Saturday, December 19, 2015

Postmodern in Retrospect

First let me say we had a blast. It was that much fun. The talented gang from Postmodern Jukebox can really put on a show, and they know how to have fun doing it. Much later I'll eventually get around to my one regret.

Our local venue, the Parker Playhouse in Ft. Lauderdale, was just about the right size for the sold-out crowd, and not so big that the performers got lost in the distance. Scott Bradley was absent for this stop on the road show, but stand-in Todd Shroeder did a great job of pounding out those honkey-tonk beats. From the moment the cast ran onto the dark stage, and then erupted into a spirited rendition of "Fancy," the energy never let up.

It's hard to believe I've only been a fan and following them for six months. In that short time I went from an infatuation with "All About That Bass," through collecting all their albums -- they put out eight of them in the space of a year -- and watching their 100+ Youtube videos (a new one every Thursday), and finally to a live performance.

Meanwhile my friends have had to tolerate me going on about them every chance I get, and I've lost track of the number of times I've said "just watch this" to another hapless victim. Fortunately most everyone has liked what they see, and my wife joined me in becoming terminally enthralled with the whole scene.

If you know them at all, you might be wondering by now who did we see? PMJ, as they're known for short, includes a current roster of around 40 singers and instrumentalists -- a talented pool from which smaller groups are formed. So of course we didn't see everyone, and there's no way they could do every song, but there were plenty of gems performed by some of their most prominent artists.

Both bass players -- Adam Kubota and Casey Abrams -- were on hand from the "All About that Bass" video, so that one just had to be done, although only one of the three female vocalists was present (Ariana Savalas), so the other parts were done by Robyn Adele Anderson and Joey Cook. Those guys really rocked the bass solo, where they both play the same instrument simultaneously, and the tune is a smash every time, regardless of who's singing.

Of course Robyn had to reel off her classic rendition of "Thrift Shop," which might contain more words per minute than any other song as she rattles them off too quick to follow. The crowd got a charge out of it even though we already knew the gag lines: "How much do you think I paid for this dress?" she asked. More than one voice shouted out "Ninety-nine cents!" and "Bag it!"

And I was delighted that new addition Joey Cook was there to do her version of "Delilah," in which she helps herself out on both ukulele and accordion. (Funny how these once outre instruments are sounding hip again.) She also added a gag by nodding her head in the direction of the uke when she came to the line that says "I'll pay the bills with this guitar." A few in the balcony were chanting "Jo-ey! Jo-ey!" by the time she was done.

Dance? Did someone mention dance? Sure, we had that too. Tap artist Sarah Reich was on hand to hammer on her piece of amplified floor. This girl is a living percussion instrument. To prove it, at one point she did a dueling competition with the drummer where they imitated and tried to one-up each other as he applied his sticks to the same surface she was tapping on.

One of the several tunes Sarah performed to was Lady Gaga's "I Want Your Love," sung steamily by Ariana Savalas. How steamily? Well, in the middle of it she came down off the stage to work the crowd in the front row. "What's your name?" she asked one man. Then, immediately snatching the microphone back, she added, "Never mind, I don't care." She then went into a long monolog about women in show business who get ahead by using SEX, it's disGUSTing ... and all the while she's leaning further over the aforementioned lucky man until her bosom was directly in his face. I hope he enjoyed it as much as everyone else seemed to. Then she was back on stage, and Sarah went back to work for the finale, culminating in Ariana's trademark whistling. A knockout!

And let's not leave out the role of the energetic MC, taken by Mykal Kilgore, whose own solo on "My Heart Will Go On" seemed bent on proving the human voice is capable of reaching the stratosphere. There's a wonderful video online of him performing this in a TV studio in Australia, and the hosts of the show are practically exploding when he's done because he so completely blew their minds. You think that was high? How about we take it up a notch...

Even the wind players had their moments in the spotlight, as each was introduced and did something wonderful and single-handed with their instruments of choice.

