I'm working on a collaborative painting project with Kat. We've been taking turns, building a painting. Despite my years of Sesame Street, I have never been able to wholly-grasp the notion of cooperation. I've always been fixed in the idea that I should be able to do everything on my own. That's true, as long as all I ever want to do is work that requires a singular perspective... and only two hands. Whenever you see pieces on artists, the tendency is to fixate upon solely the artist. Rarely is the stimulation, support and inspiration of fellow artists, lovers and friends shown, unless there's a sexual scandal involved. Although I logically understand that I need others, guilt drives me to think that I should be able to do It all alone. This project is good for me.
It's a bitch trying to collaborate on an artistic project - multiple ideas, multiple styles, and multiple people who have primarily learned to be artistic alone. It's a great test of compatibility, as well. I've had people that I thought would be perfect, only to find out that our personalities were toxic in a collaborative setting. You have to surrender a lot of ego but keep the fearless nerve to fail in front of others. Negativity is probably the quickest way to ruin it. I spent a couple of weeks trying to hammer out a screenplay with a good friend of mine and we couldn't even get past the basic outline of whatever-the-hell we were writing - it completely tanked. I would throw out ideas while he questioned everything I said.
The best book I've ever read on collaboration was Chuck Jones's book Chuck Amok!. Chuck Jones was one of the principal creators of the classic Looney Tunes cartoons. In his book, he outlined his process. Every new cartoon began with a "Yes Session" in which the director and writers would throw out ideas and everyone would build on them until a complete story was written. The key to making these sessions work, however, was that no one could say "no" to an idea - you could only build on it. With the hundreds of cartoons they were cranking out, there wasn't enough time to debate every facet of every story. The same thing is taught in actor improvisation. Nothing will kill an improv quicker than for an actor to say something and the other actor to simply answer, "no". It's a dead end that kills the momentum of a scene and forces the other actor to start over.
The thing about this collaboration is that I keep saying "no" to myself. After my girlfriend hands me a painting, I don't know what to do with it. I worry that I'm going to somehow ruin it or sabotage an idea that she had going. Of course, like every little drama that happens in my life, this effortlessly points to perhaps the greatest obstacle to my becoming an accomplished artist. I am very good at editing my work. I am ruthless with my stuff. Unfortunately, my editing voice likes to join in on the creative process. All the heart comes from that intuitive impulse that happens in that first moment as an idea becomes act. You cannot know whether something will work or not until you do it. One of the great thrills of creating is that you don't know where it's taking you. If we knew the outcome, then there would be no reason to take the journey. Hell, it's the reason for living. One of the beauties of youth is that ignorance of consequences. When you don't know any better, you can crash through invisible walls without a moment's thought. The challenge is to hold onto that impulse even as you grow older and have all that experience that's telling you that you should know better.
The key is to do things out of your comfort zone - pushing yourself to follow through on those things that you feel hesitant about doing. That's why this project is good for me. I have no control on at least half of this painting, so my editing voice is slowly being pushed into taking a rest. It has helped that my girlfriend is an ideal partner. She is creative, open to ideas and gently raises the bar each time we exchange. Her ability to discard and re-invent new ideas quietly presses me to push myself a little more - perhaps the very heart of why people collaborate. I'm getting better about letting go... stuttered and staggered as those baby steps may be.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Monday, March 21, 2005
Escape from New York
I am amazed that I live in New York City. I sit in front of the television, watching the opening credits to Law & Order, then I realize that I can recognize all the buildings and streets. I can readily distinguish whether a homocide has taken place on the Upper West Side or the Chelsea before a word is uttered by the actors. Feature films that I've watched since I was a child suddenly spring forward with newfound familiarity. The funny thing is that this was never the place where I wanted to live. As an Army brat, I had lived in all over the country- from Alaska to Georgia to Western Europe. The one corner of the world that had always intimidated me was the New York. There was something elitist and rough about it. The movies have certainly had a lot to do with it. There ARE far more dodgy corners of the globe, but there was always something a little offputting to me about this city. I had NEVER perceived it as a place where to REALLY live. As far as I was concerned, New York was the land of Italian gangsters, transvestite street hustlers, and Wall Street. It was a concrete jungle where arrogant, self-centered giants of industry and entertainment waged war against one other to find out who was Top Dog. I grew up in the homogenized, safe life of a U.S. Army base or in the suburbs of America, as depicted in early Steven Spielberg movies, where the only threat to life-and-limb came from ancient burial grounds or government supression of alien visitors. My idea of a great adventure was a 1 mile bike ride to the 7-11 to buy a couple packs of Star Wars bubblegum cards or the newest issue of X-Men. Despite the fact that Army bases and suburban life were eye-tearingly dull (especially in the days before the video game revolution that swept roller-skating rinks and bowling alleys), I found them comforting. Sesame Street was as close to the Urban Experience as I thought I would ever know. Little did I suspect that the New York City of the 21st century would bear little resemblance to the portrait of Urban Decay that I'd had fed to me through the eyes of a camera lens. In the last 5 years, I have I discovered a city unlike any other, and (to paraphrase Lou Reed) where everybody is ALMOST ready to leave.
