The Mars Volta - Drunkship of Lanterns (live): youtube.com/watch?v=nNDPAlRJCFg
I feel weird about the term "rock and roll." Or "rock 'n roll" or "Rock 'n Roll" or whatever. It never feels right coming out of my mouth. I appreciate the distinction between "hip hop" and "rap" but rock has no alternative. Maybe "alternative"? but that feels pretentious.
When I think "rock and roll" I think of Elvis. I think of Chuck Berry. I think of Buddy Holly. Rock and roll became a genre defined by what is now considered to be a pretty tame form but was then exciting and unpredictable (though it was based on pretty predictable blues structures). So that's what defined rock and roll, right? The exciting, the unpredictable, it became less a genre and more a style. But then what does rock and roll sound like if it's a style and no longer a genre? I always think back on the landmark, blues based (tame) form when I think of the sound of it.
But it seems quite different when we think "rap" and "hip hop." Rap is the act, like singing, it's a lyrical form where hip hop is the overall presentation; when a song focuses more on the rap aspect it's rap but when the music aspect is on par with the rapper(s) it is hip hop. 50 Cent is rap, The Roots is hip hop. Or so I see things.
I'd like some distinction in rock and roll. And I don't mean classifying genres but laying focus on the sound rather than the style. What would be the word? I don't know if we (white people, the youth, the lower middle class, etc) are truly capable of keeping a pure genre without making it a style. Look what happened to the term "indie," though it be short for independent; a lot of "indie" bands are on major labels, it's become a distinction of style. And look at "grunge." Remember how they were selling grunge shirts in Sears catalogs?
But it's all bullshit laymen garbage anyway. All these genres are really about marketing products, aren't they? It's all music. The Mars Volta is no different from Elvis is no different from 50 Cent is no different from John Cage. Do we have to dumb it down for the layman sake? I guess I don't really care about the terms.
I guess all I wanted to convey, really, is that this performance of "Drunkship of Lanterns" by The Mars Volta embodies what I think is best in Rock and Roll.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
September 29, 2010: Tom Waits - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis
Tom Waits - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis: youtube.com/watch?v=tE5NLpZC6r0
I was talking with my roommate last night about the stylization of the past; how some movies, say, from the 70s now look great compared to the movies of, say, today. Will people look back on the movies of 2010 and ask why movies aren't made that way anymore? or will movies of the 1970s just be lionized more so?
He said "I'll tell you one thing. The 1970s really hit their mark when it came to buttons and knobs. I'm sick of this touch screen bullshit. Give me buttons and knobs." He then told me about the death of his first family TV, which had lasted them into his teen years.
I've been thinking lately about a poem I recently read in which the author stated that he had already lived a dozen lives. And how many lives have I lived? I could probably, at 26 years, designate between 2 and 5 lives lived depending on the perspective. I think, though, that perhaps I could also designate the death of my family television as the end of one of my lives. As much as I resent such a thing it's a certain amount of true.
Our family basement / living room was designed and structured in a completely different manner when we had our first, somewhat cumbersome, thick and wooden television. The room was long and narrow and the TV faced one of the horizontal walls, most of the sitting arrangement was organized to face it. I remember a lot of brown, stained wood, even the couches were brown, grey, drab. But then when we got rid of that TV there came this big screen, 50 inch, black, heavy beast of a television that was exciting and new, all the sitting arrangements faced it again but this time vertically so we were in a kind of hallway facing the end (or beginning). Then the furniture changed. And then the walls. The whole room became different and the TV was so big and loud that it was heard throughout the house.
There even used to be a door to the basement / living room, I remember, and we would shut it when the TV was too loud down there. That all changed with the big screen though.
A friend asked me the other day, "So you were raised on TV?" I hadn't stated such, but I had to agree, yes I was raised on TV. It's not untrue. And it's the most unfortunate thing I can think of. Some I know quit school, ran away and traveled, got their own apartments, struggled young and adventured; my parents were steady, my household was quite sane and "normal" and this sort of normalcy was propagated. My only real problem growing up was too much television and what kind of problem is that? It's barely anything to overcome, barely a problem. It's nothing, really.
That's not to say that I strive for struggle or resent my family's stability, quite the opposite. But when I think back on my childhood it seems like nothing real ever happened. We had TV, video games, computers...
This same poet I read stated that most writers never really have anything important to write because they never had anything important that had to be written. When you're comfortable always, what's to say except that you're not uncomfortable? Conflict makes for good writing, but without the familiarization of conflict, is one able to write? Or does one find discomforts where really there is nothing real? Is this a necessity?
I was talking with my roommate last night about the stylization of the past; how some movies, say, from the 70s now look great compared to the movies of, say, today. Will people look back on the movies of 2010 and ask why movies aren't made that way anymore? or will movies of the 1970s just be lionized more so?
He said "I'll tell you one thing. The 1970s really hit their mark when it came to buttons and knobs. I'm sick of this touch screen bullshit. Give me buttons and knobs." He then told me about the death of his first family TV, which had lasted them into his teen years.
I've been thinking lately about a poem I recently read in which the author stated that he had already lived a dozen lives. And how many lives have I lived? I could probably, at 26 years, designate between 2 and 5 lives lived depending on the perspective. I think, though, that perhaps I could also designate the death of my family television as the end of one of my lives. As much as I resent such a thing it's a certain amount of true.
Our family basement / living room was designed and structured in a completely different manner when we had our first, somewhat cumbersome, thick and wooden television. The room was long and narrow and the TV faced one of the horizontal walls, most of the sitting arrangement was organized to face it. I remember a lot of brown, stained wood, even the couches were brown, grey, drab. But then when we got rid of that TV there came this big screen, 50 inch, black, heavy beast of a television that was exciting and new, all the sitting arrangements faced it again but this time vertically so we were in a kind of hallway facing the end (or beginning). Then the furniture changed. And then the walls. The whole room became different and the TV was so big and loud that it was heard throughout the house.
There even used to be a door to the basement / living room, I remember, and we would shut it when the TV was too loud down there. That all changed with the big screen though.
A friend asked me the other day, "So you were raised on TV?" I hadn't stated such, but I had to agree, yes I was raised on TV. It's not untrue. And it's the most unfortunate thing I can think of. Some I know quit school, ran away and traveled, got their own apartments, struggled young and adventured; my parents were steady, my household was quite sane and "normal" and this sort of normalcy was propagated. My only real problem growing up was too much television and what kind of problem is that? It's barely anything to overcome, barely a problem. It's nothing, really.
That's not to say that I strive for struggle or resent my family's stability, quite the opposite. But when I think back on my childhood it seems like nothing real ever happened. We had TV, video games, computers...