What's left? A grand finale, then an encore, with a few from the audience invited to come up and dance with a cast member. Ariana danced with that fortunate fellow from the front row, showing it was all in fun. Then the ritual taking of the cast selfie with the audience in the background -- my wife and I might even be in it, way in the back.

We left sated and totally happy. What's not to like?

Well, I said there was one thing. It's all about the sound. I'd never heard them live before, and was really hoping that the wonderful attention to detail evident in the recordings and Youtube videos would mean that even in performance they would strive for the kind of clarity that jazz buffs expect.

Alas, the demands of the crowd and the need for VOLUME meant that the bass was too strong, the horns too weak, and the voices too often overwhelmed by the accompanying din. As in this photo I took, you get the glitz and the fun, but some of the finer points are blurry and poorly defined.

There. I said it. But with that one caveat, for which they can be forgiven in the interests of the gods of entertainment and populism, I still had a great time. Would I go again? Absolutely. But next time I'm definitely springing for one of those seats in the front row.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

The Maestro's Cello

Talk about a blast from the past ...

We had a rare privilege last week at the summer community arts program of the Coral Gables Congregational Church. Amit Peled was in town with Pablo Casals' very own cello, a 1733 Goffriler that sounds wonderful despite pushing 300 years of age.

I'll get to the music later, but at the end of the evening Peled took questions from the audience in lieu of an encore. We learned that after he came to America from Israel to study, his teacher came to the conclusion that he needed a better instrument. He offered an introduction to Mrs. Casals, Pablo's wife, who he thought might be able to put him in touch with someone. Marta Casals Istomin is still with us thanks to her youthful alliance with the aging musician who passed away in 1973 when she was 36.

Peled auditioned for her, and received a rather thorough critique which "took him to pieces." However, she went on to inquire if he would be able to come to New York and try out the maestro's own instrument. The only answer to such an invitation is yes please, so it came to pass. The cello had been lying dormant in its case for decades. Peled described it as a sleeping old man who did not want to be disturbed. It had actually suffered seriously from neglect, but he was able to coax some sound out of it.

A short time later he was contacted by her again. Would he like to have the maestro's instrument on extended loan? Again, the only answer was yes please! He pointed out, however, that it needed major restoration before it would be up for any concert performances. So this too was arranged. A restorer ended up spending a year and a half, eight hours a day, to bring it back into condition.

Evidently he did a superb job. The cello has a rich and warm finish that glows as if from within, and a tone that sounds exactly the same. Combined with a modern bow, which Peled prefers to use, it proves itself capable of clear and incisive attacks as well as smooth and heart rending low tones. The instrument shone as a strong co-star in what amounts to a comeback tour.

To commemorate the occasion, Peled is performing a program of the same pieces played by Casals on his first American tour back in 1915, one hundred years ago. It consists of one of the Bach unaccompanied suites that Casals made famous, along with works by Handel, Beethoven, Saint-Saëns, and Fauré (who was a close friend and carousing companion of the maeI'vstro).

Peled is a big guy at 6'5", making the cello appear about the size of a viola as he cradles it in his arms. He's also very personable, and provided some disarming commentary between the selections intended to get us to loosen up and have FUN. After the Bach, for example, where some portion of the crowd annoyingly clapped between movements (a Miami pet peeve), he assured us that it was perfectly OK, and reminded us that in some times and places in the past it was customary to do so. At times he even launched into the next piece on the program before the applause had died down from the last one, making it feel more like a jazz performance -- quite in contrast to the expectant hush normally required.

Pianist Noreen Polera deftly commanded the resident Bosendorfer behind him and showed the value of being able to specialize in the accompaniment of the cello repertoire.

A good time was had by the sellout crowd. We look forward to our next tickets to this series which is a return engagement of pianist Awadagin Pratt, whom I've reviewed previously.

Saturday, June 06, 2015

Jivin' to the Juke

A blast from the past, and it's not ALL about that bass ...