A couple years ago, I was watching Midnight Cowboy- widely-considered to be one of the quintessential films of New York City in the 1960s (I know, I know... Cassavetes rocks, but work with me here). I'd seen this movie at least 6 or 7 times and owned it on DVD, but not since I'd moved to the City. There was Jon Voight, sloughing down Broadway in Times Square when he passes a large, neon store marque that reads 'COLONY' in 6 foot, red-neon lettering. I'd just been to Colony Music the day before. I knew that area - I had BEEN right there, wher Jon Voight was standing 35 years earlier. Had it not been for those 6 foot letters though, I wouldn't have known that it was the same place. The hooker and titty bar that enveloped Voight through Times Square had completely disappeared. Disney, Viacom, Time Warner and a myriad of myopic, massive corporations have bought block-upon-block of the White Way and transformed it into a staggering display of pricey Advertising and pricier Broadway shows. For 10 to 30 stories in every direction, fluttering eyes of consumer foreplay compete for the errant eye. Jon Voight would have been priced out of a Manhattan hotel room the second he set foot-to-pavement at the Port Authority bus station. Nowadays, he'd be reduced to shacking up on a bunk bed in a hostel on the Upper West Side with a bunch of German, blond-dreadlocked teenagers.
It is strange to live in a place that has such Iconic status with the rest of the world. Like London, Paris, Bangkok, Istanbul, Shanghai, Tokyo and Rome, New York City has had so many images placed upon it, it's easy to build a mental image of what it's like. Even visiting the city for a few days can leave one with the wrong impression. You really have to live in a place for a number of years before you can even the most basic idea of what a city is all about. In a metropolis like New York, even after a lifetime here, I'll only ever know a small corner of it. I think that's one of the reasons that people are almost always thinking about leaving. The density of cultures, attitudes combines with this strange compulsion to always feel like you're running behind schedule. But then, where do you go from here?
A couple years ago, I was watching Midnight Cowboy- widely-considered to be one of the quintessential films of New York City in the 1960s (I know, I know... Cassavetes rocks, but work with me here). I'd seen this movie at least 6 or 7 times and owned it on DVD, but not since I'd moved to the City. There was Jon Voight, sloughing down Broadway in Times Square when he passes a large, neon store marque that reads 'COLONY' in 6 foot, red-neon lettering. I'd just been to Colony Music the day before. I knew that area - I had BEEN right there, wher Jon Voight was standing 35 years earlier. Had it not been for those 6 foot letters though, I wouldn't have known that it was the same place. The hooker and titty bar that enveloped Voight through Times Square had completely disappeared. Disney, Viacom, Time Warner and a myriad of myopic, massive corporations have bought block-upon-block of the White Way and transformed it into a staggering display of pricey Advertising and pricier Broadway shows. For 10 to 30 stories in every direction, fluttering eyes of consumer foreplay compete for the errant eye. Jon Voight would have been priced out of a Manhattan hotel room the second he set foot-to-pavement at the Port Authority bus station. Nowadays, he'd be reduced to shacking up on a bunk bed in a hostel on the Upper West Side with a bunch of German, blond-dreadlocked teenagers.
