On Friday, Kat and I were in no mood to go home after work and spend another evening in the Sweltering Cave. Instead, we opted for a $10.75-per-ticket trip to our local movie theater and witness our last Star Wars movie in the theater - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. The first trilogy had provided one of the most-significant events of my life - far more than I want to admit considering the theatrical debacles called Episode I and II. The Phantom Menace had been such a disappointment, I couldn't bring myself to see Episode II in the theater (a wise choice, in retrospect). My decision to attend Episode III was akin to attending the funeral of an estranged family member. I hadn't been on good terms, but I felt compelled to pay my respects in deference to better times. Little did I know that I would pay for my decision with eye-watering, teeth-gritting pain.
It has been years since I've really enjoyed an outing at the movies. The culture of movie-going that I enjoyed in my youth is long-gone. Movies are no longer a 'Night Out', where people dressed up, enjoyed dinner at a restaurant, then enthusiastically, and quietly, enjoyed the movie. I grew up in the Golden Age of Pre-Pubescent Film where the stories catered to a young child's excitement and adventure, yet was rarely condescending. That would come later with the introduction of Robert Zemeckis and an influx of cross-marketing and recycling. Also, it's difficult to thing of a movie in New York as a fun, cheap night out - it is an expensive venture with high ticket prices and outrageously-priced, stale and oversized food. And don't even get me started on those refillable beverage containers that could easily perform double-duty as a soda container/hot tub.
Even so, I remain a purist and expect a high level of quality from a first-run theater. I was going to see the visual fest of my final Star Wars movie so it would have to be in a high-end theater -Loews Lincoln Square. It's the best-looking theater in the City, particularly if one of the Spectacle Films is playing in their IMAX theater. Ahhh... stadium seating. On this night, we chose one of their Digital Projection theaters. The quality of digital projection is never as nice as film, but we favored the advantage of seeing an Event film, 3 weeks after the opening, that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the back end of a taxi cab. We had chosen an early show so that we wouldn't be inundated with the usual throng of late-viewers of Spectacle Films who like to spend the movie being unimpressed and pronouncing their findings to the rest of the audience.
We chose an off-center pair of seats about mid-way back. I'm usually That Guy who has to sit in the geometric center of the theater, but age and my disillusion with the Ritual of the Movies has mellowed me. As we settled down with our keg of Coke and bushel of popcorn, Kat turned to me with an earnest look on her face.
"Are you all right," she asked.
"What?"
"I won't be able to enjoy the movie if you've got something going on over there."
"Like what," I asked with as much self-righteousness as I could muster.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"I'm fine."
Kat scanned the people around us, searching for that person who would start talking during the movie and set me off. "You're going to be good?"
"I said I'm fine." Jesus, you'd think that I was some sort of jerkweed who just snaps at the drop of a hat.
I knew what this was all about. When we went to see The Return of the King, some nimrod, directly behind us, began making snorts of disgust that just became louder and louder until I finally turned around and said (perhaps a bit loudly) "If I wanted the Asshole Commentary, I'd fucking wait and buy the DVD." Perhaps, I was a little more aggressive-sounding than I meant to be, but soft-and-sweet doesn't work very well in this town.
On this night, however, I was in a relaxed, benevolent mood. I had resolved to not analyze the wooden dialogue or George Lucas's need to have every character say exactly what they're doing AS we're watching them do it ("It looks like we're entering the atmosphere", "I'm going to try to shoot those off"). On this night, I was going to be that earnest, wide-eyed, 7-year-old again, sitting in a movie theater in Fairbanks, Alaska, watching this science fiction spectacle for the first time. The lights dimmed, the movie trailers washed over me as Kat and I ate a third of the popcorn before throwing in the towel and reclining into our seats. The movie began and I was There. I watched the opening scene and wrapped myself in that thrilling sense of space and speed that epitomizes a solid, George Lucas film. The first 25 minutes of the film were great.
Then, something landed in my eye.
For the first few minutes, I was convinced that another one of my Evil eyelashes had landed in my eye. I have hay fever and the Only thing that's kinda good about hay fever is the Huge, Long Eyelashes. When I'm not wearing glasses, I get actually get compliments on my eyelashes. But, when an aged, Beloved lash decides when it cannot hang on any longer, it falls... and hurts like a bitch when it lands in my eye. Then, the next 20 minutes are spent in the pursuit of Getting It Out. The moment that I felt that familiar pinch, I knew that the first step was to not Panic, even though the movie theater air conditioning was turned to full-blast and blowing in my face, drying my eyes and making me blink like a strobe light wherein each blink felt like somebody was tormenting my pupil with a sewing needle.
I reached for the saline solution I had stored in my backpack for contact emergencies. I was wearing glasses this night, but I always kept one handy. Kat eyed me nervously as she tried to divide her attention between the projected eye-candy and the writhing mass of Deckard seated beside her.
"I've got something in my eye," I whispered in her ear between needle-jabs.
"Can I get you something," she asked.
I waved off the offer. I had to Get Out. I leapt from my seat, jogged up the aisle and into the restroom. I splashed water in my eye. I cupped water in my hand and dunked my eye in it. I poured a half pint of saline solution into my eye. I leaned over the water-splattered, bathroom sink and desperately scanned in every corner and beneath the lids. Nothing.
I trudged back to the theater and stood in back. I alternated between squirting saline and watching a massive, video game of Wookies and clone troopers as they fought off a droid army made of Legos. I considered sitting in an aisle seat in the back and leaving Kat in peace, but she would soon start worrying about my disappearance. I returned to my seat, casually sipped from the swimming pool of soda and told Kat that I was "Fine" with the most relaxed tone my grit teeth could muster.
One would think that a second eye wasn't necessary to the enjoyment of a 2D film, but the wrongness of that statement would turn out to be one of the many, wise Truths I would discover that night, such as:
1) George Lucas's love scenes, despite popular opinion, do NOT get any better when viewed under torture. It just compounds the torture - a pit AND a pendulum, if you will.
2) Although I was channeling the child-like optimism of a 7-year-old from the 1970's, I could still say 'fuck' and 'shit' on a streaming loop and not fear the Hand of Parental Authority.
3) There are Many exciting, unique, and utterly ineffective ways to try to keep one's eye inert while staring at a flashy, movie screen.
4) Watching a movie through nagging pain gives the movie-going experience a hazy, dream-like quality as everything recedes into the background, making room for my Full Attention to the nagging pain.
The Star Wars Machine finally ground to a halt after stepping through a series of endings meant to say 'This story thread leads to this part in the first Star Wars movie. And this leads to this, and this leads to this...' I might have even indulged in a sentimental tear, had my eye not been already gushing like a fountain in the attempt to Purge the thing in my eye.
All the way home, all that night and all day Saturday was spent in the grips of Blink Pain. It wasn't until Saturday, I stood in a public restroom, that I finally saw the object of my torment - a little, black dot lodged in the colored part of my eye. I spent the day lying on a beach, lobsterizing my body and envisioning an emergency room visit and a pair of jagged tweezers, slowly descending into my eye. That night, I rushed to the shower and stood under the showerhead, spraying my eye... and remarkably, it came out.
So, what did I observed from this experience, aside from the asinine choices an uninsured man will take to remove a lodged object from his eye to avoid emergency room fees? Did I learn something about the consequences of revisiting old relatives? Was there something to be understood in the baffling series of Meetings taken by every Jedi, council member, or military alliance in the Star Wars Universe? Or the value of wearing a pair of sports goggles in a darkened, air conditioned theater? Or the value of eating a tasty meal and buying a small bag of Reese's Pieces BEFORE going to the movies? Maybe Kat learned that one can never really allow for every contingency when dealing with a twitchy, movie-Nazi boyfriend with long eyelashes and no protective eyewear.
Who can ever truly know?
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Thursday, June 09, 2005
while Waiting for Macy's
Fucking cats...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
two sun strokes to Go, please
On Sunday, I woke up sticky-hot against the bed sheets to a commotion beside me. Kat had flung the covers off the bed and was purring with excitement. The clouds had lifted in her world, and summer was here! She had been working on her winter depression since the end of the previous summer where the first sign of Fall began a long mope of anticipation of what was to come. Our trip to Thailand in November only served to heighten her loathing of New York winters. My listless attempts to put a positive spin on cooler temperatures and white, fluffy snow had only earned me slit-eyed looks and the faint sound of a hiss. The promise of near-90 degree temperatures had whipped her into a disturbing bout of pep - too early in the morning from such a slow riser as this.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
MoMA... with the cute mouse ears
Why do Americans suck so bad about contemporary art? I am making a sweeping generalization, but that's the nature of blogging so work with me here. I was an eager victim of the realistic=good mindset until I met Kat. She is a painter and, whenever you really fall in love with somebody you start doing a million little things you never thought that you'd do like shower everyday, wear a belt that matches your shoes, become a vegetarian, moderate your self-destructive behavior, and subject yourself to a whole world of social events you'd never considered in the past - like, oh say, contemporary art. I thumbed through Kat's collection of Taschen and Phaidon books and kept my opinions to myself because I loved my new girlfriend and I really liked the sex so I wasn't about to fuck anything up. Then, perhaps sensing my muted skepticism, she pulled a fast one on me. She took me on a tour of museums all over the Midwest. I followed her to exhibits at the Wexner Center, the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art, and Pittsburgh's bafflingly-cool collection of museums including my favorite, The Mattress Factory. Lo and behold, I slowly began to realize that art didn't fall off a cliff after Monet and Van Gogh. The boring squares of color that I'd scrutinized in a book of Rothko paintings had become shimmering contrasts of color as I stood in front of one and actually spent a couple minutes Looking at it instead of performing that moseying procession I had mastered over years. I learned that egg tempura-realism wasn't necessarily the epitome of painting and that artists like Tim Hawkinson, John Currin, Egon Schiele, Francis Bacon and Hieronymus Bosch could knock me on my ass without photo-realistic renditions.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
Friday, May 27, 2005
ahh, spring! time for Rail Rage
WARNING: Portions of this entry were obtained under extreme duress (rush hour on the 'A'). Comments heretofore written may not represent the author's feelings under other environmental conditions.
I hate cars, particularly in big cities. I loathe trolling block-upon-block, scanning for a parking space. I despise the high insurance rates. I abhor (c'mon thesaurus!) all the hours wasted in traffic jams where I've been reduced to the 8 millionth repeat of some pop song or the lay-thinking of nearly every talkshow host. And, I don't like to drive. This might be a High crime against the soul of Americana, not to mention the implications for familial betrayal. My brother is a huge, Ford man. He could spend all day/every day, driving around in his truck and he'd be in bliss (this boy was born to be a cop). In addition, he and my dad are performance motorcycle (a.k.a. Crotch Rocket) enthusiasts. While I download music videos and the occasional porn video, my brother streams vids of guys doing wheelies or peeling out for a quarter mile straight... and probably downloads the occasional porn video. My brother burns his motorcycle vids on a CD then rushes to my dad's house. With the focus of a Kennedy-assassination theorist, they examine the speedometer and odometer that the video has carefully included in daredevil performance. Then, he and my father debate the theoretically-credible limits of consumer-level crotch rockets as I strain to remember the last time I'd performed a proper oil change on my car.