It began with a simple link to a Youtube video that a friend posted on Facebook with the comment that they really liked this version of the song. I nearly didn't look, but something about the preview caught my eye (maybe it was the dress she had on) and I watched. The song was "All About That Bass," the Megan Trainor hit that's been making its own buzz online. But this new group called Postmodern Jukebox was doing it as if it had been written during the golden age of swing, with a trio of vocalists who could harmonize like the Andrews Sisters, and a sense of humor about the whole thing that was infectious.

"Wow," I commented on the Facebook post, "the '40s are alive and well!" Soon I found I had to see it again and share it with people, who universally loved it. These guys were onto something and I wanted to know what it was.

I focused on the singers first, finding that each of them brought something unique to her performance as they took turns doing solos, duets, and finally a trio. Their names are Haley Reinhardt, Morgan James, and Ariana Savalas, and they are part of the "European tour cast" of Postmodern Jukebox. (More on that below.) I learned that Hailey was a number three finalist on The Voice who has her own solo album, as does Morgan James, and that Ariana is related to the actor named Savalas.

Haley leads off "All About That Bass" with a throaty growl on "my momma she told me" and delivers a performance worthy of any classic torch singer. Then Morgan takes over with her own sassy treatment of lines like "from the bottom to the top - HEY!" Finally, after a brief intermission for the bass solo, in which two players work the same instrument at the same time -- and switch places with one another in the middle -- it's Ariana's turn to celebrate the lyric with a smoother touch, arms flailing the air in celebration. The three finish it off with an a capella repetition of the title line, closed out by a bump of the oft-mentioned booty. Delightful every time.

But who was in charge of all this? Was it the bass player? If so, which one? Well, no, it's actually the one musician you don't see in the video because he's hidden behind the piano where he's hard at work stitching this whole thing together. Scott Bradlee is a jazz musician from Long Island who began his career in New York. A few years ago he began experimenting with arranging and performing contemporary songs as they might have been done if sent back in a time machine to an earlier era.

He explains that this is really what jazz musicians have been doing for many years, continually adopting new contemporary works into the repertoire of what our local NPR station calls "America's classical music." But normally that's done by casting them into the form of contemporary jazz, whatever that might be at the time. Bradlee has gone a step further by rolling back the clock.

He's put together a rotating group of vocalists, drummers, bass players, and assorted brass and winds -- even a cello and harp in a couple of places -- who are capable of reproducing the style and energy of everything from Dixieland to Swing and Gospel. And let me be clear -- when I say "reproducing" I don't mean one of those moth-eaten tributes that grace the air of PBS during pledge week. These guys do it as if it has never been done before, with all the fresh energy and sex appeal that made the style so popular in the first place.

It's not just "All About That Bass." Bradlee and his cohorts have produced a series of top-selling albums and a staggering 80+ videos for Youtube with an equally staggering number of views and subscribers. Now on the road for the first time they're selling out venues in multiple countries. With this kind of success it seems clear they've struck a nerve, and I think I know what it is.

One word. Melody.

You may have noticed this key musical ingredient has been mostly absent from contemporary rap. When you can sing the lyrics with a drum you know something is missing. For example,

Dada dada dada dada dada dada DA
Dada dada dada dada dada dada DA

Or maybe for variety something like

Dada DA da dada dada dada dada DA

In this wasteland it's no surprise that someone like Adele can become an overnight sensation by delivering what listeners have been starved for. If you have any doubt, check out this interview with Bradlee and close personal friend Robyn Anderson where they describe having to create a melody for a song that basically was missing one. And as I explained recently, even Bob Dylan is reaching back into the classic American songbook to dredge up those blasts from the past.

An irony in this situation is that we have some great jazz schools in this country -- our own University of Miami is a perfect example -- that are turning out a slew of graduates equipped with the skills they need to rival the old masters of the form. But they emerge from college all dressed up with nowhere to go. The venues that used to offer a place for those hot little combos to play have all dried up. Radio airplay is filled with the above mentioned rap. Even selling jazz recordings is a tough job.

