In the News 27.10.17 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets


In the News 27.10.17 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 27.10.17 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
In the News 27.10.17 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

I Can Go For That: How Soft Rock Finally Got Cool

It’s not so much that the crowds at his live shows are getting younger, says Michael McDonald, more that the younger audience members’ reasons for being there appear to have changed. “People who come and meet you afterwards by the bus, it’s usually the younger, more energetic ones, who don’t have to be home to let the babysitter go,” he chuckles. “Typically, they used to say: ‘Oh, my parents played your music all the time,’ like they had been tortured with it in their youth, but somehow came to like it. But now, because of working with Thundercat and Grizzly Bear, and being sampled by hip-hop artists, it’s opened the door a little wider to a different kind of audience.”

McDonald has a typically unassuming explanation for why a boundary-pushing funk auteur and some hip Brooklyn alt-rockers might be keen to work with him, aged 65, having weathered years in which “people thought having to listen to my music was like having to swallow dish detergent”: “If you live long enough, you get further away from the period of time you might be identified with – the 1970s in my case,” he says. “People tend to cut you a lot of slack.”

Read the rest of this article at: The Guardian


Invisible Forest: Chasing the Illegal Loggers Looting the Amazon


The cargo ship Yacu Kallpa rode impatiently at anchor off Iquitos, Peru, a ramshackle city on a bend in the broad, turbulent waters of the Amazon River. She was a midsize ship, a tenth of a mile long, low-slung, with a seven-story superstructure in the stern and plumes of rust fanning down the hull from her main deck scuppers. She was like any other cargo ship in the world, but with a dark history. At that moment, in November 2015, she needed to get out of town fast.

The captain and crew had a long run ahead, nearly 2,300 miles down the Amazon, then another 4,000 miles north to Tampico, Mexico, and finally to Houston, with lumber harvested from the Amazon rain forest. It was a route the ship and its predecessors had run hundreds of times for more than 40 years, hauling millions of pounds of timber at a time, to supply lumberyards and big-box stores across the United States with the ingredients for the floors, decks, and doors of the typical American home.

In Iquitos, the waters were too shallow for the Yacu Kallpa to dock amid the tin-roofed stilt houses and the brightly painted tourist boats that lined the riverfront. So small workboats were ferrying stacks of lumber from shore, to be lifted into the hold by two onboard cranes. This was a job that could take two weeks under the best of circumstances. The longer it took, the more time customs officials had to prove that the lumber being heaved aboard the Yacu Kallpa had no business being there at all.

Read the rest of this article at: Wired

Tuscany Tote in Midnight

Shop the Tuscany Tote in Midnight
at Belgrave Crescent &

Sade’s Quiet Storm of Cool

Not long ago, a tattoo shop in Brooklyn got a bad review on Yelp. A customer was angry — not about his new ink, but about the soundtrack that accompanied his trip there.

“Why are you playing Sade,” he wrote, inserting an expletive. This was music he found fit for “a plastic surgeon’s waiting room,” not a cool tattoo parlor.

One can sort of understand where he was coming from.

Before record stores neared extinction, Sade was often stocked in the easy listening section. The band’s breakout success in the 1980s owed much to the advent of adult contemporary radio, where huge hits like “Smooth Operator” and “The Sweetest Taboo” eventually got sandwiched between selections from Michael Bolton and Kenny G.

But then and now, Sade had an appeal that lifted it far above the slush pile of schlock.

The band’s trench-coat-favoring Nigerian-born frontwoman, Helen Adu, known to the world just as Sade, is more responsible for the popularizing of gold hoop earrings than an entire industry of jewelry executives. She did not so much wear polka dots as single-handedly rescue them from the dustbin of Upper West Side frumpiness.

