From the the White House's Flikr photostream: "Bob Dylan shakes President Barack Obama's hand following his performance at the 'In Performance At The White House: A Celebration Of Music From The Civil Rights Movement' concert in the East Room of the White House, Feb. 9, 2010. (Official White House Photo by Pete Souza)"
Look again at that dot. That's here, that's home, that's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.
The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.
The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.
It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.
As good ol' Sarah Palin was giving her keynote speech at the National Tea Baggers Convention Saturday night (she really had cheat notes scribbled on her hand? Seriously?), I was watching Moon. The film, which was an official selection at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival, stars Sam Rockwell as Sam Bell and—well, no one else, really. Sam is nearing the end of his three-year contract as sole inhabitant of the moon base Sarang. The base is operated by Lunar Industries – a corporation that has pioneered the science of harvesting the moon's rich supply of helium-3. Helium-3, as we discover in the opening seconds of the film, has become the earth's primary, and eco-friendly, energy supply. Astronaut Bell's primary responsibility is to oversee the mining operations, but he has his mind on other things, because in a matter of weeks he will begin his three-day journey back home. At least that's the plan. His final days in the base are troubled by hallucinations – or are they?
I accidently stumbled upon Moon many months ago when I discovered Clint Mansell – the man behind the music of Darren Aronofsky's films – had written another film score. And it's a very good film score. In fact, Moon is the first film I was inspired to see simply by listening to its soundtrack. If you find Moon's music intriguing, odds are you'll like the movie. Moon is all about atmosphere, and Mansell has exquisitely trapped the solitude and sadness of Sam's existence inside the notes of the film's score.
Take a trip to Moon – you'll enjoy the journey. Four stars out of five.
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During the last several months, eMusic, which was known as the "indie iTunes," has brought aboard corporate record labels, and the eMusic subscriber has paid the price. I used to get 75 downloads a month for $20; I now get 50 for $21. I don't like paying more for fewer downloads, but the extra cost is worth the price, especially when I can now discover great albums like 39 Songs: Live at the Olympia by R.E.M. I've always appreciated and respected the Athens, Georgia, band, but the two-disc live album solidifies R.E.M. as a national treasure. The album opens with a searing version of "Living Well is the Best Revenge," and is followed by, what is in my opinion a quintessential R.E.M. tune, "Second Guessing."
Live at the Olympia showcases why R.E.M. is one of the few, truly great American rock bands, which is strange to say, because a teenager, as he grows listening to modern rock music, never expects that the band he's listening to will become prolific, great, and respected worldwide. It's one thing to, as a '90s teenager, listen to a great classic rock band, like The Who, Pink Floyd, or Led Zeppelin, but it's another thing to grow up with a band that will eventually reach the timeless status of their forefathers. We're all getting older, but with bands like R.E.M., aging sounds all right.
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I've also been liking the latest Spoon album, Transference. None of Spoon's previous work clicked with me, but Transference does. I like it because it comes across as a sloppily compiled album – and that's a good thing. Much of Transference sounds unfinished, as if it leaked on the Net months before it was actually finished, which, again, is a good thing; I love how the abrupt end of "The Mystery Zone" bleeds perfectly into the hazy "Who Makes Your Money." The imperfect quality of Transference gives its songs plenty of breathing room; with each listen the songs sound a little bigger, more defined. The album's closer, "Nobody Gets Me but You," provides a perfect snapshot of the album's being. The song begins as a tight composition featuring voice, bass and drums, but descends into a beautifully disjointed affair in which a broken piano interjects obtuse notes; everything falls away, and the final four seconds are flooded by the sounds of a distorted organ. To love Transference is to love the imperfect beauty of an underdeveloped photograph. I really like this album.
xx