This same poet I read stated that most writers never really have anything important to write because they never had anything important that had to be written. When you're comfortable always, what's to say except that you're not uncomfortable? Conflict makes for good writing, but without the familiarization of conflict, is one able to write? Or does one find discomforts where really there is nothing real? Is this a necessity?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
September 28, 2010: B.A. Johnston - I Love it When You Dress Up
B.A. Johnston - I Love it When You Dress Up: youtube.com/watch?v=RkmDCqkJYlk
I don't remember the first time I saw B.A. Johnston but I do remember the first time I heard of him. Richard told me he had been at Gus' Pub one night and there was a band onstage, all wearing bad suits, and they started playing, were looking around as if something was wrong. Then their attention went toward the lotto machines in back of the bar where there was another guy in a bad suit. That guy got pissed, kicked the lotto machine and came onstage, started singing. Richard said it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, with some kind of wonder behind it all.
And I listened to some of B.A.'s songs after, saw him perform and I was a convert. There is something about his songs that capture both the lowest of humour and the worst of heartbreak that I really admire, it all seems so unabashedly confessional.
And what of the "confessional" lyric? It can go so terribly wrong at times but when it's right it's really right. Ani DiFranco has been guilty of both bad and good confession in its worst and best forms. But all example aside the confessional is attractive I think because we all, everyone, have in us the ability to be the most evil, self-hating and low garbage of beings possible. And who wants to admit that? It seems natural to let it go, forget it, move past and toward the good. But when someone admits to their worst, admits a particular instance where they have been such, it can be refreshing. Especially when that person seems admirable.
The confessional lyric has to go beyond the "I'm a shit" stage, though, to make it worth anything. There has to be something else behind the words whether it be celebration, regret, sorrow, etc. It's a difficult form for otherwise you're just bragging.
I don't remember the first time I saw B.A. Johnston but I do remember the first time I heard of him. Richard told me he had been at Gus' Pub one night and there was a band onstage, all wearing bad suits, and they started playing, were looking around as if something was wrong. Then their attention went toward the lotto machines in back of the bar where there was another guy in a bad suit. That guy got pissed, kicked the lotto machine and came onstage, started singing. Richard said it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, with some kind of wonder behind it all.
And I listened to some of B.A.'s songs after, saw him perform and I was a convert. There is something about his songs that capture both the lowest of humour and the worst of heartbreak that I really admire, it all seems so unabashedly confessional.
And what of the "confessional" lyric? It can go so terribly wrong at times but when it's right it's really right. Ani DiFranco has been guilty of both bad and good confession in its worst and best forms. But all example aside the confessional is attractive I think because we all, everyone, have in us the ability to be the most evil, self-hating and low garbage of beings possible. And who wants to admit that? It seems natural to let it go, forget it, move past and toward the good. But when someone admits to their worst, admits a particular instance where they have been such, it can be refreshing. Especially when that person seems admirable.
The confessional lyric has to go beyond the "I'm a shit" stage, though, to make it worth anything. There has to be something else behind the words whether it be celebration, regret, sorrow, etc. It's a difficult form for otherwise you're just bragging.
Monday, September 27, 2010
September 27, 2010: Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution
Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution: youtube.com/watch?v=aDaOgu2CQtI&ob=av2n
I was an awkward teenager. We all of us were, but this first fact is integral.
I once went to a friends house, just stopped in to see what he was up to. He was in his basement working on bikes with a couple guys who were a lot cooler than me. They were both a little surprised I was there. I remember one of them asking:
"What do you listen to?" as if it were a threat.
"I like Pearl Jam."
They laughed. "Who the fuck are they?"
"They just came out with their first video in about 10 years and it's great. It's called Do the Evolution."
They laughed. "That sounds fucking stupid."
Or so I remember the conversation going. I'm sure that's dumbed down a little.
They were a certain kind of right in laughing at that. I mean, "Do the Evolution" sounds like a 1950s educational song in the vein of Buddy Holly. And the name Pearl Jam sounds like breakfast fare or a bad basketball move or semen. But what a great and aggressive song. Granted, the first scream sounds kind of funny, but the rest is all fire.
Strange my friend didn't stand up for me that day, but who cares. I loved him anyway. He wanted to be cool as much as I did.
I was an awkward teenager. We all of us were, but this first fact is integral.
I once went to a friends house, just stopped in to see what he was up to. He was in his basement working on bikes with a couple guys who were a lot cooler than me. They were both a little surprised I was there. I remember one of them asking:
"What do you listen to?" as if it were a threat.
"I like Pearl Jam."
They laughed. "Who the fuck are they?"
"They just came out with their first video in about 10 years and it's great. It's called Do the Evolution."
They laughed. "That sounds fucking stupid."
Or so I remember the conversation going. I'm sure that's dumbed down a little.
They were a certain kind of right in laughing at that. I mean, "Do the Evolution" sounds like a 1950s educational song in the vein of Buddy Holly. And the name Pearl Jam sounds like breakfast fare or a bad basketball move or semen. But what a great and aggressive song. Granted, the first scream sounds kind of funny, but the rest is all fire.
Strange my friend didn't stand up for me that day, but who cares. I loved him anyway. He wanted to be cool as much as I did.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
September 25, 2010: Modest Mouse - Bukowski
Modest Mouse - Bukowski: youtube.com/watch?v=xr_B2IOUYSw
I'm not really the type to rest. I can't relax. I have to do something with my hands at all times if I'm not sleeping. I don't see this as a bad thing, essentially, but it's difficult when I go through periods without income generating work.
I'm dealing with a problem that has no solution: I don't need money to be happy. I do, though, need to have a full stomach and a place to sleep to be happy (or, at least, not go insane), and I'm quite ambitious in my artistic pursuits, will need money to follow through with this. But my artistic pursuits don't generate an income, they barely break me even, so I must find a job. As I do not want to fall into some comfortable, nice job for the money and neglect my artistry I tend to take jobs that I don't necessarily care about, something I can leave in an instant if I need. But as I don't care about these jobs, essentially, I have no drive to find them when I'm low on money. And I don't need money to be happy, ad infinitum.
And then when I'm not working an income generating job I have so much time for artistic endeavors that I run out of things to do. I get through all the projects that excite me and I'm left with reading piles of books and drinking coffee all day. And I love this but my hands get idle and my mind needs rest. And I can't rest.
I've started in on a new Bukowski book because he's an easy read, he's as much rest as I can find. And he unfortunately (fortunately) reinforces my desire to drink and write and despise the futility of undesirable work for the sake of work.
Our worth is not based on our work nor our suffering.