I blame my dad for my un-American affliction. I do this because 1) it's fun and exceptionally easy to blame your parents and 2 ) he was an Army soldier that got the clan stationed in Germany for the bulk of my high school years. Sure, I got to see amazing works of art, exposed myself to the resonant rhythms of rich, ancient cultures and, as an adolescent perk, watched European women sunbathe naked. But what of my love of cars? What about being raised as a good enthusiast of chrome wheels and torque ratios? Huh? Huh?! Huh, motherfucker?!!! How could my father ruthlessly subject me to a world of easy, clean, public transportation when he knew that I would be returning to a country that lives and breathes cars? I mean, the whole frigging country is built to virtually require the ownership of a car (except for urban swatches of the Northeast). In Germany, if I wanted to meet a friend at the movies, I jumped on a train, bus or streetcar. I never learned that valuable sense of isolation that American kids in the suburbs felt or the burning shame of begging Mom for a ride or, later, the keys to the family car. When I moved to New York City, eagerly sold my car. After years of insurance payments, car repairs and the mind-numbing stream of endless hours along America's butt-ugly freeway system, I was ready to cut the cord. With that said, I wish I had a car. I don't want it to get around in the city. I want it to Escape. The crush of humanity is getting to me and I need Out. It's the beginning of summer and all of us New Yorkers are sick to death of one another. After huddling in our caves, our cave-like, work cubicles, and finally our hurling, subterranean, sardine cans, we strain at the first sign of warmth and sunlight. Nowhere does our derision for our fellow man issue forth with such a viscous burning as during rush 'hour'.
Rush 'hour' is an inherently hostile act. Nobody wants to do it. It isn't a picnic to do the morning commute, but we're all usually still a little too tired to make much of a stink about it. It's not like anybody's just burning up to get to work as Early as possible anyway. If you're on my train at 8:20 or later and you're heading anywhere below 59th Street, you know that you're probably not going to make to work by 9am anyway so you'd might as well stake out a seat and hit your snooze button until 59th Street.
Going Home, however, is when the need for Escape gains it's keen edge and the Commute becomes a physical imperative. Not only do you have to go where you're going, but you Have to be there Now. For all of you already living in the Unaffordable neighborhoods below 100th Street or the hip (and also unaffordable) neighborhoods just across the East River in Brooklyn and you would like to argue otherwise - go Fuck yourselves because you don't know what the Hell you are talking about (please review disclaimer above). This is Deathrace 2005 and Losing is only a missed subway train away. Human roadblocks choke the staircases in a passive-aggressive attempt to Foil everyone who really cares about getting home. The MTA has lazily, yet somehow purposefully, fucked up somewhere downtown again. Instead of getting the 'A' train that you so righteously deserve, you are dealt a steady stream of body blows in the form of 'B' and 'D' trains. Some undeserving, trashy smarm darts ahead as the arriving train has barely begun to regurgitate it's growling, SUV-babystroller-toting excuse for humanity. The smarm darts into a vacated seat even though you know that they'll be getting off two stops later where you will be out of position to snag it and you need that spot because it's gonna be another 45 minutes away from home and you're about ready to lose your shit and pummel the fuck out of that self-righteous, oblivious ass-monkey who Has to spread his legs That wide and take up 2 seats because his balls are Just That Damned Big!(again, please review disclaimer above)
I hate cars, particularly in big cities. I loathe trolling block-upon-block, scanning for a parking space. I despise the high insurance rates. I abhor (c'mon thesaurus!) all the hours wasted in traffic jams where I've been reduced to the 8 millionth repeat of some pop song or the lay-thinking of nearly every talkshow host. And, I don't like to drive. This might be a High crime against the soul of Americana, not to mention the implications for familial betrayal. My brother is a huge, Ford man. He could spend all day/every day, driving around in his truck and he'd be in bliss (this boy was born to be a cop). In addition, he and my dad are performance motorcycle (a.k.a. Crotch Rocket) enthusiasts. While I download music videos and the occasional porn video, my brother streams vids of guys doing wheelies or peeling out for a quarter mile straight... and probably downloads the occasional porn video. My brother burns his motorcycle vids on a CD then rushes to my dad's house. With the focus of a Kennedy-assassination theorist, they examine the speedometer and odometer that the video has carefully included in daredevil performance. Then, he and my father debate the theoretically-credible limits of consumer-level crotch rockets as I strain to remember the last time I'd performed a proper oil change on my car.
I blame my dad for my un-American affliction. I do this because 1) it's fun and exceptionally easy to blame your parents and 2 ) he was an Army soldier that got the clan stationed in Germany for the bulk of my high school years. Sure, I got to see amazing works of art, exposed myself to the resonant rhythms of rich, ancient cultures and, as an adolescent perk, watched European women sunbathe naked. But what of my love of cars? What about being raised as a good enthusiast of chrome wheels and torque ratios? Huh? Huh?! Huh, motherfucker?!!! How could my father ruthlessly subject me to a world of easy, clean, public transportation when he knew that I would be returning to a country that lives and breathes cars? I mean, the whole frigging country is built to virtually require the ownership of a car (except for urban swatches of the Northeast). In Germany, if I wanted to meet a friend at the movies, I jumped on a train, bus or streetcar. I never learned that valuable sense of isolation that American kids in the suburbs felt or the burning shame of begging Mom for a ride or, later, the keys to the family car. When I moved to New York City, eagerly sold my car. After years of insurance payments, car repairs and the mind-numbing stream of endless hours along America's butt-ugly freeway system, I was ready to cut the cord. With that said, I wish I had a car. I don't want it to get around in the city. I want it to Escape. The crush of humanity is getting to me and I need Out. It's the beginning of summer and all of us New Yorkers are sick to death of one another. After huddling in our caves, our cave-like, work cubicles, and finally our hurling, subterranean, sardine cans, we strain at the first sign of warmth and sunlight. Nowhere does our derision for our fellow man issue forth with such a viscous burning as during rush 'hour'.
Rush 'hour' is an inherently hostile act. Nobody wants to do it. It isn't a picnic to do the morning commute, but we're all usually still a little too tired to make much of a stink about it. It's not like anybody's just burning up to get to work as Early as possible anyway. If you're on my train at 8:20 or later and you're heading anywhere below 59th Street, you know that you're probably not going to make to work by 9am anyway so you'd might as well stake out a seat and hit your snooze button until 59th Street.
Going Home, however, is when the need for Escape gains it's keen edge and the Commute becomes a physical imperative. Not only do you have to go where you're going, but you Have to be there Now. For all of you already living in the Unaffordable neighborhoods below 100th Street or the hip (and also unaffordable) neighborhoods just across the East River in Brooklyn and you would like to argue otherwise - go Fuck yourselves because you don't know what the Hell you are talking about (please review disclaimer above). This is Deathrace 2005 and Losing is only a missed subway train away. Human roadblocks choke the staircases in a passive-aggressive attempt to Foil everyone who really cares about getting home. The MTA has lazily, yet somehow purposefully, fucked up somewhere downtown again. Instead of getting the 'A' train that you so righteously deserve, you are dealt a steady stream of body blows in the form of 'B' and 'D' trains. Some undeserving, trashy smarm darts ahead as the arriving train has barely begun to regurgitate it's growling, SUV-babystroller-toting excuse for humanity. The smarm darts into a vacated seat even though you know that they'll be getting off two stops later where you will be out of position to snag it and you need that spot because it's gonna be another 45 minutes away from home and you're about ready to lose your shit and pummel the fuck out of that self-righteous, oblivious ass-monkey who Has to spread his legs That wide and take up 2 seats because his balls are Just That Damned Big!(again, please review disclaimer above)
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I am so Totally over Her
I know. I suck. Logically, it goes against my most-fundamental beliefs as an artist. But there I am, doing it virtually every Monday. ***Big Breath Here*** I read the Top 10 List of Box Office performers from the weekend.
There! I said it. I finally admitted it. That's the first step towards recovery, you know. I'm practically cured. I don't need those numbers. I was able to kick smoking, movie collecting, and fast food. Surely I can... quit... if I wanted to...
In my defense - I don't, in any way, believe that these statistics reflect the quality of a particular film. I would never ascribe to the hideous belief of many Americans that a high-score at the box office means that a movie is any better or worse than any other. I do it because I am always waiting for Big Failure of the Enemy. When a crap-ass movie like XXX: State of the Union opens with a multi-million dollar campaign push, I'm just begging for it to fail. It's like watching NASCAR. You don't want the entire race to fail, but there's a part of you that can't wait for a really good wipeout.
This year has made for a very satisfying track of the box office. Ticket costs are up, advertisements in theaters are pissing people off, mainstream movies are flooding the multiplexes and revenue is DOWN. Even the obnoxious success of the Star Wars prequel has not succeeded in reviving the box office. And now, they're hoping that The Longest Yard and Madagasgar are going to save things over the Memorial Day weekend?! Oh yeah! This is gonna be good. This is the year that Hollywood goes down! I can't wait until -
...
I'm doing it again. I'm skidding off the road and into the realm of stupid. I have become one of those friends who keep saying, "I'm totally over her. God, it's such a relief to be free of her. Really! If she hadn't broke up with me, I'd have done it first. So what did you see her doing? Really? Well I don't care. Why the fuck should I care? I'm totally over her."
Bad breakups die hard and this one really has to die. Like, now.
There! I said it. I finally admitted it. That's the first step towards recovery, you know. I'm practically cured. I don't need those numbers. I was able to kick smoking, movie collecting, and fast food. Surely I can... quit... if I wanted to...
In my defense - I don't, in any way, believe that these statistics reflect the quality of a particular film. I would never ascribe to the hideous belief of many Americans that a high-score at the box office means that a movie is any better or worse than any other. I do it because I am always waiting for Big Failure of the Enemy. When a crap-ass movie like XXX: State of the Union opens with a multi-million dollar campaign push, I'm just begging for it to fail. It's like watching NASCAR. You don't want the entire race to fail, but there's a part of you that can't wait for a really good wipeout.
This year has made for a very satisfying track of the box office. Ticket costs are up, advertisements in theaters are pissing people off, mainstream movies are flooding the multiplexes and revenue is DOWN. Even the obnoxious success of the Star Wars prequel has not succeeded in reviving the box office. And now, they're hoping that The Longest Yard and Madagasgar are going to save things over the Memorial Day weekend?! Oh yeah! This is gonna be good. This is the year that Hollywood goes down! I can't wait until -
...
I'm doing it again. I'm skidding off the road and into the realm of stupid. I have become one of those friends who keep saying, "I'm totally over her. God, it's such a relief to be free of her. Really! If she hadn't broke up with me, I'd have done it first. So what did you see her doing? Really? Well I don't care. Why the fuck should I care? I'm totally over her."