But the success of Postmodern Jukebox offers some hope. They're on such a roll, and their method of accumulating talent is so expandable, that you could even imagine them becoming a kind of Blue Man Group for jazz vocals with branches on tour all around. Hey, it could happen. Even better, they might inspire some competition. Jazz clubs could re-open, and songwriters could begin writing, um, songs again.

Hey, that could happen, too.

Meanwhile, enjoy them while you can. Just to get started you can check out this quick intro on What is Postmodern Jukebox. Then click into their Youtube channel and see what it has to offer. You'll note the interesting minimalist style where a single fixed camera lets you focus on the performance as a whole, just as you would at a live performance in a small club. But whatever you do, don't leave until you've seen these:

"Creep," in which Haley Reinhardt transforms the Radiohead tune from the 1980s into a soulful anthem for anyone who has ever felt unworthy of the one they admire from afar. This knockout is the very definition of singing your heart out. I think I may be in love.

"Barbie Girl," which features Morgan James choreographed as a doll and doing an amazing impersonation of a Theremin while a man behind her pretends to play one in this playful Beach Boys imitation.

"Gangsta's Paradise." Omygod, I never heard the words before Robyn Adele Anderson sang them like this. Just check it out.

"Bad Romance." Ariana Savalas takes Lady Gaga back to the Gatsby era while a tap dancer provides counterpoint. When is the last time you saw a tap dancer? And I forgot to mention, Ariana leads off the song by whistling. When is the last time you heard that since maybe Bing Crosby?

You can also get an insight into Scott Bradlee's own talent by watching him take Twinkle, Twinkle through several decades of style transformations. In another life he might have made a great studio backup man.

And if after watching all that you find you're still not hooked, then you might as well move along because you just don't get it. Maybe, in the words of "All About That Bass," you'd prefer a stick-figure silicone Barbie doll?

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Still Dylan After All These Years

Strange shadows in the stranger night ...

There he is, the inimitable face peering out of yet another magazine cover, announcing an article about his latest album. Only this time it's the publication of the AARP, and the album consists entirely of classics from the American songbook that were all recorded once by Frank Sinatra.

Say what? Yes, it's true. We have entered a time warp where the most shocking thing the perennial iconoclast Bob Dylan can do is to slap us upside the head by crooning songs our parents or grandparents (or even great-grandparents) listened to. Then again, why should we be surprised? He's been doing this for about fifty years, continually evolving and moving on just when we thought we had him pegged.

After reading the article I went straight to Amazon to download the album, Shadows In The Night – $1.00 off with a coupon code for AARP members. Yes, he's giving out senior citizen discounts. And he actually says in the interview that if it were up to him he would give the album away to all their readers. Shades of the old Bob, impossible to say how sincere or sarcastic this was.

At first hearing it may be a shock. He's put together yet another unorthodox band with a unique sound. This one features pedal steel guitar, acoustic bass – often bowed – and a soft horn section. “No drums, no piano,” he brags. And the tempos are so slow that even as a fan I'm tempted to ask them to pick it up a bit. That would probably be a mistake, though. As so many before have done, the album grows on you with repeated listening until you understand the wisdom of it and how it is likely just right.

Dylan's voice is less raspy than on the previous album, Tempest, which was sold in Starbucks throughout the land. But his world-weary vocal cords lend a heartfelt air to the collection of songs about love, loss, and yearning with an ache of spiritual overtones. You can hear inklings of his classic whine in lines like “lift me … to Par-a-diiiiiise.” It starts with the title lyrics to the opening song, “I'm a Fool To Want You,” and ends with a plea to the Almighty in "That Lucky Old Sun:"

Show me that river, take me across
Wash all my troubles away.
Like that lucky old sun, give me nothing to do
But roll 'round heaven all day.
He didn't write this, or any of the others, but he says he knows them deeply because they speak to him, and he certainly imparts his own stamp to them. In all, it's a sound you can spend some time with, perhaps fortified by a bourbon or two to slow you down. Have a sip, settle back, and take it in.