It is strange to live in a place that has such Iconic status with the rest of the world. Like London, Paris, Bangkok, Istanbul, Shanghai, Tokyo and Rome, New York City has had so many images placed upon it, it's easy to build a mental image of what it's like. Even visiting the city for a few days can leave one with the wrong impression. You really have to live in a place for a number of years before you can even the most basic idea of what a city is all about. In a metropolis like New York, even after a lifetime here, I'll only ever know a small corner of it. I think that's one of the reasons that people are almost always thinking about leaving. The density of cultures, attitudes combines with this strange compulsion to always feel like you're running behind schedule. But then, where do you go from here?
Thursday, March 10, 2005
scoping the Scene with Cat Power
I had a great time. I want you to remember that as you read this. I know that my set up might have all the trappings of a great, overarching diatribe but really- no, really - I had a good time.
So... went to see Cat Power last night at Southpaw in Brooklyn. I'd never been to this venue before and after getting out at the wrong subway stop and walking from the dark side of Nowhere where an icy wind always awaits you around every corner, I was not in the best mindset. Once I got inside, had a vodka tonic clipped into my frozen clutches and got settled in a seat (!), I was happy. Southpaw is a good place. The Mercury Lounge (where I was the previous night) was a square box of the barest design. I don't knock venues like that. They keep the ticket prices down and normally attract only the more-devoted music fans, but even at 6-foot-3, I often find myself planted behind the shoulder blades of some huge guy who, innocent as he may be, has become my personal lunar eclipse. In Southpaw, they had a couple levels of risers with nice, heavy railings. Even the most elfin groupie can scope a decent spot out in the early hours and effectively avoid having a hard-earned spot ruined by a monolith in steel-toe boots.
I should have known I was going to be in trouble when I saw that 'The Village Voice' had listed the Cat Power concert as one of their picks-of-the-week, but I wasn't prepared for the Scenesters. I have mentioned the Hipsters before, but with the introduction of this new term, some clarification is necessary. Hipsters are NYC folks who show up in fasionable spots and order $10 drinks because they saw them on 'Sex and the City' or think that it makes them look good. If the drink has Grey Goose or Skyy Vodka, then bonus points can be scored. They wear bohemian, fashion-labelled clothes and pretend that they have anything resembling a handle on life because they are living in neighborhoods that once graced the heels of Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. These individuals are often annoying, but not evil. Their tragedy for the average Joe is that their deep wells of dispensible income will quickly drive rent and alcohol prices through the roof in an otherwise-cool area.
Scenesters are evil. They are the reason that I don't work in the film industry anymore (along with a couple of other things). They are also a good reason to not go to Irving Plaza or Roseland Ballroom or any other venue sponsored by Clear Channel. Once a band starts to break it big, their gigs become Events, and are immediately infected with the Scenester. They show up with no purpose other than to network with other people and, maybe, fuck the hot new thing that just started working at the agency/record label/publishing house/TV or movie studio. The vast majority of them work in the entertainment industry with the lowest rung being operated by agent mailroom interns and rising up through record executive. The concert-going Scenester M.O. is to show up mid-way through the opening act's set, buy a drink, find a conspicuous place to stand, then talk during the set about things like expensive vacations, restaurants, and other concerts he/her has ruined and 'insider' platitudes regarding their profession.
Well, the Scenesters were in full force on this night. Although probably not the best move for his career, the guy opening for Cat Power (I never got his name) made angry jokes regarding the clusters of indifferent Scenesters who were giving no love (except to themselves) that night. At one point he even tried to pick out a female scenester in the crowd who stood in his direct eyeline and never once turned to the stage. Despite the whooping of a sympathetic few, none of the Scenesters ever acknowledged him. The clatter of networking got loud enough to drown out his singing for the second half of the set. Finally, the guy tore through his last two songs with enough growling and shouting to make them pretty good.