Bad breakups die hard and this one really has to die. Like, now.
the Envy of a nomad
I watched Easy Riders Raging Bulls yesterday. It's a documentary vaguely based upon a book of the same title. I'd read the book 7 years ago and it was a watershed moment for me. It gave a context to the lives and careers of my favorite filmmakers. I'd never been able to reconcile how the same man who made The Conversation and Apocalypse Now could become the hired hand for such clichéd fare as Jack and The Rainmaker. With the exception of Martin Scorsese and Paul Schrader, all my heroes of American cinema had either died or apparently lost their minds. Although the book gets mired in all the fantastical gossip, it does an exceptional job of framing an era from the mid-1960's fall of old Hollywood through the rise of the Blockbuster in the late 1970's. The book is (shocker, here) far better than the film. The book was despised by Nicholson, Hopper and Spielberg as total fiction (which I'm sure is true for some of the tales). Yet, it's easy to dodge the truth when everything has to be gleaned from one or two steps away. When somebody casts such a wide net of dismissal at a book with a many corroborated truths, it's hard to know what's fiction and what might be hitting too close to home.
Still, the film is a good watch. John Milius's waves a cigar and tries to do his best emulation of General Patton. Richard Dreyfuss delivers the most entertaining recounts of Lucas and Spielberg's directorial style. There's a fleeting glance of Marcia Lucas in the editing room and a great moment where you can watch Cybill Shepherd negotiate a minefield of disclosure as she attempts to articulate her blossoming affair with Peter Bogdanovich while filming The Last Picture Show. The bonus material on the second DVD is, in many ways, more entertaining than the film. There's a great piece on George Lucas and how his lifetime of marketing meetings has resulted in prequels that contain far too many meetings. I loved the title of the Spielberg chapter - The Innocent Savant.
The material hit me very differently this time around. I used to idolize filmmakers of that era and felt betrayed when they seemingly gave up on their art. This time around, I realized what an awkward, privileged lot they were. Like The Ramones on the East Side of NY in the mid 1970's or Bill Gates buying up the first version of DOS for $50,000 at the beginning of the 1980's, these were people who found themselves standing in a giant blind spot of an industry and were smart enough to take advantage. That didn't make them bad people (well, maybe Gates). Their successes don't point to the inadeqacies of the rest of us. They are a fortunate few who happened to have their surfboards pointing in the right direction when a tsunami wave hit... and it didn't hurt that they knew how to surf.
Still, I find myself hopelessly in envy of the community in Hollywood of the late 60's/early 70's. They had found their community - their tribe, as my playwriting teacher called it. The surest path to success, my teacher argued, was to find people who responded to your experiences and fed your creativity. If you're Lucas, Spielberg and Milius standing in a beach house in Malibu, collaborating and competing to make the B-movies of your dreams, then you've found your tribe. If you're Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, sick of the Hollywood system you've known and ready to do something you want to see, like Easy Rider, then you've found it too. If you have a favorite bar, full of regulars that ask for your writings or can show you perspectives you'd never otherwise see, then you're probably drinking with your tribe.
This is my heroin. I am always trying to return to the euphoria of inspiration and self-discovery through the people around me. There haven't been many in my life and they've been spaced maddeningly-far apart, but I clutch to those memories with white knuckles. People whose faces lit at my appearance, then inspired, engaged and challenged me to give more than I imagined possible. These moments were not just about me, however. We all felt that we were working on something larger than ourselves. My last year of film school as 18 people worked on everyone else's films, sleeping in editing rooms, and never offering a 'no' - always a 'yes, and...'. A year as barfly to a Midwestern college bar filled with writers, actors, directors and two fantastic pinball machines. Two weeks at a screenwriting workshop in Croatia where flutists and violinists of a music school drank, sang and inspired a motley crew of aspiring filmmakers.
Communities can never last, though. By their very nature, they inspire people to action, then consequences and aftermath. Some ascend, others abandon or die. America thrives on the notion of individuality and I love that, but often it breeds a go-it-alone attitude. Portraits of artists often suggest that they exist in some Vacuum of Genius where they alone create. Time and again, I re-learn that the Piss-and-Shitters that I've placed on pedestals are the same sort of inconsistent, insecure flawed people as I.
Now, I just need to find My tribe of flawed people.
Still, the film is a good watch. John Milius's waves a cigar and tries to do his best emulation of General Patton. Richard Dreyfuss delivers the most entertaining recounts of Lucas and Spielberg's directorial style. There's a fleeting glance of Marcia Lucas in the editing room and a great moment where you can watch Cybill Shepherd negotiate a minefield of disclosure as she attempts to articulate her blossoming affair with Peter Bogdanovich while filming The Last Picture Show. The bonus material on the second DVD is, in many ways, more entertaining than the film. There's a great piece on George Lucas and how his lifetime of marketing meetings has resulted in prequels that contain far too many meetings. I loved the title of the Spielberg chapter - The Innocent Savant.
The material hit me very differently this time around. I used to idolize filmmakers of that era and felt betrayed when they seemingly gave up on their art. This time around, I realized what an awkward, privileged lot they were. Like The Ramones on the East Side of NY in the mid 1970's or Bill Gates buying up the first version of DOS for $50,000 at the beginning of the 1980's, these were people who found themselves standing in a giant blind spot of an industry and were smart enough to take advantage. That didn't make them bad people (well, maybe Gates). Their successes don't point to the inadeqacies of the rest of us. They are a fortunate few who happened to have their surfboards pointing in the right direction when a tsunami wave hit... and it didn't hurt that they knew how to surf.
Still, I find myself hopelessly in envy of the community in Hollywood of the late 60's/early 70's. They had found their community - their tribe, as my playwriting teacher called it. The surest path to success, my teacher argued, was to find people who responded to your experiences and fed your creativity. If you're Lucas, Spielberg and Milius standing in a beach house in Malibu, collaborating and competing to make the B-movies of your dreams, then you've found your tribe. If you're Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, sick of the Hollywood system you've known and ready to do something you want to see, like Easy Rider, then you've found it too. If you have a favorite bar, full of regulars that ask for your writings or can show you perspectives you'd never otherwise see, then you're probably drinking with your tribe.
This is my heroin. I am always trying to return to the euphoria of inspiration and self-discovery through the people around me. There haven't been many in my life and they've been spaced maddeningly-far apart, but I clutch to those memories with white knuckles. People whose faces lit at my appearance, then inspired, engaged and challenged me to give more than I imagined possible. These moments were not just about me, however. We all felt that we were working on something larger than ourselves. My last year of film school as 18 people worked on everyone else's films, sleeping in editing rooms, and never offering a 'no' - always a 'yes, and...'. A year as barfly to a Midwestern college bar filled with writers, actors, directors and two fantastic pinball machines. Two weeks at a screenwriting workshop in Croatia where flutists and violinists of a music school drank, sang and inspired a motley crew of aspiring filmmakers.
Communities can never last, though. By their very nature, they inspire people to action, then consequences and aftermath. Some ascend, others abandon or die. America thrives on the notion of individuality and I love that, but often it breeds a go-it-alone attitude. Portraits of artists often suggest that they exist in some Vacuum of Genius where they alone create. Time and again, I re-learn that the Piss-and-Shitters that I've placed on pedestals are the same sort of inconsistent, insecure flawed people as I.
Now, I just need to find My tribe of flawed people.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Hold the Fuckin' Phone - It's Kasabian Time!
Sometimes, it's obvious. A band lays into their opening song and you can see 'IT' - stage presence, hooks and a tightness that only happens when the beat, the bass, the guitar and the voice are all On. The. Beat. If I'm still smiling by the third song, I know that I've found The Real Deal. They are a rare species but if you're really listening and engaged, you can hear it. Modest Mouse have it. The Kills have it. The Libertines had it. The Pixies have it. Uncle Tupelo had it. There are plenty of kick-ass American bands but it seems like the British bands have seemed especially-tight. They have a coiled energy that drives up and through the music. It makes your insides want to growl a primal response. I've been on a really hot streak with Brit bands and last night, I tried a little Kasabian action. I hadn't seen Kasabian or even remembered hearing their stuff on the KEXP surfing I'd enjoyed in my employed days, but I was getting good word-of-mouth -the same kind that'd pointed to me to The Libertines and The Kills. So, when I saw that they were playing at my Beloved Bowery Ballroom, I had to go. The evening featured two bands that were missing at least 1 or more of the 'IT' attributes and one band that deserved the title of The Real Deal.
Kat and I arrived at 8pm and met Steve - our drinking buddy from the infamous Whadoosay fiasco of Webster Hall. All three of us cringed at the pair of cartoon-shaped buses that loomed in front of the Bowery Ballroom. It looked like a giant colostomy bag for any Rock N' Roll Ego that couldn't fit into the hall this night. We flashed our I.D.'s, strapped on our neon-pink, drinking tags then shuffled down the stairs and into the bar. Kat and Steve were hot to secure a table in the Bowery's balcony. This generally goes against my fundamental beliefs in live music. The whole point is the presence of a band. Although Kat is normally with me on this philosophy, she had made the baffling decision to wear heels. Steve, as usual, was eager to remain outside any potential Sphere of Action... so, I relented. We planted ourselves in the balcony, just behind the velvet rope - the best part of the balcony for music execs.
The first band up was an impossibly-thin cluster of shaggy boys called The Rock N' Roll Soldiers. They're a throwback to the long-haired, anorexic groups of the 1970's that always look like they wanted to make everybody rawk yet tragically less-inspiring in their music. The bass player did his best tree impersonation from the right-hand corner of the stage while the lead singer and his RNR Soldier-in-arms guitarist worked a fashion show of various rock n' roll poses of the past. The guitarist chose a tai chi approach, slowly arching his back to accent his high-E-bending prowess or fanning his guitar next in sweeping arcs or rockdom. The lead singer decided upon a bolder, Drunken Master style as he kicked and spun his way against the microphone stand, his fellow guitarist and the drum kit. Every 3 minutes, a roadie would dash onstage to re-set the drum-mics then accept the appreciable nod from the offending rocker. A few songs had the singer crumbling to his knees as the Spirit of Rock N' Roll took hold. I have never seen a lead singer try so hard to rock and audience like this poor man did on this evening. Stage Presence? Check. Hooks? Did I mention that he really WANTED to rock out? Tightness? ... let's just move on then, shall we?
Mad Action had second dibs. I can't put my finger on why I didn't particularly care one way or another about whether I heard one song or another. They had a great Smashing Pumpkin style of crunchy guitar riffs, and they sounded tight, but every song sounded much like another. This is a band that has all the right elements, but they haven't quite 'found themselves' yet. Either that, or they just don't have what it takes to push them to the next level. The hooks are what make a band different from anybody else and what makes one song sound distinctively different from another. For example, let's take Aerosmith. Actually, you can have the modern version of Aerosmith as far as I am concerned, so let's stuck to the era that they were good. "Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion" - three fantastic songs from the same album by the same band. All three are VERY Aerosmith in their sound, but the opening riffs, the tone and the style are distinctly different. Mad Action's set? Well, by the third song, I knew that it was time for me to take a pee break and grab another beer. Stage Presence? I remember big hair and wide-legged stances... and I think they played music. Hooks? I like to drink Stella Artois Tightness? Check.
