clear the room

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, An End Has a Start ... and the Editors (no publishing relation ... nudge, nudge, wink, wink ...) are indeed rock stars (in every good sense of that word), touching all parts. Performing live they are in constant motion (lead singer Tom Smith, in particular) and absolutely enveloped in their creations. Their songs allow one to feel all that music allows us to ... in the studio, they created and released a new album that hit upon every corner of the brain. Over a year ago I gave up tickets to see them, and I am glad (for several reasons) to have had the time to sit back and wait to see them. It has been a long time since I've been to a concert where I experienced personal joy of the music and the public expression of the person who created it with equal intensity. It is a rarity I will cherish.
_________________

editors © 2007 duluoz cats

in every childhood, an enchanted place

Back from the great white north, which was not as white as it had been until recently, but also not as green as the city I returned to, which had taken to bursting into full-leaf overnight, so so it appeared.

It had been almost a decade since I visited Montreal, since I had been to Canada, actually, but it was just as I'd remembered it; quaint, urban, provincial, and worldly, all at the same time. It's more French than Paris; perhaps because as part of French-Canadian Quebec, it's in a constant battle for it's own identity.

But, language issues aside, Montreal has always held its own as far as its attraction to artists. In fact, in 2005, it was chosen by UNESCO as the "World Book Capital City." ANEL President, Denis Vaugeois said of this honor, "Montreal, as well as Quebec as a whole, really deserves this honour, which is a tribute of the quality of its editorial production and the dynamism of all those who are involved in the book industry.” Good to know, should I ever need an escape from New York and a job.

Literary Montreal for me, begins with Leonard Cohen (no surprise there), so as I mentioned in an earlier post, I spent one beautiful spring afternoon walking around the neighborhood of Westmount in search of Cohen's childhood home. Thanks to the Leonard Cohen Files "A Short Walk in Cohen's Westmount" and some Montreal Metro map investigation, I was able to find 599 Belmont without any trouble. And it was a beautiful time.

It was an odd sensation walking down the extraordinarily normal streets of Westmount on one of the first true spring days the city had seen. The trees were just aching to bud and the sky was blue ... and aside from the sound of a lawn trimmer being used on the grounds of the Greek consulate, there wasn't another soul to be seen. It was the suburbs in all it's generic glory. Having grown up on (what I always felt were) the not-so-gritty streets of NYC, I've always been fascinated by suburban culture and its effect on the artistic soul. Those friends I've come in contact with over the years from those manicured parts of the world seem to not believe that one could ever exist under the age of 19 in an apartment without some kind of dirt to skin one's knees on (all my childhood scars are concrete based). But I digress ... so I walked down Westmount Avenue on this beautiful day and take in all of it's quiet--indeed, the lack of humanity offered me a true Cohen moment of solitude--and the first thought upon turning right down Belmont Ave to number 599 was, "whither the angst"? Does this say something about the discrepancy of growing up in different environments? The homes in Westmount are upper-middle class, beyond any type that I, or even my "wealthy" Long Island relatives ever owned. I had to question, based on my own sense of disdain for the ennui of the entitled ... what was it that created the discontent for Cohen? Was it simply religion? (Not that religion is ever simple.) That has to be the case. And it is a part of my wonder ... is it possible that religion is so much more powerful than wealth? Having no experience with either, I suppose I must consider this to be true. Certainly, I've had experience with religious zealots and millionaires both, in my life. But, I've also had poor friends plop down in the middle of some of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the country who did not experience the type of disassociation with their surroundings that Cohen did. This is not a complaint or a criticism, mind you--more of a further wonder about a man whom I have long revered over his extraordinary ability to see into the human emotional condition.

Childhood is a precious thing, it creates us in so many ways. We begin who we are in the most unusual ways, and what we take with us; what we hold on to, even our parents must wonder about.
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"on the block" and "whither the angst" © 2007 duluoz cats

for hearts that don't make sense

Goodbye Sky Harbor
Is tomorrow just a day like all the rest
How could you know just what you did?
So full of faith yet so full of doubt I ask
Time and time again you said don't be afraid
If you believe you can do it
The only voice I want to hear is yours
Again
I shall ask you this once again
And again
He said:
"I am but one small instrument."
Do you remember that?
So here I am above palm trees so straight and tall
You are smaller, getting smaller
But I still see you

Books and music. These are the things by which I am able to keep myself alive (and a cat in my lap, too ... sometimes). It's fun when those two things intertwine, particularly when just by happenstance you find that two things you love very much, have found a connection to each other. So, as I sat perusing the internet this afternoon, I found the lyrics to a Jimmy Eat World song (a band that connects other things in my life in strange and wonderful ways), off their album "Clarity," that I like a bit and read that it was based on one of my most beloved books, John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. It's a book that I've now read four times, each time it captures me in different ways.