I'm not really the type to rest. I can't relax. I have to do something with my hands at all times if I'm not sleeping. I don't see this as a bad thing, essentially, but it's difficult when I go through periods without income generating work.
I'm dealing with a problem that has no solution: I don't need money to be happy. I do, though, need to have a full stomach and a place to sleep to be happy (or, at least, not go insane), and I'm quite ambitious in my artistic pursuits, will need money to follow through with this. But my artistic pursuits don't generate an income, they barely break me even, so I must find a job. As I do not want to fall into some comfortable, nice job for the money and neglect my artistry I tend to take jobs that I don't necessarily care about, something I can leave in an instant if I need. But as I don't care about these jobs, essentially, I have no drive to find them when I'm low on money. And I don't need money to be happy, ad infinitum.
And then when I'm not working an income generating job I have so much time for artistic endeavors that I run out of things to do. I get through all the projects that excite me and I'm left with reading piles of books and drinking coffee all day. And I love this but my hands get idle and my mind needs rest. And I can't rest.
I've started in on a new Bukowski book because he's an easy read, he's as much rest as I can find. And he unfortunately (fortunately) reinforces my desire to drink and write and despise the futility of undesirable work for the sake of work.
Our worth is not based on our work nor our suffering.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
September 23, 2010: Hayden - Barely Friends
Hayden - Barely Friends: youtube.com/watch?v=U3mwg1-2BfQ&feature=related
I sometimes resent the fact that I've resigned myself to go through with this blog project. For I revel in mystery but it's not served me best so far, I'm attempting transparency. Which means, sometimes, confession.
So. Despite myself.
My biggest love once told me that when she was a teenager she decided she would marry Hayden. She had no choice, it was decided. Now she's with a man who resembles Hayden, who treats her right, and they'll probably get married. And I'm happy for her, for that.
Sometimes the thought of what could have been different, though, can be debilitating.
And I've felt, for years, that perhaps I'm cursed when it comes to love. I married a concept of my life when I was young and have pushed away many things which I felt could have been a distraction from that, including love, affection, security. But then any time I've left those concepts aside, allowed them, they've seem to spurn me.
Not always, of course. But for the sake of argument:
I've felt before that perhaps my person can be off-putting; I'm silent and accepting. I have little capacity to "fight" for someones affections. I'm honest to a fault. I've considered that perhaps if I were a better liar I could win every woman to my side for I've seen it done but I don't have such things in me. One close to my heart once told me of her past boyfriend, that she had never had someone so persistent in wanting to be her boyfriend and she relented to him for that.
A friend said recently, "Why do I always pick the wrong guy?" I had no answer, and in fact felt her concern to be foolish for we always seem to pick the wrong one in retrospect, it's just that some give the wrong one more of a fighting chance. Granted, I'm not so cynical, but you get my point? It's so rare to find "the right one" that it may take a lifetime and I guess I'm ready for that more so than most.
But most chances I've taken have ended in sorrow, embarrassment or (worst of all) anticlimax. It seems.
Though I am no pariah. I admit I have spurned.
I sometimes resent the fact that I've resigned myself to go through with this blog project. For I revel in mystery but it's not served me best so far, I'm attempting transparency. Which means, sometimes, confession.
So. Despite myself.
My biggest love once told me that when she was a teenager she decided she would marry Hayden. She had no choice, it was decided. Now she's with a man who resembles Hayden, who treats her right, and they'll probably get married. And I'm happy for her, for that.
Sometimes the thought of what could have been different, though, can be debilitating.
And I've felt, for years, that perhaps I'm cursed when it comes to love. I married a concept of my life when I was young and have pushed away many things which I felt could have been a distraction from that, including love, affection, security. But then any time I've left those concepts aside, allowed them, they've seem to spurn me.
Not always, of course. But for the sake of argument:
I've felt before that perhaps my person can be off-putting; I'm silent and accepting. I have little capacity to "fight" for someones affections. I'm honest to a fault. I've considered that perhaps if I were a better liar I could win every woman to my side for I've seen it done but I don't have such things in me. One close to my heart once told me of her past boyfriend, that she had never had someone so persistent in wanting to be her boyfriend and she relented to him for that.
A friend said recently, "Why do I always pick the wrong guy?" I had no answer, and in fact felt her concern to be foolish for we always seem to pick the wrong one in retrospect, it's just that some give the wrong one more of a fighting chance. Granted, I'm not so cynical, but you get my point? It's so rare to find "the right one" that it may take a lifetime and I guess I'm ready for that more so than most.
But most chances I've taken have ended in sorrow, embarrassment or (worst of all) anticlimax. It seems.
Though I am no pariah. I admit I have spurned.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
September 22, 2010: Rich Aucoin - Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E
Rich Aucoin - Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E: youtube.com/watch?v=b44X2hY0LxA
This will be the last I have to offer for this one sided argument.
Last night I went to see Rich Aucoin at The Horseshoe. He started by handing out glow sticks and 3D glasses. Then he started the crowd off by making us scream. Then he started playing next to a screen that showed a 3D video of The Grinch That Stole Christmas, Youtube clips, psychedelic colours and such. He taught lyrics to everyone and had us sing along. He brought out a parachute and had us hold it up and cover everyone with it. He had balloons and sparklers and confetti. He had us put our arms around the people next to us.
I ended up in a circle of complete strangers with our arms around each other, kicking air. The girl next to me was laughing so hard her friend had to ask her if she was okay.
And this happened in Toronto and we all gratefully were part of it.
This will be the last I have to offer for this one sided argument.
Last night I went to see Rich Aucoin at The Horseshoe. He started by handing out glow sticks and 3D glasses. Then he started the crowd off by making us scream. Then he started playing next to a screen that showed a 3D video of The Grinch That Stole Christmas, Youtube clips, psychedelic colours and such. He taught lyrics to everyone and had us sing along. He brought out a parachute and had us hold it up and cover everyone with it. He had balloons and sparklers and confetti. He had us put our arms around the people next to us.
I ended up in a circle of complete strangers with our arms around each other, kicking air. The girl next to me was laughing so hard her friend had to ask her if she was okay.
And this happened in Toronto and we all gratefully were part of it.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
September 21, 2010: dd/mm/yyyy - Digital Haircut / Van Tan
dd/mm/yyyy - Digital Haircut / Van Tan: youtube.com/watch?v=8iIfkBztfow
I mentioned a couple days ago that shows in Toronto can be boring and it's mostly the crowds fault. I can't really attack them/us without proper argument, so here goes:
I've seen only a handful of great shows in Toronto, one of which was dd/mm/yyyy in the basement of an abandoned hardware store in Parkdale. I had gone out to see a band at Mitzi's Sister and ran into Bill and Cora, some other friends. Bill told me about a show going on down the street, I was bored and restless and let him lead me, we went into an alley nearby where a small group smoked, we went past a door guy and into the back entrance of a building, down the stairs. The basement we entered was poorly lit and concrete, wood beams, a maze leading from one room to the next, my throat burned from the asbestos in the air. I recognized some faces. I was still a little unsure what was even happening here, I just followed.