I'd always heard that Cat Power's shows were a mixed bag. I didn't exactly know what that meant but I was intrigued. Half an hour after the opening act pressed his fedora over his eyes and stormed off stage, Chan Marshall made her appearance. The lights dimmed, the crowd went wild and a distracted, irritable, attractive woman took a seat in front of a huge piano. Now, I think that she was attractive. She was thin and dressed in appropriately-casual dress with gorgeous long, dark hair, but she hid behind it. Her bangs completely covered her eyes. Most of my mental image of the evening involves a microphone and a nose peeking out from behind a hair curtain. She pulled out an electric guitar and slowly strummed a few chords. Slowly, the sounds of a song came together. She leaned into the microphone and suddenly, there it was - the husky voice of Cat Power... and it sounded good. For anybody who've not been to a number concerts, it's hard to know what you're going to get when you see a band live for the first time. Some bands are record bands. Their songs are highly-produced or their voices have a layered, mixed sound, that just doesn't translate live. The vocals are weak and drown out beneath the guitar or the bass. Or worse, they sing so far out of tune that you wonder they even sang on their own record. Then, there are those bands who sound amazing live, but when you rush back home with their newly-purchased record, they don't have any of that coiled, nervous energy that made their music leap from the stage. Well, Cat Power turned out to be that very rare musician that sounds great both live and on a record AND she took the hat trick because her live show sounds just different-enough from her recordings to make it a unique experience .
So, I'm sure that you're thinking that it was the phenomenal performance of Chan that carried the night and left me feeling so good about the evening. She peformed all of her greatest hits from "You Are Free" and left the crowd rocking, right? Well, no. Chan did something that I've never seen before - she sabotaged Every Single Song she played. It was like reading a Beckett play where every joke is robbed of the payoff. Every time there was an opportunity to get a perfunctory round of applause, Chan would jump into another song and stifle it. She would play the first few bars of a song that the audience was pining to hear, then she would stop or fold it into something else. It felt like I was sitting in on that step in the creative audience when you try some new ideas out in front of your friends, just to see how they'll react to it... but she was doing it in front of a paying audience. She would play part of a musical phrase, then stop, set the guitar down, and try something different out on the piano. The Scenesters didn't know what to do with themselves. The event was actually becoming a real Event in which the perfunctory rules of engagement no longer applied. Shouting out requests, clapping encouragement for the beginning of a song they wanted to hear, cheering the self-deprecating mumblings of the artist - none of it worked. Chan just kept singing or strumming or plunking notes on the piano with a surrealistic thought process to guide it. The Scenesters began their retreat within the first 15 minutes. Prime positions in the room vacated and the temperature dropped 10 degrees from the draft of an exodus through the front door.
With all pretension abandoned, I settled into a beautiful set of music. It reminded me of my childhood when I would sit on the floor beside my mom's piano and listen to her play the highlights of songs that she could remember or fragments of sheet music she'd thumb through. If I offered to sing for a bit, she'd actually stick with it until I couldn't remember any more lyrics. At the end of her set, Chan stood up from her piano and mumbled "It'll be better next time. I promise," before slinking from the stage. Some fans tried to whistle and clap her into doing an encore, doggedly refusing to abandon the rules of engagement. But the rules were not being followed this night.
Thank God.
So... went to see Cat Power last night at Southpaw in Brooklyn. I'd never been to this venue before and after getting out at the wrong subway stop and walking from the dark side of Nowhere where an icy wind always awaits you around every corner, I was not in the best mindset. Once I got inside, had a vodka tonic clipped into my frozen clutches and got settled in a seat (!), I was happy. Southpaw is a good place. The Mercury Lounge (where I was the previous night) was a square box of the barest design. I don't knock venues like that. They keep the ticket prices down and normally attract only the more-devoted music fans, but even at 6-foot-3, I often find myself planted behind the shoulder blades of some huge guy who, innocent as he may be, has become my personal lunar eclipse. In Southpaw, they had a couple levels of risers with nice, heavy railings. Even the most elfin groupie can scope a decent spot out in the early hours and effectively avoid having a hard-earned spot ruined by a monolith in steel-toe boots.
I should have known I was going to be in trouble when I saw that 'The Village Voice' had listed the Cat Power concert as one of their picks-of-the-week, but I wasn't prepared for the Scenesters. I have mentioned the Hipsters before, but with the introduction of this new term, some clarification is necessary. Hipsters are NYC folks who show up in fasionable spots and order $10 drinks because they saw them on 'Sex and the City' or think that it makes them look good. If the drink has Grey Goose or Skyy Vodka, then bonus points can be scored. They wear bohemian, fashion-labelled clothes and pretend that they have anything resembling a handle on life because they are living in neighborhoods that once graced the heels of Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. These individuals are often annoying, but not evil. Their tragedy for the average Joe is that their deep wells of dispensible income will quickly drive rent and alcohol prices through the roof in an otherwise-cool area.