John Wheelwright is one of my favorite characters of all time. And the scene that the lyrics of the above song describe, which takes place toward the end of the novel, are a lovely tribute to the doubt and faith that pervades the whole book. Religion is a loaded topic for me. In fact, there is not much good I have to add with regard to organized faith. But I am full of faith--I am full of belief. I tend to place it in myself and those I hold closest to me--I choose my faith the way I choose to keep those who capture me, close. They are what I accept as my soul. So, there is something about John, a recognition, as it were, about his doubts with regard to Owen's unfailing trust in the unknowable, without allowing that to have any doubt about Owen--his best friend.

There are plenty of heady conversations and monologues in the book about belief, written in a manner that I always found to be some of the most intelligent and gentle of ways--layer upon layer of knowledge and theory. Each side is represented in Irving's trademark quirky brilliance, with pain and tragedy and moments of pure innocence. Small moments of truth. There is criticism, certainly--but always handled in the searching way that all things one places one's life's faith in should be. And it is intertwined with questions of fate and justice and the hypocrisy of blind belief. And John, the straight man to Owen's "prophet" (if there can be such a thing), points his finger to the sky (and looks down on Owen from the sky, in this instance) still questioning Owen's absolutes.

Never one for absolutes myself, I enjoy the view from above, searching the horizon without expectation, looking forward to the answers, should they ever reach me. Clarity, indeed. Thoughts on that, another night.

she gets you on her wavelength

“I knew it was a song about Montreal, it seemed to come out of that landscape that I loved very much in Montreal, which was the harbour, and the waterfront, and the sailors' church there, called Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours, which stood out over the river, and I knew that there were ships going by, I knew that there was a harbour, I knew that there was Our Lady of the Harbour, which was the Virgin on the church which stretched out her arms towards the seamen, and you can climb up to the tower and look out over the river, so the song came from that vision, from that view of the river. At a certain point, I bumped into Suzanne Vaillancourt, who was the wife of a friend of mine; they were a stunning couple around Montreal at the time, physically stunning, both of them; a handsome man and woman; everyone was in love with Suzanne Vaillancourt, and every woman was in love with Armand Vaillancourt. But there was no ... well, there was thought, but there was no possibility, one would not allow oneself to think of toiling at the seduction of Armand Vaillancourt's wife. First of all he was a friend, and second of all as a couple they were inviolate, you just didn't intrude into that kind of shared glory that they manifested. I bumped into her one evening, and she invited me down to her place near the river. She had a loft, at a time when lofts were ... the word wasn't used. She had a space in a warehouse down there, and she invited me down, and I went with her, and she served me Constant Comment tea, which has little bits of oranges in it. And the boats were going by, and I touched her perfect body with my mind, because there was no other opportunity. There was no other way that you could touch her perfect body under those circumstances. So she provided the name in the song.”

I love that.

I've already noted in a previous post that "Suzanne" is not a favorite Cohen song of mine. This is not popular opinion, as one of his most famous songs, it is considered a true classic. Lyrically, I don't deny that it's lovely, but in verse, it loses something for me. However, in preparation for a trip to the north country a month from today (exactly so), having recently taken part in a photowalk in my home neighborhood, I have been looking into doing something with my time while in my favorite troubadour's homeland. So I did some research and found the streets I will need to cross ... the "valued avenues of discovery."

I was first in Montreal just before my 10th birthday, the second time a little after that. The last time I was there was a pre (post?)-honeymoon, five years after the marriage ... only appropriate as the love was decided by a Cohen quote and the proposal produced in front of the Chelsea Hotel ... "I remember you well ..."

So I offer up this ... as Cohen quotes Irving Layton ...

"A poet is deeply confilcted and it's in his work that he reconciles those deep conflicts. The place is the harbor. It doesn't set the world in order, you know, it's the place of reconciliation. It's the conssolumentum, the kiss of peace."

And these links these evening, that which express thought and song ...

the mathematics of angels
Speaking Cohen
Un Canadien Trouvé

I will be touring Westmount, some time in early May, to walk along the hill and look down at the harbor I'll stroll down Avenue Belmont and take a snap or two of #599, hopefully the frost will have been driven from the trees, and a bloom will appear.