Then I saw Alex. She led me to a tiny room where we all, about 40 of us, gathered in a circle around a band setting up. There was one lamp lighting them all near the drummer. They started with a blast of feedback and Alex immediately started dancing, across from me in the crowd. I don't remember much from there but getting drunk, dancing, the music, Alex across from me and moving, the harsh light and the heavy, sweaty air full of asbestos. It was beautiful.
And I was coming from Halifax where we never got big shows. I remember Broken Social Scene at The Forum being revelatory, we all drunk and singing and moving up and down with the crowd. I remember Death From Above 1979 being a mess, being terrified the crowd would break into a riot. I remember seeing Buck 65 at The Marquee, him reciting a song without music, the crowd going quiet complete.
In Toronto I've seen Broken Social Scene and it was without it's charm. Buck 65 I've seen here and it's always a modest endeavor. I don't know what it is, exactly, that keeps us from really digging it here, letting ourselves go into it all, letting go, but it can be upsetting. I saw Cat Power in Toronto and there was almost a middle-aged man fight behind me because one was standing too close to the other.
I think we're spoiled. We get too many shows. I can go see near anyone and count on being able to see them again within the span of a year because they don't have many other options in Canada for big cities. It's us and Montreal. So they'll be back, no point in going crazy for it. In Halifax there was a sense that this band will never be back here again (and often they weren't) so we made it worth it all.
And we're too insular. I can go to any show, nearly, and run into people I know from around the city, most I may not know so well. And as I don't know them so well I don't let it out, I'll stand and watch and be appreciative and follow the crowd energy. Is that just me? Granted I'm not so scared of people anymore but are we all so scared of people?
It can be infuriating. And not even the fact that crowds seems lackluster but that I contribute to that. I've come to play shows and early into the set will ask the audience to just come a little closer. And it works! I've seen it happen at a show The Sleepless Nights played, same with The D'Urbervilles, it's like we're waiting for the green light to really enjoy the moment. So we want to dig it, fully, but there's something holding us from it.
We need Jen Polk back.
I mentioned a couple days ago that shows in Toronto can be boring and it's mostly the crowds fault. I can't really attack them/us without proper argument, so here goes:
I've seen only a handful of great shows in Toronto, one of which was dd/mm/yyyy in the basement of an abandoned hardware store in Parkdale. I had gone out to see a band at Mitzi's Sister and ran into Bill and Cora, some other friends. Bill told me about a show going on down the street, I was bored and restless and let him lead me, we went into an alley nearby where a small group smoked, we went past a door guy and into the back entrance of a building, down the stairs. The basement we entered was poorly lit and concrete, wood beams, a maze leading from one room to the next, my throat burned from the asbestos in the air. I recognized some faces. I was still a little unsure what was even happening here, I just followed.
Then I saw Alex. She led me to a tiny room where we all, about 40 of us, gathered in a circle around a band setting up. There was one lamp lighting them all near the drummer. They started with a blast of feedback and Alex immediately started dancing, across from me in the crowd. I don't remember much from there but getting drunk, dancing, the music, Alex across from me and moving, the harsh light and the heavy, sweaty air full of asbestos. It was beautiful.
And I was coming from Halifax where we never got big shows. I remember Broken Social Scene at The Forum being revelatory, we all drunk and singing and moving up and down with the crowd. I remember Death From Above 1979 being a mess, being terrified the crowd would break into a riot. I remember seeing Buck 65 at The Marquee, him reciting a song without music, the crowd going quiet complete.
In Toronto I've seen Broken Social Scene and it was without it's charm. Buck 65 I've seen here and it's always a modest endeavor. I don't know what it is, exactly, that keeps us from really digging it here, letting ourselves go into it all, letting go, but it can be upsetting. I saw Cat Power in Toronto and there was almost a middle-aged man fight behind me because one was standing too close to the other.
I think we're spoiled. We get too many shows. I can go see near anyone and count on being able to see them again within the span of a year because they don't have many other options in Canada for big cities. It's us and Montreal. So they'll be back, no point in going crazy for it. In Halifax there was a sense that this band will never be back here again (and often they weren't) so we made it worth it all.
And we're too insular. I can go to any show, nearly, and run into people I know from around the city, most I may not know so well. And as I don't know them so well I don't let it out, I'll stand and watch and be appreciative and follow the crowd energy. Is that just me? Granted I'm not so scared of people anymore but are we all so scared of people?
It can be infuriating. And not even the fact that crowds seems lackluster but that I contribute to that. I've come to play shows and early into the set will ask the audience to just come a little closer. And it works! I've seen it happen at a show The Sleepless Nights played, same with The D'Urbervilles, it's like we're waiting for the green light to really enjoy the moment. So we want to dig it, fully, but there's something holding us from it.
We need Jen Polk back.
Monday, September 20, 2010
September 20, 2010: Gonzales - Gogol
Gonzales - Gogol: youtube.com/watch?v=exSP7VqUMAw
I ran to catch the streetcar tonight. And when I caught it I was the only one on there. It was strange and beautiful.
And we drove past University and I thought of Katie, how when I first moved here she brought me out to see some forgettable movie but to get in and out of the theatre we had to walk through the middle of a mall, through the echoed hallways at night. She drove me home, I was squatting in a condo in the entertainment district, deep tourist downtown, and she commented on how she never drives at night and it was nice to drive these usually congested streets, to see them when they're empty. Looking back it was part of what brought me here, what made the city exciting and beautiful.
And as I thought this I considered that perhaps I need a new form of living. Eight years ago I dreamt of the city, made it three years ago and have flourished here, have lived and died here over again, but I may need the dream of a new city. Not even necessarily a different city but a new one.
"Livin and dyin in New York means nothin to me."
I've been thinking of Berlin the past while. I know little to nothing of it but hear things, shape it. I wish it were Paris in my thoughts.
I ran to catch the streetcar tonight. And when I caught it I was the only one on there. It was strange and beautiful.
And we drove past University and I thought of Katie, how when I first moved here she brought me out to see some forgettable movie but to get in and out of the theatre we had to walk through the middle of a mall, through the echoed hallways at night. She drove me home, I was squatting in a condo in the entertainment district, deep tourist downtown, and she commented on how she never drives at night and it was nice to drive these usually congested streets, to see them when they're empty. Looking back it was part of what brought me here, what made the city exciting and beautiful.