The Long History

I couldn't possibly indulge this way if I weren't willing to get nostalgic. How could I not, after listening to this man since my early teens? I still remember my first encounter with him on the floor of the classroom where my age group met weekly at the Unitarian church. One of us, David P___, who hung out at The Flick, our local coffee house, had brought a little battery powered turntable so he could play the Freewheelin' album for us. The eight or ten of us clustered around it, straining to pick out the words from the tiny speaker.

Words. That's what it was about. At a time when pop music was nothing but shoo-be-do-wop and things even more inane (ie, “The One-Eyed One-Horned Flying Purple People Eater”), before even the Beatles had come along to up the ante a bit, here was this troubadour from the middle ages who'd traded his lute for a guitar and started emitting a torrent of poetry set to song that seemed to be exactly what we knew we wanted to hear, and to say what we knew we wanted to say. What an unexpected wonder.

As Joan Baez would later put it in "Diamonds and Rust:"

You burst on the scene already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You stole into my heart

In a few years my music buddy and I had collected every subsequent album, along with the work of Joan Baez, while simultaneously discovering the literature of the Beats. We went to see Joan when she came to Miami, and got to shake her hand afterwards back stage. Alas, I missed Bob when he did the same, but none of his songs escaped us.

By the senior year of high school I had my own record player on the floor of my own bedroom entertaining some friends with illicit wine and Bringing It All Back Home. The words – he had gone electric, but it was still about the words.

In rapid succession came Highway 61 and Blonde on Blonde. Then there was The Motorcycle Accident, and The Change. At the peak of his visionary productivity came this sudden hiatus, followed by the folksy and almost comical John Wesley Harding, and then the country-style Nashville Skyline. What in the world was going on? Nothing new, really. As he had been doing all along, he continued going where he wanted and doing what he wanted to do. There were people he left behind from the moment he struck up "Maggie's Farm" at the Newport Folk Festival with electric guitar in hand and the blues-band army of Paul Butterfield backing him up. Others no doubt fell by the wayside when he wandered into born-again gospel. But for many of us he remained one of the background tracks of our lives, even if he receded further into the background.

In my case my close friend Richard was one of the most stalwart faithful, the one who kept insisting that I listen to each new album, and who continued to find revelations in each one. I confess I stopped collecting them all, but several of them made me sit up and listen again. Like the opening of “Hurricane” on the Desire album: “Pistol shots ring out in the bar-room night” – a line worthy of Jack Kerouac, using one of his favorite poetic devices to co-opt an unlikely noun as an adjective – which goes on to warn you, “Here comes the story of the Hurricane.” On top of that it was a return to a classic protest song, one which was instrumental in the retrial and eventual release of the unjustly convicted boxer. Great stuff.

There are too many other twists and turns in this long career to mention them all in anything shorter than a book. And if you're so inclined there are plenty of books to consume. Amazon even has a page called The 20 Best Bob Dylan Books. But the one I recommend is Bob Dylan in America by Sean Wilentz. This work focuses on the evolution of his work more than his life and places him in context, beginning with the origins of folk music and blues and the hymns of the Sacred Harp, working through union and folk songs, tin pan alley, and so on up to date. What comes clear is that not only did Dylan grow out of this rich American loam, but he was completely aware of it and avidly absorbing as much of it as he could at every stage.

Which brings us right back to the kind words he has for Frank Sinatra, and the deep feeling he brings to the songs of a bygone era in the middle of the last century. Once you understand the context it all makes perfect sense. After all this time, he's still Dylan.

Don't take my word for it ... listen to the NPR review.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Aereo and Beyond

Now you see it, now you don't ...