And I couldn't resist one last brilliant snippet, before ending this evening's post ...

"Nowadays there's a great deal of confusion between Art and Religion. Since religion has failed so many people, they look to Art for Salvation. I wish them luck in this enterprise." --Leonard Cohen, Megamix, 1992

every heart vibrates to that iron string

"After silence that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music." - Aldous Huxley

Twice in recent weeks, I have found myself walking home to the tune of "Jane Says." I am half expecting to open the door to my apartment tomorrow afternoon to a private performance by Perry Farrell. A few weeks ago, I turned the corner of my block to an acoustic finger-picked version on the steps of the building just next to mine, the singer's voice subtle and sweet, sealing a moment that will forever change the memory of the song for me. And then, several days later, as if to insist that I not ignore this shift, it haunted my night crying out in its original recorded form through the window of a parked car.
It was more than half a lifetime ago that Jane's Addiction released Nothing's Shocking. It was, in fact, August, 1988, a few days before my best friend and (eventual) muse's 16th birthday (oh, but we were not so young as that, never). My family and I had just moved out to the Rockaways, and those first few days in the new apartment, in the new life that we would find ourselves in, were as brain-tryingly hot as they have been in NYC these past few days. August has always been a stormy month for me, and not just for the thunder and lightning that seem to strike my thoughts this time of year.
The sense of the mutable (I have always loved that word) is not something I often encounter when I have a song with a specific point of reference for me. When a memory is displaced, as the thoughts that follow when I hear that Jane is done with Sergio now do, it makes me reconsider remembrance and the power of the subconscious. It is a curious thing; the past is still there, the original connection, not completely disappeared--no--rather, it is as if its potency has been smudged. All the more curious as the associations within the two memories--summertime, the heat, proximity to home, the significance of the just completed conversation, the recognition of an important moment in your life--don't fall into each other, they remain parallel, layered as thoughts, not quite touching, but almost.

their clothes are after such a pagan cut

My mom and I spent a very hot New York summer Monday treated to a special private tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's feature exhibition AngloMania: Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion. We were provided with this special treat by my ever-fabulous partner-in-all-things-cutting, ms. jessimae, who was one of the creators of its breathtaking displays. Needless to say, my mom and I were in heaven--a walk through the halls of the Met empty and echoing, plus an opportunity to hear all about the behind-the-scenes tales on a topic connected so closely to something dear to our hearts.

The exhibit offers a stunning conceptual continuum of English costumes, while it focuses on British fashion during the years of 1976 to the present, it uses 18th and 19th century works, juxtaposing them in a luscious mix of knowing historicism, postmodern irony, and self-conscious tradition. Each room is candy for the eye--with little touches you might miss if you don't have unlimited time and an unencumbered view (and the inside knowledge of your personal tour guide)--like the elaborate necklace with viles of semen (now changing colors as the years go by--ewww and neat). The clever placement of the modern and the classic truly speaks to how a culture can represent and shape itself through imagination. An unapologetic Anglophile myself, the love for all things English is nothing new, the whole of Europe found itself enamored with the small plot of land in the 18th century as it became the center of the Enlightenment and reason--and the fashion is an result of this intellectual expression. Plus, seeing the Alexander McQueen Union Jack jacket that he designed for David Bowie (and realizing how skinny the man is) is just plain cool.

Featuring works by such notable designers as McQueen, John Galliano, and Vivienne Westwood, the dresses, jewelry, and saavy pulls of art from the Met's archives, the exhibit is a wealth of audaciousness. If you haven't yet seen it, you have until September 4 (a great way to spend Labor Day weekend). But, if you can't make it, don't miss a listen to John Lydon's "God Save the Queen" podcast.

an outburst of the soul

So, this unapologetic Yankee is back from a visit from below the Mason-Dixon line. Having enjoyed touring as groupie with the aforementioned band, Mr. McGregor on the magical mystery Southern tour in the Carolinas (North & South). And a fabulous time was had in Columbia, the hometown of Mr. McGregor's bass player, Dennis. The band played one of their best sets ever, and enjoyed a guest appearance by old buddy Vic, keyboardist for The Thirsties (another terrific indie band) at the super music venue, Art Bar. And in the up-and-coming hipster town of Winston-Salem they stumped the crowd at The Garage, offering up a gig the likes of which had apparently never been seen before by the locals ... heh. Both shows were a rip-roaring blast as usual, and the guest appearances by friends and former bandmates added to the trio's already joyful sound and presence on stage.