At the end of the last song from Mad Action, a 30-something woman from a neighboring table leapt from her seat, tore a Kasabian poster off the wall, then rushed to a tall, gangly fellow, standing at the back of the balcony. Steve leaned over to me and told me that gangly was one of the leads from Kasabian. The flush woman returned with her signed poster and, seeing that I had witnessed her rock-fan coup, leaned over to me and told me that it was her son who was a big Kasabian fan but couldn't get into the show because he was only 14. I quickly learned that she and her husband were from New Jersey, went to loads of concerts, especially Maxwell's in New Jersey, and were proficient in Indie-Music Speak. I can hold my own in music talks, but I don't have the singular focus to get into all the niggling details of obscure indie-band politics. Steve, however, was born for such work. Soon, he and the woman had bonded over concert war stories and an in-depth critique of New Order's hideous new album cover. The husband and wife were really cool and just the sort of people I always imagined running into at all these gigs, yet never found until now.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the Kasabian hit the stage. They have quite a lighting scheme set up for their show, a strange sight in a venue as intimate as the Bowery Ballroom. The Snow Patrol tried to set up a fancy set of lights behind themselves onstage and ended up blinding the whole audience in the process. On this night, the swirling and dancing spots were well-used. The lead singer, Tom Meighan, bounced around onstage and really laid into the songs. Sergio Pizzorno, the lead guitarist, was comfortable and energetic - the perfect contrast to Tom. In true Brit rock style, they were tight as a steel drum, ripping through their one-album catalog in rapid succession. They come off as a tougher version of Oasis when they're playing but I have never heard so many thank yous from a band since The Snow Patrol breezed through a few months ago. It's always nice to see a band that still acts a little humble even when they've gotta know that they rock. And the audience... this was NOT a typical Bowery audience on this night - it was mostly Fish N' Chips. Brit audiences are ten-times better than the standard NYC crowd. I went to a Kills concert a year ago and was one of only 3 people bouncing to the music. On this night, nearly the whole floor-level crowd was into it. That always makes for a better performance. By the end of the first song, I knew that I wasn't getting another beer. By the end of their encore climax "Club Foot", I knew - they were The Real Deal. Stage Presence? Great lighting, humble band, high energy... check. Hooks? Oh, yeah. Check. Tightness? In two weeks, you'd have a diamond.
Go see them.
P.S. As a follow-up note, I've been checking out their website and I've noticed that there's a little discussion going on as to whether there are pre-recorded backup vocals for 1 or two of their songs. I didn't notice anything at the show, but I wasn't front-and-center, either. It'd be disappointing to find out that it's true, but I have to admit that they do some pretty complicated electronics-based stuff on their tracks so they've probably got to run a little filler during the set. Tom and Serge were really tearing through their songs, though, so I can't imagine that there's anything going on that doesn't have to go on to re-create the studio album. A bit of a blemish, but they're definitely worth seeing.
Kat and I arrived at 8pm and met Steve - our drinking buddy from the infamous Whadoosay fiasco of Webster Hall. All three of us cringed at the pair of cartoon-shaped buses that loomed in front of the Bowery Ballroom. It looked like a giant colostomy bag for any Rock N' Roll Ego that couldn't fit into the hall this night. We flashed our I.D.'s, strapped on our neon-pink, drinking tags then shuffled down the stairs and into the bar. Kat and Steve were hot to secure a table in the Bowery's balcony. This generally goes against my fundamental beliefs in live music. The whole point is the presence of a band. Although Kat is normally with me on this philosophy, she had made the baffling decision to wear heels. Steve, as usual, was eager to remain outside any potential Sphere of Action... so, I relented. We planted ourselves in the balcony, just behind the velvet rope - the best part of the balcony for music execs.
The first band up was an impossibly-thin cluster of shaggy boys called The Rock N' Roll Soldiers. They're a throwback to the long-haired, anorexic groups of the 1970's that always look like they wanted to make everybody rawk yet tragically less-inspiring in their music. The bass player did his best tree impersonation from the right-hand corner of the stage while the lead singer and his RNR Soldier-in-arms guitarist worked a fashion show of various rock n' roll poses of the past. The guitarist chose a tai chi approach, slowly arching his back to accent his high-E-bending prowess or fanning his guitar next in sweeping arcs or rockdom. The lead singer decided upon a bolder, Drunken Master style as he kicked and spun his way against the microphone stand, his fellow guitarist and the drum kit. Every 3 minutes, a roadie would dash onstage to re-set the drum-mics then accept the appreciable nod from the offending rocker. A few songs had the singer crumbling to his knees as the Spirit of Rock N' Roll took hold. I have never seen a lead singer try so hard to rock and audience like this poor man did on this evening. Stage Presence? Check. Hooks? Did I mention that he really WANTED to rock out? Tightness? ... let's just move on then, shall we?
Mad Action had second dibs. I can't put my finger on why I didn't particularly care one way or another about whether I heard one song or another. They had a great Smashing Pumpkin style of crunchy guitar riffs, and they sounded tight, but every song sounded much like another. This is a band that has all the right elements, but they haven't quite 'found themselves' yet. Either that, or they just don't have what it takes to push them to the next level. The hooks are what make a band different from anybody else and what makes one song sound distinctively different from another. For example, let's take Aerosmith. Actually, you can have the modern version of Aerosmith as far as I am concerned, so let's stuck to the era that they were good. "Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion" - three fantastic songs from the same album by the same band. All three are VERY Aerosmith in their sound, but the opening riffs, the tone and the style are distinctly different. Mad Action's set? Well, by the third song, I knew that it was time for me to take a pee break and grab another beer. Stage Presence? I remember big hair and wide-legged stances... and I think they played music. Hooks? I like to drink Stella Artois Tightness? Check.
At the end of the last song from Mad Action, a 30-something woman from a neighboring table leapt from her seat, tore a Kasabian poster off the wall, then rushed to a tall, gangly fellow, standing at the back of the balcony. Steve leaned over to me and told me that gangly was one of the leads from Kasabian. The flush woman returned with her signed poster and, seeing that I had witnessed her rock-fan coup, leaned over to me and told me that it was her son who was a big Kasabian fan but couldn't get into the show because he was only 14. I quickly learned that she and her husband were from New Jersey, went to loads of concerts, especially Maxwell's in New Jersey, and were proficient in Indie-Music Speak. I can hold my own in music talks, but I don't have the singular focus to get into all the niggling details of obscure indie-band politics. Steve, however, was born for such work. Soon, he and the woman had bonded over concert war stories and an in-depth critique of New Order's hideous new album cover. The husband and wife were really cool and just the sort of people I always imagined running into at all these gigs, yet never found until now.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the Kasabian hit the stage. They have quite a lighting scheme set up for their show, a strange sight in a venue as intimate as the Bowery Ballroom. The Snow Patrol tried to set up a fancy set of lights behind themselves onstage and ended up blinding the whole audience in the process. On this night, the swirling and dancing spots were well-used. The lead singer, Tom Meighan, bounced around onstage and really laid into the songs. Sergio Pizzorno, the lead guitarist, was comfortable and energetic - the perfect contrast to Tom. In true Brit rock style, they were tight as a steel drum, ripping through their one-album catalog in rapid succession. They come off as a tougher version of Oasis when they're playing but I have never heard so many thank yous from a band since The Snow Patrol breezed through a few months ago. It's always nice to see a band that still acts a little humble even when they've gotta know that they rock. And the audience... this was NOT a typical Bowery audience on this night - it was mostly Fish N' Chips. Brit audiences are ten-times better than the standard NYC crowd. I went to a Kills concert a year ago and was one of only 3 people bouncing to the music. On this night, nearly the whole floor-level crowd was into it. That always makes for a better performance. By the end of the first song, I knew that I wasn't getting another beer. By the end of their encore climax "Club Foot", I knew - they were The Real Deal. Stage Presence? Great lighting, humble band, high energy... check. Hooks? Oh, yeah. Check. Tightness? In two weeks, you'd have a diamond.
Go see them.
P.S. As a follow-up note, I've been checking out their website and I've noticed that there's a little discussion going on as to whether there are pre-recorded backup vocals for 1 or two of their songs. I didn't notice anything at the show, but I wasn't front-and-center, either. It'd be disappointing to find out that it's true, but I have to admit that they do some pretty complicated electronics-based stuff on their tracks so they've probably got to run a little filler during the set. Tom and Serge were really tearing through their songs, though, so I can't imagine that there's anything going on that doesn't have to go on to re-create the studio album. A bit of a blemish, but they're definitely worth seeing.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Dusting off a few words
Reading is tailor-made for the Manhattan lifestyle. I spend at least an hour and a half on the subway every day. Over the years, I’ve developed two ways to fill that time hole - poetry and reading. The last few years have found me reading at pace unlike any I've enjoyed. I am so voracious for reading material, I'm actually going back to my bookshelf and reading all those books I was supposed to have read in college. A couple weeks ago, I finished the third Rabbit book by John Updike - Rabbit is Rich. I always reach a point when I’m reading Updike, 50 pages or so, when I become convinced that I am going to be bored to death and should just stop reading. By the end, though, I’m begging for more. Updike has a completely unassuming way of writing. His text is so non-stylized, it feels bland, at first. But it’s So Fucking True. His gaze settles upon details with such a deadly accuracy, it’s unnerving. Rabbit is frustratingly non-heroic, even ineffectual, but when he comes through you want to throw a party for him. He reminds me way to much of myself (bastard).
Early last week, I finally sat my ass down and read a couple Robert Louis Stevenson short stories - Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Merry Men. Although Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has become a fixture in western vocabulary and has been emulated in numerous pieces of fiction, including the fantastic Fight Club, I still found myself pulled through the narrative. It reminds me of Dracula and Frankenstein, where a supernatural concept is used as a construct to examine the primal instincts of man. Stevenson keeps the action and discoveries so in-the-moment, it’s easy to forget that you already know the outcome.
The Merry Men started as a bored follow-up. I was stuck on the subway after finishing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and read it because it was in the only book I was holding and I was still stuck at the Canal Street Station on the way home from a TriBeCa volunteer gig. Holy shit, man. The Merry Men kicks ass. I wrote a stage adaptation of Stevenson's Kidnapped back when I was in college. I discovered that Stevenson is a fantastic writer and has some of the most powerful imagery I've ever known in a writer. When one tries to adapt the story to a visual medium, however, it becomes frustratingly-apparent that his images are not only deceptively complex, they would cost a fortune to render onstage or onscreen. There is a particularly fantastic moment towards the end of The Merry Men where the protagonist stands at a seaside precipice and witnesses the strobing instant of impact as a sailing ship is driven against the rocks by a seething tempest. Damn... good stuff.
Early this week, I pulled out a Kurt Vonnegut novel I’d bought 8 years ago for 50¢ and never bothered to read. It’s called Bluebeard and if I had read it within the first 3 years of purchase, I would have liked it but easily forgotten it. Living with a painter for the last 5 years, however, has granted me a little perspective on the Abstract Expressionist movement of the mid-20th Century, not to mention the personal crises I’m undergoing with my craft. Vonnegut is one of those novelists that I’ve never actively sought out, but never fails to surprise me. Cat’s Eye was a serious mind-fuck for me the first time I read it and was, in fact, the impetus for my Bluebeard purchase. It’s strange - somehow it feels like I was waiting to grow up a little before I allowed myself to read Bluebeard… and I didn’t know what the hell it was about until I read it.