Back in 2009, only five years ago, traditional broadcast TV fell off a cliff when the FCC mandated transition to digital took place. Mine was one of the homes "unprepared" for the change. (See here for the gory details.) Since I didn't subscribe to a cable service or have a digital TV I had to buy converter boxes that would feed an analog signal to my two dinosaur TVs that still used cathode ray tubes for a screen. 

This solution worked well for awhile and even provided additional channels that became available because the new format allows broadcasters to put out multiple feeds at slightly different frequencies. Then something else happened. The converter boxes killed my TVs. 

I can't prove it, but first one died, then the other, within months of each other. The circumstantial evidence was compelling. It's possible that the voltage of the output signal from those cheap and federally-subsidized boxes was too high and caused component failures in the TVs.

Well, it wasn't a bad thing, because it gave me an excuse to buy a new flat-screen TV with a picture as good as my computer monitor. With a digital compatible antenna I was pulling in beautiful HD video. What remained was the age-old question of what to watch.

The Wasteland

Broadcast TV was long ago dubbed "the vast wasteland," but we should face the fact that cable TV only differs in the extent of its vastness. A cartoon in the New Yorker once portrayed a man in a living room with a vast array of electronics, huge screen, and satellite dish visible out the window. With remote in hand he complains, "There's nothing on."

I had already tried DirecTV back in the '90s but eventually canceled it due to its inability to function during the frequent tropical overcasts that keep South Florida wet. Now I gave AT&T's Uverse a try, intrigued by the inclusion of a DVR.

Recording, of course, is supposed to be one answer to the what-to-watch problem. By browsing the listings and choosing what looks interesting in advance, you can build a collection of content to consume whenever it's convenient. No more missed episodes, no more “viewing by appointment” where you have to tune it at a certain time. You can even skip through commercials. What's not to like?

The price tag, for one. AT&T lures you in with reduced rates and cash rebates in hopes you'll get hooked on the service and not notice when you end up paying $160 a month or more once the regular prices kick in. $2,000+ a year to watch TV? Seriously?

First you realize that the base package of channels isn't so hot, so you have to go for one of the bigger packages. Then you realize that the default service is not even HD so you have to pay an extra $10 a month for that or else spend your time watching square pictures on your wide screen. Then you notice that the included local broadcast channels are fewer than the ones you can get over the air through your antenna for free – and the picture quality is not even as good.

Finally, to top it off, you pick up your cell phone or tablet to see what the new service offers you there, and discover that you can't access any live feeds or recordings without investing in some third-party hardware like a Sling box. There's a limited selection of movies you can stream, but you find you can only watch them on your phone -- not your tablet with the larger screen -- due to “copyright issues.”

With this litany of complaints is it any wonder that people en masse are cutting the cord that binds them to a form of distribution that may soon go the way of the video rental store? What else can a poor downtrodden consumer do?


For some time there has been Netflix, which was forward thinking enough to imagine Internet video distribution even before it was practical. Now that it's becoming commonplace they have really come of age. Their disc-delivery service is still the only way to get access to things that aren't available for streaming, but it seems only a matter of time before it will be possible to offer the entire catalog online, and those red envelopes will become a thing of the past. Like Blockbuster. (RIP)

The fact that Amazon has jumped into the game without bothering to start a mail-based rental program is a measure of the current reality. Of course if you want a disc they will he happy to sell you one, but they will also sell you a digital copy that will remain available in your “library” when you log into your account. I have not seen a guarantee that titles in your library will never expire, but if you consider that it will be the most popular titles that people will want to “own,” Amazon's storage problem is minimized, and putting a link to the video in your account incurs a cost with so many zeros after the decimal point that it can barely be measured.

The Set Top

Of course you need a way to access these services on your TV as well as on your computer. And for that one of the best solutions is also the least expensive. The humble little Roku, with a price tag well below a hundred bucks, has managed to sneak in under the feet of Apple and Google to claim a dominant market share of the set-top-box market. I've owned one since Netflix started to stream, but if you poke around in their channel store you'll find a wealth of other options – many of them free of charge. Things like the NASA channel, TED Talks, and PBS.