And thanks to cheap digital cameras and the power of the internet, you can be a part of it now, too ... Enjoy. We all did ... and the hens didn't seem to mind either ...



You can see more from the shows now that Mr. McGregor is Live! on YouTube.

the heirs to the glimmering world

I was lucky enough to see one of my newest favorite bands, The National, this past Sunday at Webster Hall. I found them a few months ago doing a combo Google Search for "Leonard Cohen," "Tom Waits," and "Nick Cave." And up came a link to them. And despite their exquisitely tortured tunes, I don't necessarily see the meta-connection with that trio, having now become more familiar with their work--I'd be more likely to compare them to early mopey-Cure or (possibly) The Smiths, with some Joy Division thrown in, as sung by Nick Cave--I was immediately smitten. And I loved them even more for the crowd they produced--perhaps that had to do with its late Sunday evening start time, but whatever the reason, there were few attitudes, little, if any, ironic posing; their fans seem to be as all-encompassing as their music. And speaking of going out late on a school night, may I also add that, among the wonders of the evening was the fact that they went on only 6 minutes past the scheduled start time. And that has to be a NYC concert first. Bless them.

Originally from Ohio, The National formed in New York in the late 90s, that includes brothers Scott (guitar) and Bryan Devendorf (drums), Aaron (bass) and Bryce Dessner (guitar), and beautifully scruffy vocalist Matt Berninger. And after four albums in just five years (their Self-titled debut, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, Cherry Tree, and Alligator), they have compiled quite a fine discography. With a sound that lurks somewhere in between alt-country-rock and British pop and lyrics that float eloquently from metaphorical to wry filth, they somehow manage to avoid the trap of many brooding indie bands by never falling to preachy self-consciousness. And not to ever take themselves too seriously, there is always a catchy up-beat tune (a la "Mr. November" or "Lit Up") to break up the melancholy of their more devastating pieces ("Val Jester," "Slipping Husband").

Live, they pull this emotional back-and-forth off effortlessly, so much so, you might wonder how they manage to contain those moments of primal energy within their dusty fatalism, but they do, beautifully. Happily, the set list included all of my favorites, including three of the four songs above, plus "City Middle," "The Geese of Beverly Road," "Secret Meeting," "Wasp Nest," and "Murder Me Rachel," among others. As the evening wound down, checking my watch in the hopes of getting home before turning into a pumpkin (at my advanced age, the time for that has been getting earlier and earlier), I crossed my fingers and mumble-pleaded for one more song. A specific one song, the one of theirs that has been added to my list of "utterly tragic" loves, "Daughters of the Soho Riots" (that link, and all other song title links, lead to the song online, but if you have OSX Panther, you can download this cool Widget, with "Daughters" plus two other great songs). And bless them again, they ended the evening with a rendition of that world-weary and heartbroken tune that was so beautiful the sentimental dope in me (another side-effect of old age) had tears in her eyes. Sigh.

On a lighter note, my partner in crime that evening, ms. jessimae (the fabulous and lovely wife of Mr. McGregor's bass player/singer) were tickled and amused by the opening act--who we finally decided was, if not entirely serious, was entirely certain of his convictions--Baby Dayliner (aka Ethan Marunas)--in fact, even his fans aren't entirely sure. I find CD Baby's description of him rather interesting (you can listen to more music here, too), if possibly off-target ... "Brooklyn's Baby Dayliner is upbeat, joyous, earnest, and romantic, all at once. He combines Leonard Cohen's songcraft [okay, this I don't see at all, and I can find Cohen in just about anything. - vod], the electronic pulse of New Order, and the jiggy performance style of Al Green." Frankly, I can only giggle at the memory of him on stage; tall and lanky--a cross between Morrissey and Footloose-era Kevin Bacon (with better hair than both ...), we were thinking more Simply Red-ilk. The two of us spent much of his performance peering at each other from the corners of our eyes not sure whether we were actually supposed to be giggling. No, not really sure at all (a line of lyrics "my heart is a homey," [really] had us both practically on the floor, not least of which because of his sincerity at uttering it.), but a few giggles is never a bad thing while waiting for the main act to go on.

that makes life worth living for the ordinary

I don't know if I'll be able to respect myself in the morning after this post, but, so be it. It's spring and the trees are delicate green and I am finally able to walk outside without automatically cringing at the chilled air. I did not wear black today, and everyone made comment, but I did not feel self-conscious. I believe I may have entered an entirely other realm. Maybe because it was "Take your Child to Work Day" and I had friends' babies placed in my arms every five minutes (not something I usually find any comfort in ...) and spent my lunch hour being fed Cheerios by (how time flies) one-year-old X on the grass in Central Park. Maybe it was because I was able to just do my job (which is a joyful one) and not deal with the murk of office politics (we should have babies everyday).

