What a friday morning? Cold and icy rain, but I made it to work anyway. After taking care of business (changing today’s frontpage banner), I just kick back and watch Minh Khang’s “Dua Be.” The lyrics are moving, and the music is mesmerizing. Yet, the best part is the collaborative effort between many singers. Big up to Minh Khang for his incredible work, and mad kudos to all the performers for their exceptional presentation. Thanks to Justquan for sharing it.

When I first heard “Chung Mot Vong Tay,” a Thai Dang’s hip-hop joint, I thought these guys and gals were on crack. The funk-inflected production is groovy, and the flows are straight bugging—even the ladies sound like they are high on the hook. After listening to the lyrics, however, I am impressed. Underneath the zoned-out delivery is an encouraging message to the youth. It’s quite original. Big up to Thai Dang, Thanh, Bao Tan, and Xanh Ai. Keep the positive vibe alive fellas (homegirls too). I am diggin’ it.

When it comes to decoration, our friend Patrick who is an ingenious florist goes all out. Went shopping with him once, and I was amazed at every little things he picked up to provide his work artistic visual details, like what he did to this gorgeous wedding cake. Not only he is skillful in arranging flowers, but also in other decorations as well. The perfect example is what he did recently with the scintillating Christmas tree, the simple but luminous dining room, and the lovely stairway ornamentation. He has given our uncle’s crib the spirit of Christmas. Patrick, you’re the best!

Model-turn-singer Ngo Thanh Van is casting in a new romantic comedy Saigon Love Story. Based on the trailer, it looks like a banal chick flick, but we’ll see if she can act, or she will fluff through the way she does with her musical inability.

A poem by Harold Pinter (August 1991)

Hallelujah!
It works.
We blew the shit out of them.

We blew the shit right back up their own ass
And out their fucking ears.

It works.
We blew the shit of out of them.
They suffocated in their own shit!

Hallelujah.
Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew them into fucking shit.
They are eating it.

Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew their balls into shards of dust,
Into shards of fucking dust.

We did it.

Now I want you to come over here and kiss me
on the mouth.

Woke up, peaked out the window, crawled right back into bed because snow had already covered the ground, and I have nowhere else to go. On a gloomy day like this, I was longing for some sentimental tunes, and Billie Holiday immediately came to mind. I quickly turned on my stereo, inserted The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve 1945-1959, and admitted the bittersweet vocals carried me through the day. She sang with so much emotions that when she phrased, “I’ve been down so long / that down don’t worried me” on “Stormy Blues,” we could feel her soul. Even the muted trumpet echoed her pain when she crooned, “I lose my man / I lose my head / I lose my money / Feel like I am almost dead.” She epitomized pain or as Gary Giddins described as “lady of pain.” And below is an interesting point of view on Holiday from Ted Gioia in his History of Jazz:

Holiday’s accomplishments are all the more remarkable when one realizes the limitations within which she worked. Her range, at best, spanned a scant one-and-a-half octaves. Her voice, moreover, did not project strongly—unlike, say, Bessie Smith, who also had a modest range, but could compensate by belting out a song to the back rows. Holiday lacked the scat-singing chops of an Ella Fitzgerald, the tonal purity of a Sarah Vaughan, the exuberance of a Louis Armstrong but what she had more than made up for these deficiencies. Her mastery was rooted in an incomparable sense of timing, phrasing that was supple yet uncommonly relaxed, and, above all, an ability to infuse a lyric with hitherto unknown depths of meaning. One might say that Billie Holiday was a stylist, not a virtuoso—unless emotional depth is a type of virtuosity. Her interpretations cut to the quick of a song, crafting a music of interiors, not surfaces.

Love it when I have the weekend all to myself. No traveling and no need to listen to family’s politics. Just kick back sipping coffee, relax to John Coltrane’s Classic Quartet, and read a book. Solitude is just beautiful, like a short poem from my man Song Vinh written on the back cover of Huong Mua:

Con ta mot cho rieng nay (Here’s a space left for me)
Cho mua rat lanh (A cold, rainy space)
Cho ngay rat rieng (A space of privacy)

Please help me out with the translation. Huong Mua is a book that I reach over and over again like a glass of water. The poems are refreshing, and I get a kick out of his wordplay on Trinh Cong Son’s titles every time I recite “Thang Tu 2:”

In the first two lines
thang tu nguoi ngu, yen roi
uot mi bien nho mot loi chia tay (TCS music)

In the last two lines
thang tu xa thang tu gan
hoa vang may do dau chan dia dang (TCS music)

You may say I am a loner, but I enjoy every minute of it.

Vietnamese-Australian Van Nguyen was hanged earlier today in Singapore for drug trafficking. He was only twenty-five years old. My condolence goes out to his family.

Lesson learned: If 400 grams of dope won’t kill you, the Singapore officials will. Please say no to drugs.

Ngo Minh Tri’s “Mua Xuan, Ruou va Toc Dai,” a refreshing jazz performance by Kim Phuong. I am digging the smooth-as-cognac saxophone and the intoxicating vocals. This is the kind of music I am talking about, baby. Please NMT, keep on writing jazz tunes. I am feeling it.

Rock the house for the holidays.
WTF, an amusing exercise.
The Photo Retouch gallery.