Right now, I’m half way through Dashiell Hammett’s The Glass Key. I’ve always been a sucker for hardboiled detective novels. I’ve read The Thin Man and number of Raymond Chandler books. I was initially piqued by this genre via my long, love affair with film noir classics like Detour, The Maltese Falcon, Kiss Me Deadly, and The Killers. Of course, I subsequently found the books to be far more fun. In fact, I used to keep a collection of quotations from these books. I’m pulling my quote pages out right now and I’m enjoying quite a few of them, including:
“Lead is his meat.”
“Grab a cloud.”
“Dangle, sister.”
“Go climb your thumb.”
(and my all-time favorite) “This ain’t my idea of a spot for a lead party. Drift!”
I’ve vowed to finish Updike’s Rabbit series, read Miller’s Tropic of Cancer/Tropic of Capricorn, climb the mountain of Joyce’s Ulysses, then try my hand at contemporary fiction. They’re still writing these days, right (joking – I’m joking!)? I’m anxious to try out some Irvine Welsh (The Beach, maybe) and Naomi Klein’s No Logo (not a fiction book, but hey…).
If anybody has any off-the-wall recommendations, I’m all ears.
Monday, May 02, 2005
The Bermuda Triangle of Manhattan (thru May 1st)
I can't remember names for-shit. I recognize faces. I can usually remember where/when/how I met them, but not the name. I also have a terrible habit of swapping first and last names when I’m talking about art,sports, film or music with people. I’ll keep saying Reggie Jackson when I’m meaning Reggie White or, out loud I will be in the midst of a baffling (to others) diatribe about Buddy Guy while I can clearly see that I'm pontificating about Buddy Holly... in my mind’s eye. The thing that really pisses me off about my memory, however, is my habit of repeating stupid mistakes that I’ve already learned the hard way. Let’s take, for example, ohhhh I don’t know… how about the film industry? After receiving my film degree at Undergrad USA, I moved to Los Angeles with screenplays under my arm, a wealth of film knowledge in my brain and a dream in my heart that I'd be the next Martin Scorsese, David Lynch or (at least) Steven Spielberg. For the next 2½ years, I learned what sort of culturally-rich Synergy bubbles forth when you combine drug-heightened egos, millions of dollars of dispensable wealth and the façade that Studio Executives are conducting ‘business’. The subsequent depression induced by this lesson required a year of rural seclusion (involving far too much alcohol and pinball), $25,000 of grad school (shiny new degree, same result), years of girlfriend therapy and a move to New York City before I could feel a little better about human nature. So, now I’m 8 years removed from my South Cali Exodus... which is just about long enough for my selective memory to kick in. Having forgotten how much I loathe the big-studio industry, I obliviously sauntered down the darkened alley of the TriBeCa Film Festival and signed up as a volunteer.
It must have seemed a good idea at the time. Perhaps I thought that I’d meet a few film lovers like myself (always in my quest for community), see some artsy films that were too edgy or foreign to find distribution, and, maybe, slip into a cool, festival party with an open bar. The TriBeCa Film Festival started in 2002 and has quickly become a plausible mid-Spring excuse for distribution reps to visit New York in between their vacations to Park City, Colorado (Sundance) and Cannes, France. My introductory meeting for the eager volunteers involved a cute, frazzled coordinator who read a hand-out to us which threatened instant expulsion from The Cool Club if we were to shove our scripts in any celebrity’s face or stalk anybody. A week later, I received a re-worded Riot Act in a tiny hotel ‘suite’ (labeled VOLUNTEER PLANET in a typical display of hyperbole), which I had to sign. In addition to granting the staff to flog me and remove my badge for any violation of said Act, I also handed away all my rights to talk about any part of my life that might bear witness to the habits of Robert DeNiro/Corporate Sponsors/the Business while exercising the Privilege of volunteering at this Ostentatious Display of Fame. Of course, I had ZERO chance of learning anything juicy about anything while breaking down sponsor ads and standing outside shindigs with a cameraman's bag, but it must have been comforting to know that They could act the fool in front of the help and not worry that it'd come back to bite them.
Already, I could feel the familiar, unsavory taste in my mouth. I was handed my ‘uniform’- a black T-shirt with a shoe store advertisement larger than the festival logo. I also received a super-cheapie “backpack” that I could fill with Lower Manhattan shopping ads, LUNA Nutrition Bars for Women (only 1, please) and Sucralose-flavored, sugar-free Altoids®. I’m not saying that I was expecting a TriBeCa Film Festival Gucci bag or a bottle of Absolut, but considering the fact that 2,000 volunteers were putting thousands of man hours into a festival that generated $65,000,000 for Lower Manhattan last year (according to Access Hollywood), I’d think that they could offer a better deal than a free glass of wine at a restaurant so expensive, I couldn't afford a side salad.
For those of you who don't know Manhattan, TriBeCa stands for 'Triangle Below Canal" Street. At one time, it might have vaguely resembled a triangle, but real estate salesman have slowly expanded the neighborhood boundaries until now it's more of an inverted trapezoid. Roughly speaking, TriBeCa's borders are: North - Canal Street, East - Church Street (flexible), West - West End Highway and South - Vesey St (WTC area). It was warehouse district until fairly recently. TriBeCa is now a cloistered community of aged celebrities, galleries and middle-aged men in black leather jackets. There’s still a bit of old-city feel stuck between the cracks of the cobblestone streets and it's nice to walk down streets called 'Debrosses' instead of 'East 57th'. As I sat in one of the volunteer offices, I could still smell a faint odor of oiled machinery and textiles. I find myself getting really sad and nostalgic when I spend too much time in these spaces. It feels like there's some residue from all the life and kinetic energy that filled those spaces and now it's just bouncing against the drywall and computers that occupy them now.
I don’t want to linger too much on my experiences at the festival. My experiences were, for the most part, dull and far less interesting than any other kind of volunteering I would have found in the City. Of course, not everyone sucked. There were a number of really cool people who’d done short films and New York City-based films. They are, easily, the most important contributors to the festival, though they were considered to be along the periphery of the festival's focus. The only real community I got to know lived amongst the volunteers and staff. The bond was mostly of the sort you’d find in a hostage situation or amongst those who just love to talk about Who they Saw. I’d also forgotten that people who work events rarely get to enjoy them. I didn’t get to see a single movie. I did, however, meet 3 wonderful people at the festival, got into my open-bar party and met enough jackasses to provide me another 8-year reminder of why I despise the Hollywood Scene. At one point, I was witness to a red-carpet premiere that underscored what an Ostentatious Display of Nothing the whole machine really is. I have never been much for celebrity and the few people I’ve wanted to meet in my life have been under whelming experiences. One thing I have retained since my L.A. days is that if you want to kill your idols, just meet them. Trust me, they’re people – eating, sleeping and shitting like the rest of us.
Now, if I can just retain the other lessons...
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Doing the Wadoosay
SATURDAY
My girlfriend, Kat, were badly needing a night out - it'd been too long since we'd seen a good band, hung out at a bar and engaged in a really good bout of intellectual cattiness. On this night, we had a date with a gay friend of ours, Steve. I'd met Steve at a non-profit job I got when I first moved to the City. He and I discovered that we shared a mutual-obsession with indie rock music and basically kept each other's spirits up by endlessly talking about new bands that we'd 'discover'. On this night, Steve was celebrating his 35th birthday and in a fit of Midwestern generosity, had treated Kat and me to a night at the Bowery Ballroom where we'd toast to his birthday and see The Fiery Furnaces. We were flattered, greedy and immediately leapt at the offer. Even when the gig was transferred to the Evil Concert Venue of New York City (also known as Webster Hall), we were eager to enjoy a debauched evening of music and drinking-enablement. We were so psyched for a night out, we even succumbed to a 1 ½ hour subway commute to Brooklyn (Steve's home turf) to help him feel at-home in his favorite, local haunt.
I'd been trying to be good about my drinking. Fitness had become my new obsession and I was determined to make myself presentable for a summertime beach. Of course, there had been one or two lapses including one night last week that involved a mishap with too many extra-dry martini, but overall I'd found been successful and I was focused on staying that way. Steve was not laboring behind my self-deluding rules. It took exactly one round for his agenda to become my agenda and soon I was pounding back pints of Stella at Brooklyn prices (50% off). These were the salad days (hours) of my weekend. I remember them fondly- I was so much younger then. I recall it as if it had happened only a few days ago. We laughed, we raged and in true Zelig-like fashion I found my inner-swish. Kat politely sipped her beer, lounged into the faux-leather lounger, and enjoyed display of two, self-involved music snobs in their mid 30's. Soon, we were hip deep in Joy Division, New York Dolls and Iggy Pop references.
As time raged on beneath our drama-filled banter, Kat grew restless. The last hour ran about like this:
KAT: "Wow. I didn't know that Iggy Pop was that disgusting or what a careering bitch Patti Smith was, but weren't we going to a concert or something?"
STEVE: "What time is it now?"
DECKARD: "Do you want another?"
STEVE: "Ooo! Ooo! Are they playing The Cure? Whatever happened to good Goth music?"
KAT:"Weren't we going to a concert or something?"
DECKARD: "We have plenty of time. Do you want another pint?"
STEVE: "It's my turn- what are you drinking?"
Finally, Kat managed to focus us into the 'now' long enough to herd us into the street... sort of. Steve was spun into a feeding frenzy of Indie music euphoria and the birthday boy had forbade us from leaving Brooklyn until we had listening to the MOST FanTAStic Song In The EnTIRE World by The Kaiser Chiefs. Six cigarettes, four blocks to Steve's apartment, 3 pee-breaks, a long listening, and 4 more bocks to the subway later, we regained our course and headed into Manhattan.
Webster Hall sucks ass. The last time I'd visited this club was when I tried to watch Sonic Youth. This place is designed like the mines of Moria with doors and stairwells that move from one performance/bar/club space to another. All the spaces are pretty dumpy but hell, I can do dumpy if there's a cool staff, cheap drinks, etc. The Sonic Youth gig was over-booked to the point where the back of the theater felt like standing in the front row at a U2 concert. The bouncers were complete ass-clowns who had certainly trained at the Sopranos School of Fuck-You Bouncing. The Bowery Ballroom, my favorite venue in Manhattan must have signed some boneheaded deal a year ago with Webster Hall so that bigger bands could play in a larger venue. At this point, I simply cannot believe that the same people could be running my beloved Bowery Ballroom and the Frankenstein monster of concert venues called Webster Hall.
Steve went to will call to pick up his tickets and that's when we realized that the concert had started a full 2 hours earlier than any other concert in Manhattan. We rushed upstairs to the only remaining view in the hall. We were just in time for the last 2 songs of the encore, a "thank you for coming to such an early show", then the quick exit of The Fiery Furnaces, leaving us enjoy a 'what the fuck' moment. Dejected and even without the time to order another beer, we chain-gang shuffled our way to the bottlenecked stairwell and down into the lobby. Kat and Steve rushed downstairs to the restroom while I stood guard beside a trashcan and tried to spot any hint of a T-shirt salesman.