Read the rest of this article at: The New York Times


How Martin Luther Changed the World

Clang! Clang! Down the corridors of religious history we hear this sound: Martin Luther, an energetic thirty-three-year-old Augustinian friar, hammering his Ninety-five Theses to the doors of the Castle Church of Wittenberg, in Saxony, and thus, eventually, splitting the thousand-year-old Roman Catholic Church into two churches—one loyal to the Pope in Rome, the other protesting against the Pope’s rule and soon, in fact, calling itself Protestant. This month marks the five-hundredth anniversary of Luther’s famous action. Accordingly, a number of books have come out, reconsidering the man and his influence. They differ on many points, but something that most of them agree on is that the hammering episode, so satisfying symbolically—loud, metallic, violent—never occurred. Not only were there no eyewitnesses; Luther himself, ordinarily an enthusiastic self-dramatizer, was vague on what had happened. He remembered drawing up a list of ninety-five theses around the date in question, but, as for what he did with it, all he was sure of was that he sent it to the local archbishop. Furthermore, the theses were not, as is often imagined, a set of non-negotiable demands about how the Church should reform itself in accordance with Brother Martin’s standards. Rather, like all “theses” in those days, they were points to be thrashed out in public disputations, in the manner of the ecclesiastical scholars of the twelfth century or, for that matter, the debate clubs of tradition-minded universities in our own time.

Read the rest of this article at: The New Yorker

Crowded House


Manhattan, the vertical city, greets newcomers as a sheer rockface. To even begin the ascent requires agility, nerve, and a secure base camp. If you can’t establish that base—the right apartment—the plunge is swift: you bounce to a friend’s couch, then to a squat in Bushwick, and suddenly you’re at the Port Authority holding a sign for bus fare home.

In the spring and summer of last year, people from all over—from Brazil, Norway, Spain, South Africa, Bangladesh, Japan, even the Upper West Side—pounced on a Craigslist ad for a base camp in Chelsea: a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot loft with two large bedrooms and two baths. When they visited, Apartment 6-E at 211 West Twentieth Street proved even better than advertised. The ceilings were eleven feet high, and the windows and pendant lamps flooded light across a wood-burning fireplace, Mies Barcelona chairs, and a West Elm sofa set topped with Hermès blankets. Almost everything was dazzling white: walls, floors, furniture—even the books were cloaked in white jackets.

The apartment’s owner and impresario was a photographer named Michael Tammaro. In profile, Tammaro, who was fifty-four, resembled the Indian on the Buffalo nickel, but he was a fey charmer who adorned his shaved head with a driving cap and his arms with a Cartier watch and a gold Hermès bracelet. The one constant of his ever-changing décor was Tucker, a boisterous pit-bull-and-shepherd-mix rescue dog. On Facebook, he posted a photo of him and his dog on a rocky beach and captioned it “Family Portrait.”

Tammaro shot stars from Tina Fey to Spike Lee, putting his subjects at ease with a Boston-accented purr: “C’mon, baby, you’re so cute—yeah, you’re so sexy!” He used the apartment as his backdrop, and every detail of the scene promised access and glamour. As he took the official photographs for the Tribeca Film Festival, or posed models for Vogue, as many as seven assistants would be adjusting the lighting, changing the lenses, and serving mojitos to managers and editors and hangers-on. For years, Tammaro had been Sting’s stylist and groomer, and a warm note from Trudie Styler, Sting’s wife, was posted in his guest bathroom.

And now Tammaro was renting out one of his bedrooms, or perhaps the whole place (he couldn’t quite seem to decide), so that, after a possible visit with his friend David Geffen in Malibu, he could spend a year in Sag Harbor assembling a book of his photographs. His sales pitch was devil-may-care: “Are you sure you don’t want to look around more? If it were me, I’d want to take a shower!” But he assured potential tenants that he’d get them membership in Soho House, or discounts at the nearby Sports Center at Chelsea Piers, or a visa for their girlfriend. He was equal parts trusty Sherpa and romantic-comedy confidant. He showed Bon Tjeenk Willink, a Dutch consultant for Bain & Company, photos he’d taken of Kristen Stewart right where they were standing, and, Tjeenk Willink recalls, “He promised, ‘I’ll take you to all the Hollywood parties.’ I thought, I’m going to have the best time in New York!”

Read the rest of this article at: The New Yorker

P.S. previous articles & more by P.F.M. // Top images: @aparisianmoment; @liperom; @lornaluxe

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