And as I thought this I considered that perhaps I need a new form of living. Eight years ago I dreamt of the city, made it three years ago and have flourished here, have lived and died here over again, but I may need the dream of a new city. Not even necessarily a different city but a new one.
"Livin and dyin in New York means nothin to me."
I've been thinking of Berlin the past while. I know little to nothing of it but hear things, shape it. I wish it were Paris in my thoughts.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
September 19, 2010: St Vincent - Actor Out of Work
St Vincent - Actor Out of Work: youtube.com/watch?v=5vIbiw_snd4
The first time I heard St Vincent was through myspace. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I didn't listen to her but I remember the friend request because it was someone from outside of Canada that I'd never heard of, to which I would usually ignore, but for whatever reason I said fuck it and just said yes. I think I just liked the name. I grew up Roman Catholic.
But then I was in Toronto for a couple weeks to see if I wanted to move there. I was passing by the Horseshoe and saw the name St Vincent on the sandwich board outside, recognized the name and so went in, saw her play. It was a little underwhelming but I've come to learn that Toronto shows can be that way (it's not the bands fault).
The first time I heard St Vincent was through myspace. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I didn't listen to her but I remember the friend request because it was someone from outside of Canada that I'd never heard of, to which I would usually ignore, but for whatever reason I said fuck it and just said yes. I think I just liked the name. I grew up Roman Catholic.
But then I was in Toronto for a couple weeks to see if I wanted to move there. I was passing by the Horseshoe and saw the name St Vincent on the sandwich board outside, recognized the name and so went in, saw her play. It was a little underwhelming but I've come to learn that Toronto shows can be that way (it's not the bands fault).
Saturday, September 18, 2010
September 18, 2010: Devendra Banhart - Sight to Behold
Devendra Banhart - Sight to Behold: youtube.com/watch?v=cig2Ep-4udg
I have a strange affection for Devendra Banhart. I used to drive my brothers car around a lot and there wasn't much in there for music but was 2 burned CDs of Devendra Banhart. If I could draw a line of why I think my affection is so strong it would likely go from Nick Drake and through Leonard Cohen. I am a sucker for a classical guitar, for finger picking, for subversive lyrics and the ability to carry a song without any accompaniment. And I find he captures a good deal of masculinity and femininity in his stance, which is refreshing.
I've thought before that perhaps I was born in the wrong time. I find what is considered to be major aspects of current youth culture come from a place where we've been marketed to for so long and for so hard, everyone selling us sex and death, overstimulating our senses, that we've embraced those things and made them our own. And I find it hard to hold onto that. I hate Crystal Castles. But what seemed like the youth culture of the 1960s I can hold onto. Love. Freedom. Immediate experience. The subversive. Expression. Though I know it wouldn't have been all it has been idealized to have been, it still seems appealing. Probably if I had been in my mid twenties at that time I would have felt I'd been born in the wrong time.
And I've only been alive for about 3 years. I grew up shielded by a small town. I went to university in 2 small cities where I holed myself into libraries and book stores and met few common souls. I came alive when I left that all behind and continue to grow and understand and to love the concept of "youth culture," as vacuous a term that might be. For my youth culture was found in a dirty garage where everyone took drugs, listened to rave music and avoided the giant, nervous rottweilers that sat among us. Or drinking in the woods, hiding or running from bored cops. I didn't have much to hold onto there to expand who I saw myself as and becoming.
And am I crazy, or did Devendra Banhart used to spell his name "Devendra Banhardt"? I've looked into this and can't find anything to confirm or deny.
I have a strange affection for Devendra Banhart. I used to drive my brothers car around a lot and there wasn't much in there for music but was 2 burned CDs of Devendra Banhart. If I could draw a line of why I think my affection is so strong it would likely go from Nick Drake and through Leonard Cohen. I am a sucker for a classical guitar, for finger picking, for subversive lyrics and the ability to carry a song without any accompaniment. And I find he captures a good deal of masculinity and femininity in his stance, which is refreshing.
I've thought before that perhaps I was born in the wrong time. I find what is considered to be major aspects of current youth culture come from a place where we've been marketed to for so long and for so hard, everyone selling us sex and death, overstimulating our senses, that we've embraced those things and made them our own. And I find it hard to hold onto that. I hate Crystal Castles. But what seemed like the youth culture of the 1960s I can hold onto. Love. Freedom. Immediate experience. The subversive. Expression. Though I know it wouldn't have been all it has been idealized to have been, it still seems appealing. Probably if I had been in my mid twenties at that time I would have felt I'd been born in the wrong time.
And I've only been alive for about 3 years. I grew up shielded by a small town. I went to university in 2 small cities where I holed myself into libraries and book stores and met few common souls. I came alive when I left that all behind and continue to grow and understand and to love the concept of "youth culture," as vacuous a term that might be. For my youth culture was found in a dirty garage where everyone took drugs, listened to rave music and avoided the giant, nervous rottweilers that sat among us. Or drinking in the woods, hiding or running from bored cops. I didn't have much to hold onto there to expand who I saw myself as and becoming.
And am I crazy, or did Devendra Banhart used to spell his name "Devendra Banhardt"? I've looked into this and can't find anything to confirm or deny.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
September 16, 2010: Stone Temple Pilots - Daisy
Stone Temple Pilots - Daisy: youtube.com/watch?v=_9pxsXbes4Y
I'm not much of a jamming musician. Not that I'm opposed to it, it's just that until the age of 20 or so I knew no one else who even played. One friend, Jonathan Kenny, but he was far beyond my scope as a musician, he had no time for me. I'd been playing guitar for 9 years before I even got a chance. And so it's just such a foreign concept to me, the interplay and the relation.
There was this song, though. My brother Colin started learning guitar just after me and of course he was better at it. But he insisted, when this album came out, that we learn how to play this song together, he would play the chords and I would play the melody. We would do this again later with Elliott Smith's "Kiwi Maddog 20/20" as well. It's one of the rare instances in my youth where I wasn't nurturing my philosophies on music as the acts of the solitary artist.
So I don't play well with others, mostly. I've been trying, been humbling myself within other peoples projects variously but am actually yet to pick up an instrument to play in another persons band, be a contributing member. I've been thinking of starting a psych reggae band but that won't play out, likely.
I'm not much of a jamming musician. Not that I'm opposed to it, it's just that until the age of 20 or so I knew no one else who even played. One friend, Jonathan Kenny, but he was far beyond my scope as a musician, he had no time for me. I'd been playing guitar for 9 years before I even got a chance. And so it's just such a foreign concept to me, the interplay and the relation.
