through a silver dripper into the glass. “Pour it slowly,” he says. “That’s the secret to making it taste good. If the water’s too warm, it will taste like donkey piss.”
The drink turns milky, and a condensate floats to the top. This is called the louche, a word that’s come to mean “disreputable.” Breaux hands it to me and tells me there’s no need to stir away the louche or add sugar to an absinthe this fine. I take a sip. The flavor is subtle, dry, complex. It makes my tongue feel a little numb. “It’s like an herbal speedball,” he says. “Some of the compounds are excitatory, some are sedative. That’s the real reason artists liked it. Drink two or three glasses and you can feel the effects of the alcohol, but your mind stays clear – you can still work.”

Piano, Man

Atlanta has a Piano man they can call their own. His new masterpiece is Atlanta’s Woodruff Arts Center Campus, an expansion of the High Museum.

Renzo Piano comes from Genoa, Italy, and with him he thankfully brings a simple, yet sophisticated, idea of the city center, or Piazza.

“It’s a place where you feel well. You feel well first because you are in the middle of nature, because you are perfected…you are in the piazza.”

One of the most fascinating features of the High museum’s expansion is the roof, which provides illumination of the museum galleries with natural light by a special roof structure: 1,000 light “scoops” will capture northern light and filter it into the top-floor galleries. The shadow’s created at different times of the day reinforce the idea of art being fluid and never static. Each piece takes on a different look every second of every day, depending upon nature. Cool, huh?

Piano has this down-to-earth, wise air about him. He says things, with this captivating old world Italian accent, like “an architect must catch the little genius of the place. every place has a little genius, or many…” and “Architecture is not just the art of making buildings – it’s an art of telling stories.”

Please keep telling your story, Piano man.

Rest in Peace, Paul Pena

My first known introduction to Paul Pena was through the documentary Genghis Blues, which follows him to Tuva, a region on the border of Serbia/Mongolia made famous for its deep and culturally significant Tuvan throat singing. My real, and unknown, introduction to this musical genius found my teenaged ass rocking out to the Steve Miller Band’s rendition of his Jet Airliner. It would be 17 years later until I heard Pena’s version, which is miles beyond the SMB version that made the song famous.

Born in Hyannis, Massachusets in 1950, Paul Pena’s grandparents hailed from the Cape Verde Islands, just off the Western coast of Africa. (It is interesting to note that the famous Cesaria Evora also hails from this same island, a location obviously entrenched in its rich musical heritage).

Two years after his debut at the Newport Folk Festival in 1969, Paul moved to San Francisco, soon becoming one of the city’s many creative sons.

After picking up a Radio Moscow feature on his short-wave radio, Paul Pena spent the following 8 years trying to find the origin of the amazing harmonies he heard, ultimatley revealing the art of Tuvan throat singing. Using English-Russian and Russian-Tuvan dictionaries and an obsolete ‘Opticon’ scanning device which translates text into sensations, Pena trained himself in this Tuvan art form.

Damn. That’s a whole bunch of work to try and learn a skill that few on Earth master. Now nicknamed “Earthquake” by the Tuvan masters themselves, Paul Pena had indeed taught himself this absurdly difficult art, and well.

Plagued by years of battling both Pancreatitus and Diabetes, Paul’s suffering ended October 1, 2005. I can only thank him for the music he has given us, and look forward to his treasures I have yet to discover.

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