Whatever it was about today, everything about it just made me happy. And to celebrate children, happiness, and budding trees, I thought I'd post a note today about a wonderful children's book Art & Poetry Series that Welcome Books published in the mid-nineties. And much like that mix of springtime and babies, the editors at Welcome took beautiful poems and songs and equally lovely artwork and matched them up just as naturally. I own, no surprise, Dance Me to the End of Love, which uses that most romantic, nay, giddy as Leonard Cohen gets, songs, and combines it with the ever bold, bright, and joyous (and sensual) images of Henri Matisse in that comfortingly familiar, for me anyway, slim page count and oversized trim. A tactile experience that automatically makes me feel five-years-old again.

The Art & Poetry Series has been out of print for a number of years, however, each of the books is set for re-release, and this time I will not miss snatching up a copy of the perhaps doubly romantic May I Feel Said He, the edition that takes that playful e e cummings poem and one of my favorite artists, Marc Chagall, with his misty-floaty imagery--and creates perhaps the only combination that is sexier, more lyrical, and giddier than the above.

Oh, I'm going to have a helluva hangover because of this tomorrow ...

musicians paint their pictures on silence

Just when I've had enough of the bone-chilling wind down Broadway, the incessant crush of strangers, the fact that Coliseum Books is no longer on 57th Street, and start seriously considering a 12' x 12' shack in Montana again ... New York brings me back in. Today's much-debated decision to go to the Borders in the Time Warner building in Columbus Circle during lunchtime (tourists, crowds, mall, Whole Foods shoppers ... shiver) included an unexpected art interlude. Up on the second floor is a nice exhibit of Terry O'Neill's music photography, which I was able to peruse relatively unscathed while the hoards ran into J Crew and Sephora. A jazz musician, himself, O'Neill started his career as a photographer in the early sixties and by the mid-seventies, had a prolific portfolio having appeared in Vogue, Rolling Stone, and similar A-list publications. The collection featured a group of some of his most familiar snaps from from the National Portrait Gallery, including a blow-up of the above pic of Frank Sinatra in Miami during the late sixties. Great stuff. Well-worth wading through the masses to find it.

What business had I going into Borders looking for books when I have no room left even after having bought another shelf? None. Guilty as charged. It's a harder habit to break than quitting smoking ...

More O'Neill pics: Beatles to Bardot

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Photo: Frank Sinatra, Miami Beach. Photograph by Terry O'Neill, 1968. © Terry O'Neill.

in a calm, clear voice

A little levity is in order. I think I'm gonna hurt myself if I keep those long posts up ... Plus it's April Fool's Day, and an atheist holiday, apparently, and that's as good an excuse as any to feel like I deserve the day off to celebrate. So, a short interlude to mention the terrific show I saw last night out at the Wreck Room in "East Williamsburg" (aka Bushwick, don't tell my father ... heh). Super space, with pool tables and those awesome old tin ceiling tiles, though the mics were a little off, which was a shame. In any event, have taken up part-time groupie status for a friend's band, Mr. McGregor, self-described "trailer-punk-trio" (this is what working in publishing does to you ...). And when they're not being rowdy, they do a great backup for the equally wonderful Mouse (aka Susan Margolis), a petite alt-country/folk singer/cellist/bass player with an absolutely incredible voice. Got to see them all perform way-the-heck downtown a couple of weeks ago, the venue was not on top of things, so they got bumped back a few hours (from 8:30 to 1:30 ...), but I was definitely glad to have stuck around for it, if she was exhausted or rushed, it didn't show a bit. As for Mr. McGregor, they're a riot to watch, with a raw and bawdy Southern-Punk-Pop-Rock sound ... and they do a mean version of Heat Miser ...

On the heels of Mr. McGregor was Candy from Strangers a loud and fun band from San Francisco, though my first guess would have been LA, since the adorable and formidable lead singer Ruby Jordan reminded me of a cross between Exene Cervenka (formerly of X) and Johnette Napolitano (Concrete Blonde).