There was this song, though. My brother Colin started learning guitar just after me and of course he was better at it. But he insisted, when this album came out, that we learn how to play this song together, he would play the chords and I would play the melody. We would do this again later with Elliott Smith's "Kiwi Maddog 20/20" as well. It's one of the rare instances in my youth where I wasn't nurturing my philosophies on music as the acts of the solitary artist.
So I don't play well with others, mostly. I've been trying, been humbling myself within other peoples projects variously but am actually yet to pick up an instrument to play in another persons band, be a contributing member. I've been thinking of starting a psych reggae band but that won't play out, likely.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
September 15, 2010: Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet - They Don't Call Them Chihuahuas Anymore
Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet - They Don't Call Them Chihuahuas Anymore: youtube.com/watch?v=C8DDiIwaK4w
I just suddenly remembered this song. Not much to say about this except that it's such a great band name and song title and I don't hear enough instrumental surf-punk.
And I saw this video on Muchmusic. I know I've gone on a rant before as to the downfall of that once great station, so I'll save you from that. It is funny, though, how this song came out at a time when "Canadian music" had to involve place names and "Canadian" references in order to be considered valid (or, so I perceive it). We were in the landscape stages of Canadian music and this song came out and got played nationally, along with several other strange anomalous songs (Barnes and Barnes' "Fish Heads", for example).
I think I was born in the wrong time.
I just suddenly remembered this song. Not much to say about this except that it's such a great band name and song title and I don't hear enough instrumental surf-punk.
And I saw this video on Muchmusic. I know I've gone on a rant before as to the downfall of that once great station, so I'll save you from that. It is funny, though, how this song came out at a time when "Canadian music" had to involve place names and "Canadian" references in order to be considered valid (or, so I perceive it). We were in the landscape stages of Canadian music and this song came out and got played nationally, along with several other strange anomalous songs (Barnes and Barnes' "Fish Heads", for example).
I think I was born in the wrong time.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
September 14, 2010: The Langley School Music Project - Space Oddity
The Langley School Music Project - Space Oddity: youtube.com/watch?v=GRZBvJx4XEE&feature=related
Interpretation is as valid a skill as composition. Or, so I would deem it.
In composition you are dealing with several base elements. You begin with nothing, take one idea or note or concept and you manipulate it, add and retract until you come up with an idea, note or concept which is brighter and more vivid than the original. Then, as the most basic element is formed, one must then decide whether it is complete in its entirety or else complimentary elements must be added in order to flesh it out and make it whole. This stage begins and ends and continues until the composition is complete. One could add compliment for an eternity (like a Brian Wilson).
Interpretation is none too different. The only difference lies in the beginning; you are not beginning with nothing, the most basic element has been handed to you. This is not to say, even, that the interpretation of a work lies in the piece itself. One could conceivably make an interpretation of a piece which diverges so drastically that the interpretation is indecipherable from the original. These, I find, can be the best of interpretation. Otherwise one can drift closely to the realm of imitation.
That said, I think I'm more an interpreter than a composer.
Interpretation is as valid a skill as composition. Or, so I would deem it.
In composition you are dealing with several base elements. You begin with nothing, take one idea or note or concept and you manipulate it, add and retract until you come up with an idea, note or concept which is brighter and more vivid than the original. Then, as the most basic element is formed, one must then decide whether it is complete in its entirety or else complimentary elements must be added in order to flesh it out and make it whole. This stage begins and ends and continues until the composition is complete. One could add compliment for an eternity (like a Brian Wilson).
Interpretation is none too different. The only difference lies in the beginning; you are not beginning with nothing, the most basic element has been handed to you. This is not to say, even, that the interpretation of a work lies in the piece itself. One could conceivably make an interpretation of a piece which diverges so drastically that the interpretation is indecipherable from the original. These, I find, can be the best of interpretation. Otherwise one can drift closely to the realm of imitation.
That said, I think I'm more an interpreter than a composer.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
September 12, 2010: Ani DiFranco - Grand Canyon
Ani DiFranco - Grand Canyon: youtube.com/watch?v=P9SXvbKrvXw
I finished, this morning, reading Hitch 22 by Christopher Hitchens. It's not the most brilliant memoir but compelling and full of love of a secular, atheist sort. Full of love. Part of that love as born in some great frustration at watching us, as a people, destroy all our potential with tyranny, blind prejudice, hatred and killing, following any dark figure who promises eternal joy and delivers death. It's a love of humanity and out infinite potential.
I remember listening to Ani DiFranco's album Educated Guess for the first time as I drove through Fredericton in my brothers car, wanting to throw it out the window because it was so full of beauty I couldn't face it. And still, when I hear this particular song, it makes me come near to weeping.
I'm not a political body, neither am I patriotic. I'm fortunate to live in Canada and be part of it's history, I know, and know we still are full of problem and are not truly free but I move as best I can in my independence, free to think and act though my thoughts and acts will likely keep me in a certain sort of poverty through my life. And I respect deeply those who stand against the political system, the societal system, and fight to make things right, better, for everyone who requires that certain form of right for I rarely have the fire in me to do such a thing though I know it must be done. Simply put: I'm quite naive. I love and respect men and women of any form who wake and move among us and expect that the rest feel that same reverence.
But we all don't. It's upsetting, walking home from work between 3-5 in the morning and hearing the occasional drunk talk about some "bitch who wouldn't fuck" him. Or stopping quickly at the only 24 hour restaurant in the neighborhood, a Chinese food restaurant, and hearing them mock the accents of those that work there. Or on the streetcar where they yell at the homeless, the schizophrenics and the sex workers. And I only use those drunk assholes as an example of everything bad around me because they are the most obvious. Again, I'm quite naive and have trouble, often, to tell when things are wrong around me, in my community, among my people, and why.
But this song makes some sense to me. The sense it makes changes as I get older, but it makes some sort.
I am thankful I don't live in Baghdad, Israel or Darfur. Though, perhaps strangely, I do see some form of revolution among the people of Iran and wish to be among it.
I finished, this morning, reading Hitch 22 by Christopher Hitchens. It's not the most brilliant memoir but compelling and full of love of a secular, atheist sort. Full of love. Part of that love as born in some great frustration at watching us, as a people, destroy all our potential with tyranny, blind prejudice, hatred and killing, following any dark figure who promises eternal joy and delivers death. It's a love of humanity and out infinite potential.
I remember listening to Ani DiFranco's album Educated Guess for the first time as I drove through Fredericton in my brothers car, wanting to throw it out the window because it was so full of beauty I couldn't face it. And still, when I hear this particular song, it makes me come near to weeping.