Scenesters are evil. They are the reason that I don't work in the film industry anymore (along with a couple of other things). They are also a good reason to not go to Irving Plaza or Roseland Ballroom or any other venue sponsored by Clear Channel. Once a band starts to break it big, their gigs become Events, and are immediately infected with the Scenester. They show up with no purpose other than to network with other people and, maybe, fuck the hot new thing that just started working at the agency/record label/publishing house/TV or movie studio. The vast majority of them work in the entertainment industry with the lowest rung being operated by agent mailroom interns and rising up through record executive. The concert-going Scenester M.O. is to show up mid-way through the opening act's set, buy a drink, find a conspicuous place to stand, then talk during the set about things like expensive vacations, restaurants, and other concerts he/her has ruined and 'insider' platitudes regarding their profession.
Well, the Scenesters were in full force on this night. Although probably not the best move for his career, the guy opening for Cat Power (I never got his name) made angry jokes regarding the clusters of indifferent Scenesters who were giving no love (except to themselves) that night. At one point he even tried to pick out a female scenester in the crowd who stood in his direct eyeline and never once turned to the stage. Despite the whooping of a sympathetic few, none of the Scenesters ever acknowledged him. The clatter of networking got loud enough to drown out his singing for the second half of the set. Finally, the guy tore through his last two songs with enough growling and shouting to make them pretty good.
I'd always heard that Cat Power's shows were a mixed bag. I didn't exactly know what that meant but I was intrigued. Half an hour after the opening act pressed his fedora over his eyes and stormed off stage, Chan Marshall made her appearance. The lights dimmed, the crowd went wild and a distracted, irritable, attractive woman took a seat in front of a huge piano. Now, I think that she was attractive. She was thin and dressed in appropriately-casual dress with gorgeous long, dark hair, but she hid behind it. Her bangs completely covered her eyes. Most of my mental image of the evening involves a microphone and a nose peeking out from behind a hair curtain. She pulled out an electric guitar and slowly strummed a few chords. Slowly, the sounds of a song came together. She leaned into the microphone and suddenly, there it was - the husky voice of Cat Power... and it sounded good. For anybody who've not been to a number concerts, it's hard to know what you're going to get when you see a band live for the first time. Some bands are record bands. Their songs are highly-produced or their voices have a layered, mixed sound, that just doesn't translate live. The vocals are weak and drown out beneath the guitar or the bass. Or worse, they sing so far out of tune that you wonder they even sang on their own record. Then, there are those bands who sound amazing live, but when you rush back home with their newly-purchased record, they don't have any of that coiled, nervous energy that made their music leap from the stage. Well, Cat Power turned out to be that very rare musician that sounds great both live and on a record AND she took the hat trick because her live show sounds just different-enough from her recordings to make it a unique experience .
So, I'm sure that you're thinking that it was the phenomenal performance of Chan that carried the night and left me feeling so good about the evening. She peformed all of her greatest hits from "You Are Free" and left the crowd rocking, right? Well, no. Chan did something that I've never seen before - she sabotaged Every Single Song she played. It was like reading a Beckett play where every joke is robbed of the payoff. Every time there was an opportunity to get a perfunctory round of applause, Chan would jump into another song and stifle it. She would play the first few bars of a song that the audience was pining to hear, then she would stop or fold it into something else. It felt like I was sitting in on that step in the creative audience when you try some new ideas out in front of your friends, just to see how they'll react to it... but she was doing it in front of a paying audience. She would play part of a musical phrase, then stop, set the guitar down, and try something different out on the piano. The Scenesters didn't know what to do with themselves. The event was actually becoming a real Event in which the perfunctory rules of engagement no longer applied. Shouting out requests, clapping encouragement for the beginning of a song they wanted to hear, cheering the self-deprecating mumblings of the artist - none of it worked. Chan just kept singing or strumming or plunking notes on the piano with a surrealistic thought process to guide it. The Scenesters began their retreat within the first 15 minutes. Prime positions in the room vacated and the temperature dropped 10 degrees from the draft of an exodus through the front door.
