It’s also incredibly comfortable.

Just ask him.

We got ours about a month ago at Machine Age, which is probably the coolest store on the planet. Some years ago, Herman Miller (the manufacturer) decided to switch to plastic shells (in the name of environmental soundness). Ours, though, is the original fiberglass, and it’s got a wonderful texture.

I hope this stays in our family for generations. I hope our great-grandchildren park their hoverboards to stare at it, wide-eyed, believing that they’ve witnessed something sent back from the future to enthrall them.

An excerpt:

Patrick Greene’s Still Life, 1985, an accompaniment to the painting of the same name, was similarly contemplative, but with a bit more contrast to its ebb and flow. The eponymous painting was one of several in which Bloom rendered vases amassed on a draped table with a bold Technicolor palate and an evocative depiction of light glinting off the golden surfaces. This clarinet, viola, and cello trio began with all three instruments in a single note unison passage that soon broke out into short micro melodies energetically led by the clarinetist Kevin Price. As the piece progressed, longer passages of somber melody and harmony emerged, again with the clarinet in the lead and the strings setting the foundation. Eventually, violist Zoe Kemmerling and cellist Christopher Homick took center stage with a beautifully played elegiac melody. The coda then collapsed back into a harmonically reduced and texturally sparse section reminiscent of the introductory passages. This coda however, was less of a denouement and more of a revelation, like the moment when light breaks into a room, revealing what was previously hidden.

The piece will be played again in the same space tomorrow night at 8pm. I unfortunately can’t make that performance, but please come out and support Equilibrium! It really is a wonderful evening of music and art.

I’ll also be posting an audio excerpt from the performance on here shortly, so stay tuned.

Kevin Price, Chris Homick, and Zoe Kemmerling rehearse STILL LIFE, 1985.

I just got back from a rehearsal for Still Life, 1985 at the Conservatory, and the players sound wonderful. The premiere is this coming Thursday, May 17 at Alpha Gallery in Boston. There’s another performance the following Thursday (i.e. May 24). I hope to see you there!

The concert, by the way, is part of the Equilibrium Concert Series. Check us out, if you haven’t already!

Here are the program notes, in case you need something to whet your appetite:

Still Life, 1985 is my musical reaction to one of Hyman Bloom’s numerous still-life paintings. The particular painting I chose—“Still life with vases, 1980s”—was born the same year I was, and as such I felt a sort of kinship with it.

Since the painting depicts a static environment, I took my motion cues from strata of visual activity. The first movement, “Bottom,” correlates with the lower-third of Bloom’s work. The bottom of the painting is stark, dark, and littered with the fragments of something spilled. The “bottom” of my music, likewise, is sparse, simple, and ambiguous. The middle (both of the painting and my piece) is the most directly figurative. Where Bloom painted ampules and vases and goblets, I’ve musically inserted a quotation from a traditional Latvian hymn (Latvia being Bloom’s birth-country). The uppermost portion of the painting holds a swirling, dark mass—it’s as mysterious as it is captivating. I’ve tried to replicate that sense of mystery by ending with microtonal elaborations on a unison pitch, sending the music spinning off into the threadbare void.

• May 11: Three movements of Gift (including one never heard before) for five singers and chamber ensemble. Fifth Floor Collective: Season in Review 
• May 17: Premiere of Still Life, 1985 for clarinet, viola, and cello. Hyman Bloom Project: Alpha Gallery Show #1
• May 24: Repeat performance of Still Life, 1985. Hyman Bloom Project: Alpha Gallery Show #2
• June 9: Presentation at Trinity College’s Alumni Weekend 2012. Includes brief survey of 20th- and 21st-century art music, thoughts on composing and process, and live performances of selections from my Missa Brevis for Three Male Voices and How sweet I roam’d by The Elmsmen.
• June 16: Premiere of [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] at a wedding ceremony in Connecticut.
• June 17: Recording session with the Boston Musica Viva, Marimba Magic, and Steve Aveson of The Tortoise and the Hare at WGBH studios.

Hope to see you at some of these!

Many thanks to the wonderful Jad Abumrad for giving me a great deal on his barely-ever-used Livid Block Midi Controller. I think this is just the excuse I need to get back into electronic composition (it’s been over a year since I’ve even messed around with it).

PS: If you aren’t already a devoted listener of Jad and co.’s WNYC show Radiolab, you have no idea what you’re missing. A good place to start is right here.

These fish, though, are bona fide divas. They deserve their screen time.

I’ll post much more about my aquaria, rest assured. In the meantime—here’s a taste.
Don’t forget to click the resolution button—I’ve uploaded this puppy in HD.
 

A vaguely pretentious, semi-arranged look into what I’m doing at this ungodly hour.

From left to right: a manuscript from Tortoise and the Hare, my trusty new Samson Meteor Mic (you can expect an “Objects of My Affection” post on this puppy, mark my words), a fascinating Italian orange wine by Angiolino Maule, more from T&tH on my beloved laptop, and my casually askew sitar propped against the wall.