I'm not a political body, neither am I patriotic. I'm fortunate to live in Canada and be part of it's history, I know, and know we still are full of problem and are not truly free but I move as best I can in my independence, free to think and act though my thoughts and acts will likely keep me in a certain sort of poverty through my life. And I respect deeply those who stand against the political system, the societal system, and fight to make things right, better, for everyone who requires that certain form of right for I rarely have the fire in me to do such a thing though I know it must be done. Simply put: I'm quite naive. I love and respect men and women of any form who wake and move among us and expect that the rest feel that same reverence.
But we all don't. It's upsetting, walking home from work between 3-5 in the morning and hearing the occasional drunk talk about some "bitch who wouldn't fuck" him. Or stopping quickly at the only 24 hour restaurant in the neighborhood, a Chinese food restaurant, and hearing them mock the accents of those that work there. Or on the streetcar where they yell at the homeless, the schizophrenics and the sex workers. And I only use those drunk assholes as an example of everything bad around me because they are the most obvious. Again, I'm quite naive and have trouble, often, to tell when things are wrong around me, in my community, among my people, and why.
But this song makes some sense to me. The sense it makes changes as I get older, but it makes some sort.
I am thankful I don't live in Baghdad, Israel or Darfur. Though, perhaps strangely, I do see some form of revolution among the people of Iran and wish to be among it.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11, 2010: Bob Marley - Redemption Song
Bob Marley - Redemption Song: youtube.com/watch?v=OFGgbT_VasI
Last night I was biking home and this guy started biking behind me. He started singing "Redemption Song" as he biked, passing me just as he got to the chorus and I joined in, we sang together briefly before he smiled and kept on. We got to a light that he made and I stopped. There were 4 high school kids on the corner who heard him singing and started singing "Redemption Song" themselves. They crossed the street singing it. When they got to the other side I noticed another couple on the opposite side joining along too.
It was a strange and wonderful moment as I stood there waiting for the light to change.
Last night I was biking home and this guy started biking behind me. He started singing "Redemption Song" as he biked, passing me just as he got to the chorus and I joined in, we sang together briefly before he smiled and kept on. We got to a light that he made and I stopped. There were 4 high school kids on the corner who heard him singing and started singing "Redemption Song" themselves. They crossed the street singing it. When they got to the other side I noticed another couple on the opposite side joining along too.
It was a strange and wonderful moment as I stood there waiting for the light to change.
Friday, September 10, 2010
September 10, 2010: The Presidents of the United States of America - Lump
The Presidents of the United States of America - Lump: youtube.com/watch?v=_sj_U6vObUA
Rock and roll was really something terrible in the 90s. I think maybe it was always a certain kind of terrible, but the 90s really did something uniquely bad that it deserves mentioning. Remember The Tea Party? And Econoline Crush? Spin Doctors? U2 went to shit in the 90s. Pearl Jam were a certain sort of bad when they started out. Even Radiohead could not be impervious to the awful that stained everyone; remember "Creep"? It's near unlistenable. And listening back to The Smashing Pumpkins makes me angry that Billy Corgan fooled me as long and hard as he did. Long and hard.
Granted, not all was bad; there is the exception to every rule. The 90s brought us Bjork and Beck. At least in the B's.
One band that sticks in my mind as embodying everything 90s rock is The Presidents of the United States of America. But not necessarily in a bad way. They did follow the typical 90s bands in that they came out with one good album then went to a certain obscurity (probably due to a lack of sonic growth that comes from being in a stringent rock 3-piece), their singer had an angsty, annoying voice and they used a lot of distortion on their guitars. However, they had a good sense of humour, something their counterparts did not have. And it was all quite self-conscious. You don't write a song about peaches and expect people to call you a poet or a prodigy.
Anyway, not much else to say about that. 90s rock sucked and I hate it for nurturing my young, impressionable brain.
And I want to start a Presidents of the United States of America cover band.
Rock and roll was really something terrible in the 90s. I think maybe it was always a certain kind of terrible, but the 90s really did something uniquely bad that it deserves mentioning. Remember The Tea Party? And Econoline Crush? Spin Doctors? U2 went to shit in the 90s. Pearl Jam were a certain sort of bad when they started out. Even Radiohead could not be impervious to the awful that stained everyone; remember "Creep"? It's near unlistenable. And listening back to The Smashing Pumpkins makes me angry that Billy Corgan fooled me as long and hard as he did. Long and hard.
Granted, not all was bad; there is the exception to every rule. The 90s brought us Bjork and Beck. At least in the B's.
One band that sticks in my mind as embodying everything 90s rock is The Presidents of the United States of America. But not necessarily in a bad way. They did follow the typical 90s bands in that they came out with one good album then went to a certain obscurity (probably due to a lack of sonic growth that comes from being in a stringent rock 3-piece), their singer had an angsty, annoying voice and they used a lot of distortion on their guitars. However, they had a good sense of humour, something their counterparts did not have. And it was all quite self-conscious. You don't write a song about peaches and expect people to call you a poet or a prodigy.
Anyway, not much else to say about that. 90s rock sucked and I hate it for nurturing my young, impressionable brain.
And I want to start a Presidents of the United States of America cover band.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
September 8, 2010: Nina Nastasia & Jim White - Odd Said the Doe
Nina Nastasia & Jim White - Odd Said the Doe: youtube.com/watch?v=1oj_TmfHBYQ
It was a little over a year ago. I remember Eli was there that night, it was the first time he'd met Duffield and they got along pretty well. We were, the three of us, sitting on the patio at Nirvana. And Duffield got to talking about Nina Nastasia.
The work that Nina Nastasia has done with Jim White, he said, was more like a duet between songwriter and drummer than it was a song with instrumentation. Most pop songs are based around the words, follow the chord patterns of the guitar and the rest follows. It can be a very easy pattern to comprehend and mimic if you really wish. But these songs are quite different in that the drums don't necessarily follow the guitar nor the voice; both instruments work independently of each other along a common ground. Neither player is more important than the other. It is a duet.
I've never, as far as I can tell, come across anything else quite like this. No, wait, that's a bit of a lie. On Joni Mitchell's Hejira there is a similar technique applied but with Jaco Pastorius on bass. Regardless, it is a form of playing I've not completely overlooked before but have never quite put into the proper words.
I used to play in a band where the lead singer wrote all the music and taught us our parts. This wasn't unfulfilling; we had a lot of fun together and the songs were good. But I doubt this is the way.
It was a little over a year ago. I remember Eli was there that night, it was the first time he'd met Duffield and they got along pretty well. We were, the three of us, sitting on the patio at Nirvana. And Duffield got to talking about Nina Nastasia.