With all pretension abandoned, I settled into a beautiful set of music. It reminded me of my childhood when I would sit on the floor beside my mom's piano and listen to her play the highlights of songs that she could remember or fragments of sheet music she'd thumb through. If I offered to sing for a bit, she'd actually stick with it until I couldn't remember any more lyrics. At the end of her set, Chan stood up from her piano and mumbled "It'll be better next time. I promise," before slinking from the stage. Some fans tried to whistle and clap her into doing an encore, doggedly refusing to abandon the rules of engagement. But the rules were not being followed this night.
Thank God.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
pop goes the Mercury Lounge
I went to the Mercury Lounge last night with my girlfriend and one of her co-worker friends. Her friend was excited about seeing Stars. The Mercury Lounge is this tiny venue that has a bar at front, a glass door, then a square space that gives the audience the ability to stand mere inches away from the band. I'm always a sucker for places like this and I hadn't seen either of the opening bands, I Am Kloot and Apostle of Hustle, so ... I'm one of those dreadfully uncool people who wants to show up right when the doors open. Unfortunately, my wants were not being met on this frigid evening so we walked in at the end of what appeared to be a really good set by I Am Kloot. I hate it when I do that. I don't know what it is about the Mercury Lounge, but there seems to be an inherent fear of standing too close to the opening act. Maybe it's the New York culture of 'cool', in a 'cool' venture, with a performance space that is far too intimate for their sensibilities. Maybe they fear that, if the band sucks, 'uncoolness' will get stuck all over them and then they'll never find happiness and/or get laid. Like getting caught talking to a loser, it's hard to get away. If you stake a spot within 10 feet of the band, they will be obligated to stand there through the entire set. Unforunately, this leaves a swimming pool-sized space open where, inevitably, some jackass saunters front and center, pretends to listen for 1-to-2 minutes, sip from his beer, then wander off as if he were checking out a houseplant onstage.
The second band, Apostle of Hustle, was... well, I know that there are a lot of fans out there for bands like Broken Social Scene, Sonic Youth and other 'soundscape' bands for whom 10 minute ballads of feedback are sweet nectar of sonic bliss. There are also a number of men who love to get their balls stamped on by leggy women in high heels. I am not a member of either group. Interestingly, the hour of Apostle of Hustle seemed to be for fans of the former while I felt like the victim of the latter. If I was stoned on pot and had a couch to fold myself into, these bands would be perfect. No... that's not true. I still wouldn't listen to them. Bands like this feel more like intellectual exercises for the musicians than for the audience. Listening to these bands live only intensifies the feeling. Even one of my favorite bands, Wilco, falls victim to this when they're playing live. I like my extended songs, like Death in Vegas's recent album and Underworld's stuff, but, for the most part, my roots lie in blues, punk and Nirvana - I like a group that jumps into a song, gets to the point, hits it really frigging hard (not necessarily loudly), then gets the fuck out of there... and a great hook doesn't hurt.
The third band, Stars, was the reason that I had come out. Before the band could come onstage, however, it was the sound mixer's job to make the waiting period as gruesomely painful as possible. For 20 minutes, we were all treated to a deafening rendition of bad poetry and jazz-like musical pap. Just in case we didn't want to listen, the board operator made sure that he pumped the volume up until it was even louder than the 5-piece rock band that had graced the stage only minutes earlier. By the time Stars had made it onstage, the club had been beaten into submission. The lead singer nervously laughed and joked at the graveyard silence that hung over the room.
I was a little skeptical about Stars as a live band before I had arrived. They have a very alt-poppy sound and the big track that I knew was "Look Up"- one of those catchy, uplifting, light songs that seem instantly destined to be licensed for some family-drama on ABC. They really won me over, though. They had this fun, vaguely-sarcastic energy that kept the set moving along. They didn't get stuck staring at the floor or have that mood-sucking habit of re-tuning their guitars between every song. They actually interacted with the audience and one another and, believe it or not, 2 or 3 of them EVEN made eye-contact with the audience. At first, it was unnerving to see an indie band having fun AND recognizing that there was an audience present.
Tonight, my caffeine-propped girlfriend and I are hauling our asses to Brooklyn to check out Cat Power. Chan Marshall, like Alison Mosshart (The Kills), PJ Harvey and Courtney Love has become my most-recent female rocker fixation. It's been hard for me to love any female musician too much, however, after the loss of my first love, Liz Phair. Oh Liz, Liz, Liz... what happened to thee?
Wish me luck.