What happened next was a cluster-fuck at the hands of the emotionally-challenged. A squat, dour blond barked at me that it was time to leave. My hesitation prompted second, squat-assistant to join in and reiterate, for my convenience. A bouncer, wielding a metal barricade, trudged through the now-vacant lobby and offered his two bits of derisiveness. I turned to the blond goblin and tried to explain that I was waiting for my friends to get back from the restroom and that I was standing out of the way. Not satisfied with my lack of cowed behavior, both women moved into my personal space. Fed up with trying to hold my ground behind a garbage can, I retreated to the far corner of the lobby and barked that they didn't have to act like such assholes about it. Well, that tore it. What followed was a staccato waterfall of hoots and chest-beating from the barricade-toting bouncer who dropped his gate and scrambled after me, all the while screeching "What did you say?!". Again and again the words looped over and over as if I had any chance of getting a word in edgewise until it began to morph into a rambling conjunction of "Wadoosay?!". The call had been sent out... Wadoosay... wadoosay, in the deep. Bouncers clambered from every stairwell and doorway.Fool that I was, I had moved from my vantage behind the garbage and had allowed myself to be cornered with no Fellowship and not even a good buzz to numb the imminent flurry of self-righteous blows. Remarkably, I was able to able to maintain some semblance of composure. I tried to slow things down- bring down the energy level another notch. Speak slower, so every would understand my position. I was just. waiting. for. my. friends. who. are. in. the. restroom. I was certain that I could feel, in the heels of my feet, the distant rumble of a Balrog.
The bouncer was feverish from the success of his wadoosay chant and was ready to go in for the kill. Unfortunately, he overextended his repertoire when he tried to switch to put-down mode. "You wanna see an asshole," he demanded. This momentarily threw me off. I had expected to be lifted from the carpet and trown clear of the front doors like you see in Three Stooges or Marx Brothers films. A question? Was he serious? What sort of an answer should I offer? From the flinty twitch in his eye, I could tell that I was taking too long to answer. The zinger - he had to land the zinger. "Turn around and look in that mirror! You'll see an asshole, then!"
'There is a mirror behind me,' I asked myself. I suppressed the impulse to turn and see for I feared that the bouncer's sense of humor would cry out for more and he would take the opportunity to try out a physical joke involving my underwear. The bouncer army must have thought his joke to be a sufficient punishment for my belligerence for soon after he landed his zinger, the mob began to disperse. The squat woman and her assistant returned to their ticketing boxes at the entrance and the bouncers shuffled back to the hollows from which they had sprung. The Great, insult-joke bouncer strutted back to his lonely barricade, lifted it triumphantly upon his shoulder, then disappeared out the front door.
Kat was cheerful, relieved and utterly oblivious when she appeared at my side. I might have been able to cover up the entire incident, but when she asked me if I was ready to go, I began to fire off sentences like a rail gun from a Blackhawk. She glanced about the lobby and noted the scowls and snears that came from the darker corners. "What happened," she asked. I tried to explain but there was simply too much adrenaline in my system. The story burst from my mouth in a gigantic twitch of incoherence and fury. Kat nodded and placed a calming hand on my arm (she studies Buddhism). "Let's go," she said.
"Where's Steve," Kat asked. My mind immediately lept to only the most graphic scenarios. Was he, at this very moment, enduring gruesome wrongs at the hands of that hulking, cave troll I'd seen in the restroom when we first arrived? He was standing behind a ramshackle stand, selling overpriced candy in a black-light dim of urinals and booths. I had survived the verbal thrashing of Moria and I'd be damned if I was going to abandon my good, gay friend who wouldn't possibly harm a fly. I scrambled down the stairs and into the john. I was prepared to grab an errant mop or glass jar of peppermints to drive off the foul perpetrators, but the room was silent. An Hispanic janitor stood at the candy stand, poised at the apex of an evil, Spanish-laced conspiracy that he was about to unleash upon the candy troll. Suspicious eyes tracked my movements as eI stepped to the vacant stalls. No doubt, they had received word of the altercation upstaris and were waiting for me to unsuspectingly stroll into one of the stalls where I would be relentlessly violated by the business end of a switchblade or, at least, be administered a brutal swirly upon my head.
Where had he gone? Had he already been beaten senseless and thrown out of the Hall for being associated with the Great Troublemaker of 'Aught-Five'? I grabbed Kat's hand and sped for the Exit. outside, a fresh line of victims were eagerly awaiting the verbal de-pantsing and economic pick-pocketing they would soon find inside. I had escaped from my foolish escapade.. and, to my startlement, so had Steve. Standing on the shore, beyond the bouncers and barricades and eager naiveté, stood Steve. He had witnessed my incident in progress and like any good citizen, immediately dashed from the building and awaited the pitching of my gouged and spintered remains onto the pavement.
I was disheartened and far to sober to have witnessed such wildly-confirming displays of human nature. Clearly, the most consistent handicap of the evening had been my sobriety. I needed a drink- check that, I needed a concoction that would be crippling in its potency. I wanted the shortest path from A to Z. I had to be laid so low that I would actually learn from this debacle and sear into my brain this lesson so it would be never repeated. We wandering the unaffordable streets of the Village and my impatience grew to an imperative. Finally, at the bequest of Steve, we collapsed behind the neon-beckoning window of Dallas BBQ- an interesting choice for one gay man, one gangling, angry, degenerate looking to get loaded and one elfish, young woman who happens to be a vegetarian.
It was apparent what when we were in for when the menus arrived. Actually, they were already in front of us - paper place mats. I only lacked the mini-Mason jar of crayons to complete one of my childhood nightmares. The experience reached another tier of heinous when I discovered that only booze choices are pricy bottles of Bud Light or hyperneon-colored, frozen concoctions involving decorations of unripe pineapple. I chose the latter. That, along with the coleslaw and macaroni & cheese concoction I consumed, succeeded in laying me low for the next 2 days and teaching me, once again, lessons... about something.
Good times.
My girlfriend, Kat, were badly needing a night out - it'd been too long since we'd seen a good band, hung out at a bar and engaged in a really good bout of intellectual cattiness. On this night, we had a date with a gay friend of ours, Steve. I'd met Steve at a non-profit job I got when I first moved to the City. He and I discovered that we shared a mutual-obsession with indie rock music and basically kept each other's spirits up by endlessly talking about new bands that we'd 'discover'. On this night, Steve was celebrating his 35th birthday and in a fit of Midwestern generosity, had treated Kat and me to a night at the Bowery Ballroom where we'd toast to his birthday and see The Fiery Furnaces. We were flattered, greedy and immediately leapt at the offer. Even when the gig was transferred to the Evil Concert Venue of New York City (also known as Webster Hall), we were eager to enjoy a debauched evening of music and drinking-enablement. We were so psyched for a night out, we even succumbed to a 1 ½ hour subway commute to Brooklyn (Steve's home turf) to help him feel at-home in his favorite, local haunt.
I'd been trying to be good about my drinking. Fitness had become my new obsession and I was determined to make myself presentable for a summertime beach. Of course, there had been one or two lapses including one night last week that involved a mishap with too many extra-dry martini, but overall I'd found been successful and I was focused on staying that way. Steve was not laboring behind my self-deluding rules. It took exactly one round for his agenda to become my agenda and soon I was pounding back pints of Stella at Brooklyn prices (50% off). These were the salad days (hours) of my weekend. I remember them fondly- I was so much younger then. I recall it as if it had happened only a few days ago. We laughed, we raged and in true Zelig-like fashion I found my inner-swish. Kat politely sipped her beer, lounged into the faux-leather lounger, and enjoyed display of two, self-involved music snobs in their mid 30's. Soon, we were hip deep in Joy Division, New York Dolls and Iggy Pop references.
As time raged on beneath our drama-filled banter, Kat grew restless. The last hour ran about like this:
KAT: "Wow. I didn't know that Iggy Pop was that disgusting or what a careering bitch Patti Smith was, but weren't we going to a concert or something?"
STEVE: "What time is it now?"
DECKARD: "Do you want another?"
STEVE: "Ooo! Ooo! Are they playing The Cure? Whatever happened to good Goth music?"
KAT:"Weren't we going to a concert or something?"
DECKARD: "We have plenty of time. Do you want another pint?"
STEVE: "It's my turn- what are you drinking?"
Finally, Kat managed to focus us into the 'now' long enough to herd us into the street... sort of. Steve was spun into a feeding frenzy of Indie music euphoria and the birthday boy had forbade us from leaving Brooklyn until we had listening to the MOST FanTAStic Song In The EnTIRE World by The Kaiser Chiefs. Six cigarettes, four blocks to Steve's apartment, 3 pee-breaks, a long listening, and 4 more bocks to the subway later, we regained our course and headed into Manhattan.
Webster Hall sucks ass. The last time I'd visited this club was when I tried to watch Sonic Youth. This place is designed like the mines of Moria with doors and stairwells that move from one performance/bar/club space to another. All the spaces are pretty dumpy but hell, I can do dumpy if there's a cool staff, cheap drinks, etc. The Sonic Youth gig was over-booked to the point where the back of the theater felt like standing in the front row at a U2 concert. The bouncers were complete ass-clowns who had certainly trained at the Sopranos School of Fuck-You Bouncing. The Bowery Ballroom, my favorite venue in Manhattan must have signed some boneheaded deal a year ago with Webster Hall so that bigger bands could play in a larger venue. At this point, I simply cannot believe that the same people could be running my beloved Bowery Ballroom and the Frankenstein monster of concert venues called Webster Hall.
Steve went to will call to pick up his tickets and that's when we realized that the concert had started a full 2 hours earlier than any other concert in Manhattan. We rushed upstairs to the only remaining view in the hall. We were just in time for the last 2 songs of the encore, a "thank you for coming to such an early show", then the quick exit of The Fiery Furnaces, leaving us enjoy a 'what the fuck' moment. Dejected and even without the time to order another beer, we chain-gang shuffled our way to the bottlenecked stairwell and down into the lobby. Kat and Steve rushed downstairs to the restroom while I stood guard beside a trashcan and tried to spot any hint of a T-shirt salesman.