The work that Nina Nastasia has done with Jim White, he said, was more like a duet between songwriter and drummer than it was a song with instrumentation. Most pop songs are based around the words, follow the chord patterns of the guitar and the rest follows. It can be a very easy pattern to comprehend and mimic if you really wish. But these songs are quite different in that the drums don't necessarily follow the guitar nor the voice; both instruments work independently of each other along a common ground. Neither player is more important than the other. It is a duet.
I've never, as far as I can tell, come across anything else quite like this. No, wait, that's a bit of a lie. On Joni Mitchell's Hejira there is a similar technique applied but with Jaco Pastorius on bass. Regardless, it is a form of playing I've not completely overlooked before but have never quite put into the proper words.
I used to play in a band where the lead singer wrote all the music and taught us our parts. This wasn't unfulfilling; we had a lot of fun together and the songs were good. But I doubt this is the way.
Monday, September 6, 2010
September 6, 2010: Joni Mitchell - Amelia
Joni Mitchell - Amelia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzjxIIhHYRA
I'm sitting in a hotel room in Reno. I'm showered and full of food from a hotel buffet. I'm drinking a coffee. I thought these things would make me feel refreshed and "normal" but they've done the reciprocal; I feel less like myself than I did 2 days ago as I feigned sleep on a desert playa, my body full of dust. I'm suddenly a stranger.
It's odd that we have built such structures as prudence, wealth, fear of authority, dictatorship. It's odd that we sometimes feel generosity should be repaid, that anothers love or success should be envied or condemned. It says something of us that we shun those in need and give to those who prosper. I'm not saying these things are necessarily wrong or right, just strange that we've moved in this direction considering the miriad of possibility we've been offered. And when I say "we" and "us" I suppose I mean "I" and "me."
I will allow myself a confession, of sorts, to maybe elucidate any point I might be moving towards: As some friends and I moved together through the desert, an overarching feeling of celebration moving between us, we had not truly accomplished anything and there was a forced love that was warm and not untrue but we were together and loving and that was our celebration, we found a gathering where some sat and some danced. Then there was a bad moment. A friend became hurt and despondent. She stood darkly staring into some form of nothing in front of her face. I tried to comfort her but there was nothing I could do, tried to understand but didn't know how to communicate with her. I didn't know what was wrong and there was no way to figure it out; she became a menacing black hole that grew deeper as I touched it. I became distracted and, overall, helpless. Another friend, holding some form of wild through his body all night, went to her and they parted together as he tried to calm her sorrows. As they were gone we had drank our whole supply of water and the dust was rising from the ground, permeating our bodies, drying up our bones to more dust, our skin was dust, our lips. Some wanted to move on but we had to wait among the dust for the return of our departed friends. We waited desperate and impatient. Then our wild eyed friend came from the shadows, running through us all with a gallon of water hoisted over his head like some kind of hero, rekindling our celebratory bodies, returning our sorrowed friend who was ready to move.
And I felt a sort of jealousy. Why, with all the love for my sorrowed friend, couldn't I calm and comfort her? Why, with all these dry mouths, couldn't I have found us water? Why couldn't I have been the friend and the hero? But then how naive, stupid and selfish is all of that? These are certain elements of myself that have grown from the buildings that have risen around me, from the teachers I've accumulated, from the experiences I've shared. I love my sorrowed friend but I could only comfort so much, I love my wild eyed friend and he brought us celebration and a form of salvation, and those are the most beautiful things I could ask, aren't they? They're nothing to lament. Though I have. It's difficult but not impossible to shake these terrible aspects of myself that I hold.
And I walked into the desert with some form of alone, faced aspects of beauty, sat next to magic. Some loved ones told me I would walk out with a different life, which I doubted, which I pushed aside from my expectations. Even on the drive out, dirty and burned, did I still see myself as before. But as I sit among all of this, something does seem different within me, which I'll fight to hold.
I'm sitting in a hotel room in Reno. I'm showered and full of food from a hotel buffet. I'm drinking a coffee. I thought these things would make me feel refreshed and "normal" but they've done the reciprocal; I feel less like myself than I did 2 days ago as I feigned sleep on a desert playa, my body full of dust. I'm suddenly a stranger.
It's odd that we have built such structures as prudence, wealth, fear of authority, dictatorship. It's odd that we sometimes feel generosity should be repaid, that anothers love or success should be envied or condemned. It says something of us that we shun those in need and give to those who prosper. I'm not saying these things are necessarily wrong or right, just strange that we've moved in this direction considering the miriad of possibility we've been offered. And when I say "we" and "us" I suppose I mean "I" and "me."
I will allow myself a confession, of sorts, to maybe elucidate any point I might be moving towards: As some friends and I moved together through the desert, an overarching feeling of celebration moving between us, we had not truly accomplished anything and there was a forced love that was warm and not untrue but we were together and loving and that was our celebration, we found a gathering where some sat and some danced. Then there was a bad moment. A friend became hurt and despondent. She stood darkly staring into some form of nothing in front of her face. I tried to comfort her but there was nothing I could do, tried to understand but didn't know how to communicate with her. I didn't know what was wrong and there was no way to figure it out; she became a menacing black hole that grew deeper as I touched it. I became distracted and, overall, helpless. Another friend, holding some form of wild through his body all night, went to her and they parted together as he tried to calm her sorrows. As they were gone we had drank our whole supply of water and the dust was rising from the ground, permeating our bodies, drying up our bones to more dust, our skin was dust, our lips. Some wanted to move on but we had to wait among the dust for the return of our departed friends. We waited desperate and impatient. Then our wild eyed friend came from the shadows, running through us all with a gallon of water hoisted over his head like some kind of hero, rekindling our celebratory bodies, returning our sorrowed friend who was ready to move.
And I felt a sort of jealousy. Why, with all the love for my sorrowed friend, couldn't I calm and comfort her? Why, with all these dry mouths, couldn't I have found us water? Why couldn't I have been the friend and the hero? But then how naive, stupid and selfish is all of that? These are certain elements of myself that have grown from the buildings that have risen around me, from the teachers I've accumulated, from the experiences I've shared. I love my sorrowed friend but I could only comfort so much, I love my wild eyed friend and he brought us celebration and a form of salvation, and those are the most beautiful things I could ask, aren't they? They're nothing to lament. Though I have. It's difficult but not impossible to shake these terrible aspects of myself that I hold.
And I walked into the desert with some form of alone, faced aspects of beauty, sat next to magic. Some loved ones told me I would walk out with a different life, which I doubted, which I pushed aside from my expectations. Even on the drive out, dirty and burned, did I still see myself as before. But as I sit among all of this, something does seem different within me, which I'll fight to hold.
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