The second band, Apostle of Hustle, was... well, I know that there are a lot of fans out there for bands like Broken Social Scene, Sonic Youth and other 'soundscape' bands for whom 10 minute ballads of feedback are sweet nectar of sonic bliss. There are also a number of men who love to get their balls stamped on by leggy women in high heels. I am not a member of either group. Interestingly, the hour of Apostle of Hustle seemed to be for fans of the former while I felt like the victim of the latter. If I was stoned on pot and had a couch to fold myself into, these bands would be perfect. No... that's not true. I still wouldn't listen to them. Bands like this feel more like intellectual exercises for the musicians than for the audience. Listening to these bands live only intensifies the feeling. Even one of my favorite bands, Wilco, falls victim to this when they're playing live. I like my extended songs, like Death in Vegas's recent album and Underworld's stuff, but, for the most part, my roots lie in blues, punk and Nirvana - I like a group that jumps into a song, gets to the point, hits it really frigging hard (not necessarily loudly), then gets the fuck out of there... and a great hook doesn't hurt.
The third band, Stars, was the reason that I had come out. Before the band could come onstage, however, it was the sound mixer's job to make the waiting period as gruesomely painful as possible. For 20 minutes, we were all treated to a deafening rendition of bad poetry and jazz-like musical pap. Just in case we didn't want to listen, the board operator made sure that he pumped the volume up until it was even louder than the 5-piece rock band that had graced the stage only minutes earlier. By the time Stars had made it onstage, the club had been beaten into submission. The lead singer nervously laughed and joked at the graveyard silence that hung over the room.
I was a little skeptical about Stars as a live band before I had arrived. They have a very alt-poppy sound and the big track that I knew was "Look Up"- one of those catchy, uplifting, light songs that seem instantly destined to be licensed for some family-drama on ABC. They really won me over, though. They had this fun, vaguely-sarcastic energy that kept the set moving along. They didn't get stuck staring at the floor or have that mood-sucking habit of re-tuning their guitars between every song. They actually interacted with the audience and one another and, believe it or not, 2 or 3 of them EVEN made eye-contact with the audience. At first, it was unnerving to see an indie band having fun AND recognizing that there was an audience present.
Tonight, my caffeine-propped girlfriend and I are hauling our asses to Brooklyn to check out Cat Power. Chan Marshall, like Alison Mosshart (The Kills), PJ Harvey and Courtney Love has become my most-recent female rocker fixation. It's been hard for me to love any female musician too much, however, after the loss of my first love, Liz Phair. Oh Liz, Liz, Liz... what happened to thee?
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
New York, New York what a ... town
New York City is a strange, little village. People come here from all over the world in search of the 'American Dream' or at least a piece of the pie. I moved here because, if one wants to be a writer, painter, or any other sort of artist, this is the place to be... well, that's the theory. Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Miami - these places all have loads of artists but most of the publishing industry is based in New York City. The proximity between the bottom and top is never so close as here. It is also the most aggravating place I've ever lived.
Yesterday, I had a doctor's appointment in Chelsea. Unfortunately, I wasn't gay or insured enough to be seen at this subsidized clinic so, after schlepping myself clear down there to be told I can't be helped, I needed a walk. So, I spent the next couple hours winding my way back and forth across the width of Manhattan Island and from 16th to 59th Street before descending into the Columbus Circle subway and retreating to my cave in the barren northlands of Inwood. It never ceases to amaze me at how big this city is. The diversity of humanity and ascention of buildings leave me over-stimmulated, turning in every direction and finding something new. I am always left either inspired or frustrated at the end of these walks and this one left me with both.
The most inspiring stop was at the Chelsea Hotel http://www.hotelchelsea.com/. I had walked past this building a number of times and had even harbored the vague desire to stay a night or two just to absorb a little ambience, but it's always been out of my price range. Old New Yorkers tell me that the two things that always used to be cheap in this city were hotel rooms and food. Now, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's incredible to think of all the great writers and musicians who lived in the Chelsea Hotel- Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious, etc. It's frigging ridiculous. I skirted the edges of Times Square and passed magnificent stage theaters, including the stage-to-screen adaptation of the Ziegfield Theatre. Despite the indignity of hosting a Keanu Reeves movie at the time, it's still a pretty cool place.