Who’s got time to sleep, anyway?

I start off with Ford not because I’m going to discuss any Ford-branded vehicles, but because the two marques with which I’m concerned—Jaguar and Lincoln—have been irrevocably affiliated with the big blue oval for quite some time, and both brands are getting back on their feet after decades of neglect and terrible decisions. One—Lincoln—because Ford abandoned Mercury, and the other—Jaguar—because Ford abandoned them.

Rolls down the road, not off the tongue

Jaguar, of course, is now owned by Tata, an Indian firm. Cut free of the Old Ford fetters (shoddy platforms, badge engineering, confused marketing), Jaguar has retaken its place as a global design icon. The current XJ, released in 2009, is—and I sincerely mean this—one of the most beautiful, uniquely artful automobiles I’ve ever seen. Like the evergreen E-Type, the XJ is fluid grace made manifest. And powered by a can of Whoop-Ass. Just look at this thing:

I didn't even notice the woman until the second time I saw this.

It’s the kind of beauty that, though immediately apparent in pictures, is magnified when it’s in motion. The interplay of light and dark, the gleam of black metal and cold glass, the sweeping profile of its greenhouse as it slips by you—it’s just a masterpiece, and one that only cements Ian Callum’s place in the pantheon.

And then, take a look at the strikingly redesigned XK:

The new, supercharged iteration of the XKR.

While we’re at it, here’s the delightful XF:

This is the spankin' new 2012 model.

What we have here is a thrilling lineup—just three vehicles, suited for different, distinct purposes and demographics. No bloated, confusing, cross-platform nonsense.

And yet, for the life of me, I can barely remember what they’re called.

XF, XK, and XJ are acronyms utterly devoid of meaning to the average consumer. I’m a self-professed car nut, and I have to struggle to remind myself that there was a different XJ before the current one, and that it looked completely different. That the name “Jaguar XJ” has been in use, more or less continuously, since 1968. That the original XJ‘s powerplant was largely based on the then-new “XK engine,” and that designs based on the XK engine (including the XJ) occasionally made use of an innovative fuel-tank arrangement adopted from the Jaguar Mark X.

All of this is to say that XJ means absolutely nothing. It’s a half-century old term that supposedly bridges the heritage gap between these two vehicles:

What makes matters worse is that there’s no discernible pattern here. The XJ, a full-size sedan (think Audi A8) is much larger than the XK (a diminutive grand-tourer à la the Audi A5), and slots in directly above its little sedan-brother, the XF (comparable to the Audi A4). Something the Germans do well (one of many things, admittedly) is plan: like addresses in a well-laid housing development, the numbers go up as you make your way through the line, but space is afforded between them in case a tougher-to-classify model has to slide in between.

Examples:

BMW’s 1 Series (teeny tiny), 3 Series (compact executive), 5 Series (mid-size), 7 Series (full-size luxury). When they built a large, two-door executive sports express, they called it the “6 Series.” When they wanted a small roadster, they called it the “Z4.” When they want to specify things like engine displacement, the taxonomy specifies gradations within a given line, like “328″ or “335.” You know a 335 is rear-wheel drive when it’s called a “335i.” Likewise, you know it’s directing power to all four wheels when it’s labeled “335xi.”

When they build a crossover, even, you immediately know the specifics of the platform in relation to those initial, odd-numbered product lines. The X3 is a sport-utilified version of the 3 Series. If you want something racy, look for anything with an “M” in front of it. The M3 and M5 are salient examples.

All this is to say that BMW’s nomenclature—while not exactly thrilling or evocative—serves a purpose, and serves it well.

Jaguar’s nomenclature isn’t only devoid of thrills or evocations, but it doesn’t tell the consumer anything about the vehicle they want. I’m a connoisseur of these things, and I don’t even really know what to call them. When I mention the XKRS to someone, I have to stop and think if I’m even talking about the right vehicle.

In the end, though, I can mostly forgive Jaguar for these marketing mishaps. They are currently putting out only three vehicles, and these three vehicles are truly among the best in each of their respective classes. I can’t quite say the same for our next guest, unfortunately.

A comedy of grammars

Lincoln doesn’t produce anything right now that competes with any of the big players in the entry-level luxury arena. They have, however, produced some visually striking vehicles over the last two years, and on this basis alone have entered my “cars I vaguely desire” list.

One of said vehicles resembles, for all intents and purposes, a sperm whale. It is called the “MKT” (I had to look that one up, FYI).

Ahab would be covetous. His would be in white.

Its basic shape is that of a distended sea cucumber (rendered in mammoth proportions), flanked by a grille looking for all the world like a gaping maw filled with baleen plates and a rear that looks like … well … this:

Here we go, Ahab.

Yet there’s something about the sheer ballsiness of the MKT that I just can’t help but admire. I’m not sure if I’m revolted by it, or if I’m attracted to it, but I can’t really take my eyes off the thing.