In my case I soon felt it worthwhile to shell out subscription money for some extra feeds: Hulu for old TV episodes (long live Rocky and Bullwinkle!) and Acorn TV for lesser known British TV productions. With my antenna still available for local broadcasts, I like my choices. And there will be more to come now that the likes of HBO have announced their intention to sell their services direct online, bypassing the traditional cable providers.

Enter Aereo

The only thing missing from this nirvana is the ability to record. Reluctant to shell out several hundred more dollars for something like a Tivo that was designed with cable in mind, plus a monthly fee forever, I thought I found the answer a couple of years back when Aereo came up with a novel scheme. Using a server farm equipped with thousands of tiny antennas (yes, they were really antennas), they offered to stream local TV for you over the Internet with the ability to make recordings. The monthly fee was less than Tivo wants for providing you with a channel guide, and amazingly enough the service worked great.

I signed up the instant Aereo went live in Miami and used it until their untimely demise (see below). I set it to record the PBS Newshour every night so I wouldn't miss anything if I got home late from work.. I could watch on my TV, phone, computer, or tablet. If I wanted to I could even watch remotely, though I seldom used that feature. It was Tivo without the Tivo, no box required.

Unfortunately the so-called “content providers” who are broadcasting this stuff all over the place took a dim view of Aereo's practices. Aereo argued their users had the right to use an antenna regardless of its location, and that they were not doing anything that the users could not do on their own if they bought the right – and legal – equipment. But the broadcasters managed to convince the court that Aereo was recording and subsequently re-broadcasting. In the antiquated parlance of the draconian rules that regulate this stuff, this constituted a new “performance” of the material, which is illegal except by arrangement with the original broadcaster.

Everyone watching this play out rolled their eyes, but it was clear enough what was really going on. The networks and local stations understood that there was money to be made from online streaming of their material, and they weren't about to let someone else do it just because they didn't have their act together to offer the service themselves. So Aereo went away, a perfectly good technology whose time came and went as quickly as those recordings.

What's really funny about this is that I now do exactly the same thing on my own – legally – thereby demonstrating that Aereo was perfectly right in their claims. With the acquisition of a Tablo DVR (legal) connected between my own antenna (legal) and my Roku (legal) I can watch, record, and playback – even remotely – content from broadcast TV. And I can of course view it on the device of my choice. In place of the modest monthly subscription to Aereo I have a fee for the TV schedule service that Tablo provides, which is comparable to the one Tivo has always used except that it gives me an option to buy a “lifetime” subscription for $149, which makes it far less expensive in the long run.

If you can find any difference between that and what Aereo used to do for me with less gear to manage, then you should probably seek employment with the FCC or in the legal profession. Actually, there is one difference. With my own antenna hooked up to my own DVR I'm not using the Internet while I watch “live” TV. So if anyone should have been upset with Aereo it should have been the Internet service providers who really don't want any more bandwidth hogs like Netflix and Youtube.

What's Next

The ball is really starting to roll now on “unbundling” cable channels. I'm doing this already with the specific services I've opted into, and if I add it all up it only comes to about $60 per month, which is a lot better than $160. And that includes an Amazon Prime membership to qualify for their free video streaming.

The latest wrinkle is Sling TV, which offers a small collection of formerly cable-only channels in a $20 per month package. You can use it with a Sling box to enable remote viewing, or just use the Sling TV channel on your Roku or the app on your phone.

But you can already see that Sling would love to grow up to be a full provider for all channels, in which case they would be hard to distinguish from the old cable companies, especially if they persist with the bundling model. The real way of the future is a service that would allow you to pick only the channels you want from the available array, with a small fee for each one.

As it is, even among the limited selection currently offered on Sling, there are a few I will never watch and would opt out of if given a chance. Which brings us back to the old problem:

There's nothing on.