What happened next was a cluster-fuck at the hands of the emotionally-challenged. A squat, dour blond barked at me that it was time to leave. My hesitation prompted second, squat-assistant to join in and reiterate, for my convenience. A bouncer, wielding a metal barricade, trudged through the now-vacant lobby and offered his two bits of derisiveness. I turned to the blond goblin and tried to explain that I was waiting for my friends to get back from the restroom and that I was standing out of the way. Not satisfied with my lack of cowed behavior, both women moved into my personal space. Fed up with trying to hold my ground behind a garbage can, I retreated to the far corner of the lobby and barked that they didn't have to act like such assholes about it. Well, that tore it. What followed was a staccato waterfall of hoots and chest-beating from the barricade-toting bouncer who dropped his gate and scrambled after me, all the while screeching "What did you say?!". Again and again the words looped over and over as if I had any chance of getting a word in edgewise until it began to morph into a rambling conjunction of "Wadoosay?!". The call had been sent out... Wadoosay... wadoosay, in the deep. Bouncers clambered from every stairwell and doorway.Fool that I was, I had moved from my vantage behind the garbage and had allowed myself to be cornered with no Fellowship and not even a good buzz to numb the imminent flurry of self-righteous blows. Remarkably, I was able to able to maintain some semblance of composure. I tried to slow things down- bring down the energy level another notch. Speak slower, so every would understand my position. I was just. waiting. for. my. friends. who. are. in. the. restroom. I was certain that I could feel, in the heels of my feet, the distant rumble of a Balrog.
The bouncer was feverish from the success of his wadoosay chant and was ready to go in for the kill. Unfortunately, he overextended his repertoire when he tried to switch to put-down mode. "You wanna see an asshole," he demanded. This momentarily threw me off. I had expected to be lifted from the carpet and trown clear of the front doors like you see in Three Stooges or Marx Brothers films. A question? Was he serious? What sort of an answer should I offer? From the flinty twitch in his eye, I could tell that I was taking too long to answer. The zinger - he had to land the zinger. "Turn around and look in that mirror! You'll see an asshole, then!"
'There is a mirror behind me,' I asked myself. I suppressed the impulse to turn and see for I feared that the bouncer's sense of humor would cry out for more and he would take the opportunity to try out a physical joke involving my underwear. The bouncer army must have thought his joke to be a sufficient punishment for my belligerence for soon after he landed his zinger, the mob began to disperse. The squat woman and her assistant returned to their ticketing boxes at the entrance and the bouncers shuffled back to the hollows from which they had sprung. The Great, insult-joke bouncer strutted back to his lonely barricade, lifted it triumphantly upon his shoulder, then disappeared out the front door.
Kat was cheerful, relieved and utterly oblivious when she appeared at my side. I might have been able to cover up the entire incident, but when she asked me if I was ready to go, I began to fire off sentences like a rail gun from a Blackhawk. She glanced about the lobby and noted the scowls and snears that came from the darker corners. "What happened," she asked. I tried to explain but there was simply too much adrenaline in my system. The story burst from my mouth in a gigantic twitch of incoherence and fury. Kat nodded and placed a calming hand on my arm (she studies Buddhism). "Let's go," she said.
"Where's Steve," Kat asked. My mind immediately lept to only the most graphic scenarios. Was he, at this very moment, enduring gruesome wrongs at the hands of that hulking, cave troll I'd seen in the restroom when we first arrived? He was standing behind a ramshackle stand, selling overpriced candy in a black-light dim of urinals and booths. I had survived the verbal thrashing of Moria and I'd be damned if I was going to abandon my good, gay friend who wouldn't possibly harm a fly. I scrambled down the stairs and into the john. I was prepared to grab an errant mop or glass jar of peppermints to drive off the foul perpetrators, but the room was silent. An Hispanic janitor stood at the candy stand, poised at the apex of an evil, Spanish-laced conspiracy that he was about to unleash upon the candy troll. Suspicious eyes tracked my movements as eI stepped to the vacant stalls. No doubt, they had received word of the altercation upstaris and were waiting for me to unsuspectingly stroll into one of the stalls where I would be relentlessly violated by the business end of a switchblade or, at least, be administered a brutal swirly upon my head.
Where had he gone? Had he already been beaten senseless and thrown out of the Hall for being associated with the Great Troublemaker of 'Aught-Five'? I grabbed Kat's hand and sped for the Exit. outside, a fresh line of victims were eagerly awaiting the verbal de-pantsing and economic pick-pocketing they would soon find inside. I had escaped from my foolish escapade.. and, to my startlement, so had Steve. Standing on the shore, beyond the bouncers and barricades and eager naiveté, stood Steve. He had witnessed my incident in progress and like any good citizen, immediately dashed from the building and awaited the pitching of my gouged and spintered remains onto the pavement.
I was disheartened and far to sober to have witnessed such wildly-confirming displays of human nature. Clearly, the most consistent handicap of the evening had been my sobriety. I needed a drink- check that, I needed a concoction that would be crippling in its potency. I wanted the shortest path from A to Z. I had to be laid so low that I would actually learn from this debacle and sear into my brain this lesson so it would be never repeated. We wandering the unaffordable streets of the Village and my impatience grew to an imperative. Finally, at the bequest of Steve, we collapsed behind the neon-beckoning window of Dallas BBQ- an interesting choice for one gay man, one gangling, angry, degenerate looking to get loaded and one elfish, young woman who happens to be a vegetarian.
It was apparent what when we were in for when the menus arrived. Actually, they were already in front of us - paper place mats. I only lacked the mini-Mason jar of crayons to complete one of my childhood nightmares. The experience reached another tier of heinous when I discovered that only booze choices are pricy bottles of Bud Light or hyperneon-colored, frozen concoctions involving decorations of unripe pineapple. I chose the latter. That, along with the coleslaw and macaroni & cheese concoction I consumed, succeeded in laying me low for the next 2 days and teaching me, once again, lessons... about something.
Good times.
Monday, April 11, 2005
The Kills do the Bowery Ballroom
I saw my favorite band for the last time. When The Kills come back to NYC, they will be an opener for some "Ubergroup" or the headliner at a big venue- Webster Hall, Roseland Ballroom, Hammerstein Ballroom or Irving Plaza will snatch them away, rub them all over with smarm, and that will be it. It's the Catch 22 of indie rock. You discover a new band, fall in love with them. You run around telling everybody about them and giving them burned songs and begging them to go to the shows. Then, your band breaks and just like that, you realize that they've grown up and left you. I'm too upset to point out the perfunctory metaphor involving butterflies or babies. Maybe they'll continue to linger along the edge of the Big Time like The Raveonettes or The Notwist, but I'm thinking that it's going to be more of a White Stripes career arc. Of course, this might all be the result of my cynicism following Saturday night's Wadoosay.
I've seen every NYC concert since 2003 and I've gotta say that The Kills were really fucking good on this night. They've settled into their stage personas, especially VV (Allison Mosshart) who always looked like the only thing keeping her from bolting off the stage was her curtain of raven hair and endless procession of cigarettes. It always worked because she'd use some of the songs to channel her nervous energy into a stage show of growling, grinding, sexual tension between her and Hotel (Jamie Hince). On this night, The sexual tension wasn't as overt (except for the gymnastics move involving her and Hotel's guitar), I didn't see her smoke a single cigarette and she's finally returned from the Land of the Painfully-Thin and looked really good. Hmmm... VV, Cat Power, PJ Harvey, Hope Sandoval... well, my aesthetic tastes have at least remained consistent. (Yeah, my girlfriend is going to love that observation). The presentation has a comfortable, slicker feel. They've always been stagey, but in the past it always had a fun and somewhat-campy feeling to it. I love groups that will throw themselves into a bit that they feel a little silly doing, but you know they're having fun. Now, The Kills feel more like an act. I'm not screaming "sellout!", though. I think such arguments are usually crap. People so easily get into the mindset that a band should always stay the same, but that gets old and, after a while, painful to watch, like with Kiss, Aerosmith, or AC/DC or... well, maybe I'll stop with the comparisons. The Kills are starting to move away from some of their earlier bits and coming more into their own. If you haven't seen them, go. You won't be disappointed.
As The Kills begin their ascent out of the world of Indie Rock, so do others rise to fill the vacuum. I was blown away when I listened to an opening band I'd never seen before - Scout Niblett. They may not be the Next Big Thing, but they grabbed my attention. After Googling the group, I've discovered that Scout Niblett is actually Emma Niblett and she's essentially a soloist with backup. Her stuff is a great synthesis of Cat Power and Nirvana. Scout offers high, lilting lyrics, then gives a wry grin before launching into a wave of by crunching, power chords. She had that great, coiled energy that I've seen from so many of the recent, English rock bands. Part way through the set, she set down her guitar, took the the drums and ripped out a couple solid drum-backed songs. After the show was over, I saw her sitting at the bar and had to go over and tell her how great her set was. Damn, I love the Bowery Ballroom.
I've seen every NYC concert since 2003 and I've gotta say that The Kills were really fucking good on this night. They've settled into their stage personas, especially VV (Allison Mosshart) who always looked like the only thing keeping her from bolting off the stage was her curtain of raven hair and endless procession of cigarettes. It always worked because she'd use some of the songs to channel her nervous energy into a stage show of growling, grinding, sexual tension between her and Hotel (Jamie Hince). On this night, The sexual tension wasn't as overt (except for the gymnastics move involving her and Hotel's guitar), I didn't see her smoke a single cigarette and she's finally returned from the Land of the Painfully-Thin and looked really good. Hmmm... VV, Cat Power, PJ Harvey, Hope Sandoval... well, my aesthetic tastes have at least remained consistent. (Yeah, my girlfriend is going to love that observation). The presentation has a comfortable, slicker feel. They've always been stagey, but in the past it always had a fun and somewhat-campy feeling to it. I love groups that will throw themselves into a bit that they feel a little silly doing, but you know they're having fun. Now, The Kills feel more like an act. I'm not screaming "sellout!", though. I think such arguments are usually crap. People so easily get into the mindset that a band should always stay the same, but that gets old and, after a while, painful to watch, like with Kiss, Aerosmith, or AC/DC or... well, maybe I'll stop with the comparisons. The Kills are starting to move away from some of their earlier bits and coming more into their own. If you haven't seen them, go. You won't be disappointed.
As The Kills begin their ascent out of the world of Indie Rock, so do others rise to fill the vacuum. I was blown away when I listened to an opening band I'd never seen before - Scout Niblett. They may not be the Next Big Thing, but they grabbed my attention. After Googling the group, I've discovered that Scout Niblett is actually Emma Niblett and she's essentially a soloist with backup. Her stuff is a great synthesis of Cat Power and Nirvana. Scout offers high, lilting lyrics, then gives a wry grin before launching into a wave of by crunching, power chords. She had that great, coiled energy that I've seen from so many of the recent, English rock bands. Part way through the set, she set down her guitar, took the the drums and ripped out a couple solid drum-backed songs. After the show was over, I saw her sitting at the bar and had to go over and tell her how great her set was. Damn, I love the Bowery Ballroom.
Friday, April 08, 2005
not-for-profit Temping
I promised myself that I wouldn't do it. It makes me crazy. It runs contrary to every fiber of my being. But I did it. I got another office, temp job. I'm working at this mega-huge non-profit organization that takes in millions of dollars from Upper East Siders and uses it to clean up vandalism in Central Park so that property values stay sufficiently high. Like all non-controversial, bigwig non-profits in this city, they love to throw a pretentious, yearly dinner and/or luncheon to provide an arena for ostentatious displays of wealth... and to raise money. This is the 3rd non-profit that I've worked since I moved here and it never ceases to amaze me how much disposable income lives on the Upper East Side. This event is so exclusive, you've gotta know somebody if you want the privilege of spending $500 per ticket or, up to $50,000 per table. They're based on the southeast corner of Central Park so I get to walk across the park every day. There isn't a square centimeter of the park that doesn't feel like it's untouched, but damn, it's beautiful. Daffodils, crocuses and forsythia are in full bloom.