The MKT’s little crossover-brother is the MKX, which is built on the same platform as its sedan alter-ego, the MKZ (the Ford CD3 platform). The MKZ’s slightly larger sedan-brother is the MKS, which I’m just now realizing I’ve been calling the MKZ for the last year or so. Just to make things even more awkward, the platform underlying the MKS isn’t the CD3: it’s the D3. Not sure what was lost in the slipping of the “C,” but it certainly wasn’t size.

Lincoln is finally building cars that are interesting, if not quite enviable. They’re selling many, many more of them than they were back in 2008, too. They just brought a new design chief on board, and he’s just the right person to make the brand competitive with rivals both domestic (Cadillac, even Buick) and foreign (das Germans).

The problem is, it’s very nearly impossible to remember what the heck these things are called. Here are three reasons:

1. The whole “MK” business is directly descended from Lincoln’s long practice of labeling things “Mark ___.” I can get on board with that. It reminds me of WWII-era fighters. But now that they are “MK_,” I don’t really know if I’m supposed to be saying “Mark” or “MK” when I refer to them. I have to watch video reviews to find out, and even they don’t always say the same thing.
2. If you’re going to have this diverse of a lineup (small sedan, large sedan, small crossover, large crossover, not to mention the Navigator and the on-its-last-leg Town Car), you absolutely have to come up with a way of making them distinct. The MKS looks like a bloated MKZ, but I can’t even really remember why. It’s just bigger and … mushier. Not in a bad way—actually in something of a good way—but in an indistinct way. Naming them essentially the same thing just puts this problem in sharper relief.
3. The Z is smaller than the S, and the T is larger than the X. I don’t know what that’s supposed to indicate.

The single most frustrating thing Lincoln’s done in recent years—this is minor, sure, but it’s frustrating to me at least—is to dump the one truly wonderful name it’s resurrected in recent memory, the “Zephyr,” in favor of “MKZ.” “Zephyr” had historical significance for the brand, and was evocative, romantic even. “MKZ,” on the other hand, was the first of the modern “MK” cars, and heralded the trend that’s resulted in the mess I’ve been writing about.

Anyway, that’s about enough about Lincoln. I still don’t know why I like the MKT, but I have a feeling I wouldn’t want to find out.

Or was it the MKX?

Lastly, a thought on the exotics

I’ll end by comparing two cars that are so viscerally appealing that it almost pains me to look at them: the Lamborghini Aventador and the McLaren MP4-12C. I’ll wait while you catch your breath, don’t worry.

"Aventador" is the name of a famous fighting bull.

"MP4-12C" is derived from, well, see below.

Here we have two cars representing the peak of modern automobile design, running in the same vaunted circles as the Ferrari 458 Italia and the Bugatti Veyron. Everyone who hears “Aventador” a few times will never forget it: the bull-fighting connection, the sweeping, exotic way it sounds when you say it out loud, the down-sweeping “A” jammed against the up-sweeping “V”—it’s sensual, memorable, icon-worthy.

“MP4-12C,” however, took me forever to memorize. The name is derived from about a thousand different sources. “MP4″ is McLaren’s internal name for the F1 chassis it’s been building for thirty years. The “12″ is apparently indicative of McLaren’s internal “performance index,” which it uses to rate vehicles on a scale of 1 to something. Probably not 10, but something. The “C” is short for carbon, or more precisely carbon fiber, a material used liberally in the construction of the car.

Two things make this even more ridiculous:

1. McLaren’s championship-winning, late-’90s Forumula One racer was called the MP4/12. So for 15 years or so, car geeks around the world were quite familiar with “MP4″ and “12″ being used by McLaren to talk about a vehicle utterly unrelated to the sports car that swapped the backslash for a dash and added a “C” to the end.
2. In England, where the car is produced, people pronounce the “dash” in the middle. So whenever someone (take, for example, Jeremy Clarkson) wants to talk about the car, they have to pronounce six syllables, and not even syllables that constitute a word. They constitute a string of acronyms.

I’ve always liked my cars named, and named proudly. When I tell people I drive a Charger, they immediately know what kind of car I’m talking about even if they know nothing about cars. When I say I’ve been passionately pining for a Viper for most of my life, they can imagine why. When I say “Gremlin,” everyone immediately reacts (usually with disgust, but often with fond memories of awkward little cars from a bygone era).

The first car that was truly mine was a brand-new, bareboned, black Pontiac Sunfire. It might not’ve been particularly sunny or pyrotechnical, but come on: Sunfire. That’s just a wonderful name, and one that I’m glad for having said out loud.

Cars, whether we like to admit it or not, are never blank slates. They aren’t just palettes on which we paint our personalities. They are developed over years by teams of people who love engineering and design, and they arise in response to our basic need to transport ourselves, to hurtle our bodies through the air so that we may get where we’re going quickly, safely, and—some might argue—even thrillingly.

I say “bring the balls back.”