At the other end of the inspiration perspective, I walked up 6th Avenue and couldn't believe the number of high-end, apartment skyscrapers going up. Every block has at least two or three of these beheamoths with floor-to-ceiling windows that take up more square feet than my entire apartment. Who are these people, paying thousands of dollars a month in rent, or 7-figures to buy. I've never felt much envy for ostentatious displays of wealth, but Manhattan vividly illustrates the disparity between the haves and have-nots like no other. At least in L.A. they hide up in the Hollywood Hills.
When I crossed 42nd Street, the changes in the last year were huge. Almost the entire block between 6th and 7th Avenue has been bought up and levelled. Now, there's this tremendous view of Town Hall, but that'll be short-lived. One year and hundred stories later, Bryant Park won't be getting any sunlight. Most New Yorkers I know avoid Times Square like the plague. Any mention of going down there illicits that sucking, grit-teeth display of pain and sympathy. The density of oggling tourists and scammers gives the air that copper-scented tinge of danger. Every shouting match or near-fight that I've had in this city has come in, or near, Times Square. Some hustler inevitably mistakes me for a tourist and tries to fuck with me. My midwestern accent and loping gait must give off the scent of a sucker.
There's something invigorating about walking the streets, though. All that visual stimulation is like washing your entire body with Lava soap. It's abrasive, but it'll wake up parts of you that you'd forgotten were there. This loathsome city has lost more than a little of its romance and she's not shy about giving a good fisting, but somehow you still end up wanting to cuddle with her and join the club that had her and lived to tell the tale.
Yesterday, I had a doctor's appointment in Chelsea. Unfortunately, I wasn't gay or insured enough to be seen at this subsidized clinic so, after schlepping myself clear down there to be told I can't be helped, I needed a walk. So, I spent the next couple hours winding my way back and forth across the width of Manhattan Island and from 16th to 59th Street before descending into the Columbus Circle subway and retreating to my cave in the barren northlands of Inwood. It never ceases to amaze me at how big this city is. The diversity of humanity and ascention of buildings leave me over-stimmulated, turning in every direction and finding something new. I am always left either inspired or frustrated at the end of these walks and this one left me with both.
The most inspiring stop was at the Chelsea Hotel http://www.hotelchelsea.com/. I had walked past this building a number of times and had even harbored the vague desire to stay a night or two just to absorb a little ambience, but it's always been out of my price range. Old New Yorkers tell me that the two things that always used to be cheap in this city were hotel rooms and food. Now, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's incredible to think of all the great writers and musicians who lived in the Chelsea Hotel- Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious, etc. It's frigging ridiculous. I skirted the edges of Times Square and passed magnificent stage theaters, including the stage-to-screen adaptation of the Ziegfield Theatre. Despite the indignity of hosting a Keanu Reeves movie at the time, it's still a pretty cool place.
At the other end of the inspiration perspective, I walked up 6th Avenue and couldn't believe the number of high-end, apartment skyscrapers going up. Every block has at least two or three of these beheamoths with floor-to-ceiling windows that take up more square feet than my entire apartment. Who are these people, paying thousands of dollars a month in rent, or 7-figures to buy. I've never felt much envy for ostentatious displays of wealth, but Manhattan vividly illustrates the disparity between the haves and have-nots like no other. At least in L.A. they hide up in the Hollywood Hills.
When I crossed 42nd Street, the changes in the last year were huge. Almost the entire block between 6th and 7th Avenue has been bought up and levelled. Now, there's this tremendous view of Town Hall, but that'll be short-lived. One year and hundred stories later, Bryant Park won't be getting any sunlight. Most New Yorkers I know avoid Times Square like the plague. Any mention of going down there illicits that sucking, grit-teeth display of pain and sympathy. The density of oggling tourists and scammers gives the air that copper-scented tinge of danger. Every shouting match or near-fight that I've had in this city has come in, or near, Times Square. Some hustler inevitably mistakes me for a tourist and tries to fuck with me. My midwestern accent and loping gait must give off the scent of a sucker.
There's something invigorating about walking the streets, though. All that visual stimulation is like washing your entire body with Lava soap. It's abrasive, but it'll wake up parts of you that you'd forgotten were there. This loathsome city has lost more than a little of its romance and she's not shy about giving a good fisting, but somehow you still end up wanting to cuddle with her and join the club that had her and lived to tell the tale.
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