This is the first job that I've hade on the Upper East Side. I am regularly seeing people that might as well be living on Mars for all that I share in common with them. It's a culture of toy dogs and plastic surgery that'd make sense to nobody outside their inner circle. The younger women are long, thin, blond, beautiful and virtually non-sexual. They look like laminated models that are still living in the pages of a fashion magazine. And such anger. It must be the backwash from all the reindeer games that society people play with one another.
Interestingly, I've had very few sightings of the millionaire husbands that mate with these specimens. I would never be so gauche to expect a dual-sighting. Occasionally, I get a glimpse of a potential sighting as some man in an Armani suit strategizes with another over a cell phone. The discussions normally involve somebody making a 'move' in a board meeting somewhere and what the potential fallout might be. It's all very arcane and utterly childish in it's tone. I suspect that most of these husbands work in the Financial District and eat their lunches in those restaurants with dark wood and tinted windows that I could never possibly enter, much less afford. They don't go out at night, unless it's to catch a taxi or elongated car. Much of the Upper East Side looks like an abandoned theme park at night. Entire blocks lie dormant until someone with a dog-ornament emerges with a cellphone surgically-attached to one ear.
I know... I'm being bad. But hey, when you're earning low wages at an organization raising tens of millions of dollars and handing out door prizes of equivalent value to your yearly rent, it can be a little demoralizing.
This is the first job that I've hade on the Upper East Side. I am regularly seeing people that might as well be living on Mars for all that I share in common with them. It's a culture of toy dogs and plastic surgery that'd make sense to nobody outside their inner circle. The younger women are long, thin, blond, beautiful and virtually non-sexual. They look like laminated models that are still living in the pages of a fashion magazine. And such anger. It must be the backwash from all the reindeer games that society people play with one another.
Interestingly, I've had very few sightings of the millionaire husbands that mate with these specimens. I would never be so gauche to expect a dual-sighting. Occasionally, I get a glimpse of a potential sighting as some man in an Armani suit strategizes with another over a cell phone. The discussions normally involve somebody making a 'move' in a board meeting somewhere and what the potential fallout might be. It's all very arcane and utterly childish in it's tone. I suspect that most of these husbands work in the Financial District and eat their lunches in those restaurants with dark wood and tinted windows that I could never possibly enter, much less afford. They don't go out at night, unless it's to catch a taxi or elongated car. Much of the Upper East Side looks like an abandoned theme park at night. Entire blocks lie dormant until someone with a dog-ornament emerges with a cellphone surgically-attached to one ear.
I know... I'm being bad. But hey, when you're earning low wages at an organization raising tens of millions of dollars and handing out door prizes of equivalent value to your yearly rent, it can be a little demoralizing.
Monday, April 04, 2005
(almost) springing from the Cave
Winter has finally begun to break in New York. I emerged from my cave a few days ago and discovered that the storage pounds that I packed on for the winter months had not melted away during my hibernation. Unlike my bear bretheren, I continued to eat General Tso's chicken and suck down vodka tonics in a frantic attempt to hold off the inevital depression that hits during a season of short days. Something had to be done.
On Saturday, with torch in hand, I rummaged through the mounds of dead leaves until I found the 15-speed bike my parents had given me for my birthday. I had ridden it every day for the first month, then I went to Thailand, then winter arrived then - the point is that I had a renewed energy and the determination to change my lifestyle and become FIT again! I ambled to the crack at the back of my cave and, with some difficulty, scouted out my biking uniform:
With this euphoric inspiration to Do Something, I set out for my first workout. I stepped into the early-morning air, secured my helmet, then stepped on the bike. The front tire was flat... and the tiny, new tire valve didn't fit my bike pump. Stupid new-fangled bikes.
Well, Spring has sprung. It's only a matter of time...
On Saturday, with torch in hand, I rummaged through the mounds of dead leaves until I found the 15-speed bike my parents had given me for my birthday. I had ridden it every day for the first month, then I went to Thailand, then winter arrived then - the point is that I had a renewed energy and the determination to change my lifestyle and become FIT again! I ambled to the crack at the back of my cave and, with some difficulty, scouted out my biking uniform:
- non-hip biking helmet- to allow me the illusion of personal safety despite the two-dozen gypsy cabs that regularly prowl my steet
- padded biking gloves- to save my palms from personal irritation and look cool in that cut-off, punky-biking-gloves kinda way
- 7-year-old running shoes- to let my feet know that I once again intend on losing 20 pounds and getting those rock-hard abs (they have been known to snicker)
- neon yellow windbreaker- so idiot drivers from 3 blocks away can get a bead on me from long-distanc
- water bottle- to provide water in case I get stuck in the desert with a flat tire during my usual, 30-minute ride along the river
- accessory bag- to hold hex wrenches (for repairs), a Metro card (when the repairs don't work) and a quarter (when I discover my Metrocard has expired and I have to call my girlfriend)
With this euphoric inspiration to Do Something, I set out for my first workout. I stepped into the early-morning air, secured my helmet, then stepped on the bike. The front tire was flat... and the tiny, new tire valve didn't fit my bike pump. Stupid new-fangled bikes.
Well, Spring has sprung. It's only a matter of time...
Friday, April 01, 2005
aging - American Style!
Growing older is not going the way I'd imagined. It's difficult to see that I am, in fact, a man approaching his mid-30's. My dad didn't look this way when he was in his mid-30's, did he? It's strange to observe that movies, music and historical events that you experienced have become historical. It's horrifying to watch contemporary culture try to sell this history back to you as nostalgia (also known as 'comfort food'). Apparently, my generation is supposed to have more disposable income than I currently possess. Many of the heroes of my youth have fallen from the lofty perch I built for them. They have dismissed, mocked, parodied or simply forgotten the sacred cows they had given to me. Was Chevy Chase ever funny? Was Dustin Hoffman of Meet the Fockers fame the same actor who challenged and inspired me in his portrayals of Lenny Bruce, Rizzo the Rat and Benjamin Braddock? What in Christ happened to George Lucas, Francis Ford Coppola and Robert DeNiro? I can barely recognize anything I once loved about them. Bob Dylan shills for Victoria's secret while John Lydon continues to methodically destroy any ounce of credibility he once commanded among the punk culture.
I am a part of one of the most visually-documented generations in the history of mankind and it's disturbing to watch what is being edited and forgotten. It is bizarre to live during the Cold Warm the 70's gas crunch, disco, grunge, and the advent of cable television only to have politicians and fundamentalists reshape history in their image. I was STANDING 3 blocks from the World Trade Center when the first tower fell, but I can't tell you the number of Europeans and Midwesterners who try to tell me what it was like. With so much live coverage of the news and filmic approximations of life, it's easy to mistake your emotional experience with the experience itself. Maybe that's why I'm taking the devaluing of my music and film so personally. I want to believe that I have some ownership of those things because I felt something when I experienced them.
The older I get, the more I realize that there is no such as a thing as 'the good old days'. I sure-as-shit wish there were. The future is unknown and the present is rife with unexpected twists and turns. The past, however, is comforting because I've done it. I've completed it. I can look back on it and understand it better with each passing year. Eventually, I find myself feeling like it must have been better because I can finally GET IT. I can see the consequences as they rippled out from those haggard, impulsive choices. I find myself comforted by that wisdom and I want to be able to use it in-the-now. I want to know whether it's a good or bad thing that Americans don't read as much anymore or that we appear to be re-learning things taught in my lifetime or that we've become visual-oriented society or how downloading will affect my future as an artist. So that feeling becomes a yearning - for the past to be the present where the rules and outcomes have already been laid out.
A few years ago, a friend of mine came to visit me in the City. She and I had always been great fans of indie music but in the 4 years since I'd last seen her, I had gone off to grad school in a rural town and found myself immersed in the world of theater. After moving to NYC, I tried listening to the local radio stations, but I couldn't stand the remixes and bubblegum pap that they were churning out. I was living in the biggest city in America and it felt like there was nothing worth hearing. So, I bemoaned the Death of Rock and Roll to my friend. She patiently listened until she couldn't stand it any longer. She told me to shut up and start looking harder. She told me that there was better stuff out there than ever before. She pointed me to Seattle's KEXP http://www.kexp.org/ and left me to find out for myself how stupid I was sounding.
The rules of finding new music had changed but I hadn't. Rather than push myself to explore a little more, I chose the easier route - blame the changing world and wish for the good old days. Getting older is REALLY easy. All you have to do is sit around. The hardest thing about growing older is keeping an open mind to new things.
I am a part of one of the most visually-documented generations in the history of mankind and it's disturbing to watch what is being edited and forgotten. It is bizarre to live during the Cold Warm the 70's gas crunch, disco, grunge, and the advent of cable television only to have politicians and fundamentalists reshape history in their image. I was STANDING 3 blocks from the World Trade Center when the first tower fell, but I can't tell you the number of Europeans and Midwesterners who try to tell me what it was like. With so much live coverage of the news and filmic approximations of life, it's easy to mistake your emotional experience with the experience itself. Maybe that's why I'm taking the devaluing of my music and film so personally. I want to believe that I have some ownership of those things because I felt something when I experienced them.
The older I get, the more I realize that there is no such as a thing as 'the good old days'. I sure-as-shit wish there were. The future is unknown and the present is rife with unexpected twists and turns. The past, however, is comforting because I've done it. I've completed it. I can look back on it and understand it better with each passing year. Eventually, I find myself feeling like it must have been better because I can finally GET IT. I can see the consequences as they rippled out from those haggard, impulsive choices. I find myself comforted by that wisdom and I want to be able to use it in-the-now. I want to know whether it's a good or bad thing that Americans don't read as much anymore or that we appear to be re-learning things taught in my lifetime or that we've become visual-oriented society or how downloading will affect my future as an artist. So that feeling becomes a yearning - for the past to be the present where the rules and outcomes have already been laid out.
A few years ago, a friend of mine came to visit me in the City. She and I had always been great fans of indie music but in the 4 years since I'd last seen her, I had gone off to grad school in a rural town and found myself immersed in the world of theater. After moving to NYC, I tried listening to the local radio stations, but I couldn't stand the remixes and bubblegum pap that they were churning out. I was living in the biggest city in America and it felt like there was nothing worth hearing. So, I bemoaned the Death of Rock and Roll to my friend. She patiently listened until she couldn't stand it any longer. She told me to shut up and start looking harder. She told me that there was better stuff out there than ever before. She pointed me to Seattle's KEXP http://www.kexp.org/ and left me to find out for myself how stupid I was sounding.
The rules of finding new music had changed but I hadn't. Rather than push myself to explore a little more, I chose the easier route - blame the changing world and wish for the good old days. Getting older is REALLY easy. All you have to do is sit around. The hardest thing about growing older is keeping an open mind to new things.
Friday, March 25, 2005
that's right, Kermit, it's called cooperation
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.
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.
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.
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