Good stuff all around. Phew. That was easy ...

for everything you have missed

I have had to add "music" to my blog's description, since, really, there is no way for me to get away from it. I thought at first that I would simply add "writing," because it is sometimes the lyrics, more than the tune, that capture you--there are so many moments in life I can find a chorus for. But, I will sit with "music" for now, since it has found me again. I went to see an old friend perform tonight (a fellow Astorian, so perhaps that will be another way I tie this all in--ah, connections). I have been slowly touching on all the things I let go in my past life. Many old friends. Myself. I have written a little about the effect of this before. There are songs that can take you out of time in such an instant that it is physical. I have about 16,000 songs in my iTunes Library. Many of them not placed by me. Hundreds of the ones I would call "mine" are not there, but I am finding them again, slowly. Because I let go of music for a long time; and though I would find a great tune now and then, I mostly did only to share it, then give it away. I realize I've spent so many years listening to someone else's soundtrack that I've been unable to hear my own--and unfortunately, that's not as bad a metaphor as it seems, it's quite literal. And no, I do not say that to play on tragedy. None of that. There was life and love and memory in all of that listening. So many songs the reason behind the combination; their passion and meaning perhaps why it remained longer than should have been allowed (connections). Now to put all those years into a playlist.

The person who performed tonight was introduced to me by a friend, and it was through our love of Cohen that we realized each other's existence. My friend was at first a co-worker, so there is the publishing angle, for all of you keeping track ... the pleasure of this evening began with snippets of Cohen (and Neil Young ... heh) during the set up, and the rest of the night, equally sublime. I have the new CD here and will listen, but his first, "Her Sacred Status, My Militant Needs," after five years, is still one that I can turn to. And while I have not yet been graced with a live performance of the following, this is indeed, in word and chord (with its beautiful guitar), one of the songs that has been replayed, over and over, to get me through the days. Ladies and Gentlemen ... Mr. Richard McGraw ...

Click on: "A Poem/Confession" to begin ...

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Fabulous:
The History of Music, 1965-2004, according to We Hate You and Your Horrendous Taste in Everything

a choice of weapons

"Those people who want to use a camera should have something in mind, there's something they want to show, something they want to say ... I picked up a camera because it was my choice of weapons against what I hated most about the universe: racism, intolerance, poverty. I could have just as easily picked up a knife or a gun, like many of my childhood friends did ... most of whom were murdered or put in prison ... but I chose not to go that way. I felt that I could somehow subdue these evils by doing something beautiful that people recognize me by, and thus make a whole different life for myself, which has proved to be so." -- Gordon Parks, photographer, author, poet, filmmaker, composer.

Who died yesterday at the age of 93.

NPR: A Great Day for Gordon Parks
PDNOnline & Kodak Professional: Gordon Parks Legends Online
NYT Slideshow: Photojournalist of Dignity Amid Oppression

Obits:
NYT Master of the Camera
Chicago Tribune Filmmaker

rebellious jukebox

Lots of links tonight ... not a lot of writing. Sometimes it's best to let others speak. And so, I was reading a review in the NY Times today about the release of the U.S. edition of Simon Reynolds', Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984. I'm usually wary of any book (or any thing for that matter) that gets described as "definitive" (particularly when it involves music), unless you're discussing Lester Bangs, in which case, if you've only skimmed through Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste or perhaps the 30+ page article about one band (the only band that matters, in this case) in Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, you can consider yourself informed on punk, postpunk, and everything thereafter. Thankfully, I am familiar with Reynolds and I know I'll pick this book up (I'm sure it's excellent). My ire is up only because, once again, a Times review left me gritting my teeth and wondering if all any of the writers do there anymore is write for their own amusement (I use a less ladylike description in private company). But, I digress.

Reynolds is an ex-pat, which is important as far as perspective and he's also one of the last truly smart music journalists out there. I loved the other book of his that I read, The Sex Revolts: Gender, Rebellion, and Rock 'n' Roll, which could basically be described as a sophomore-year gender-study text book--a topic I generally cringe at, because it only ever seems to be handled by reactionaries--set to music, except that it's not. His review of 24-Hour Party People is dead on, too, and it's also worthwhile to take a look at his blog (you'll need to skim for a while, there's a lot there).

For more Lester Bangs (that letter is a wonderful look into what kind of person he was and why he was adored by even the most misanthropic of musicians), and other terrific articles see the Creem Magazine Archives.

"Every great work of art has two faces, one toward its own time and one toward the future, toward eternity." -- Lester Bangs

what other people know about you

I have read thousands of books in my life. Two to three a week is my average, four if the subways are running slow. Perhaps half of those have slipped the bounds of memory, and a quarter of those for good reason. I can count on one hand the number of books I wish I'd written. Only one of them because they touched something in me that I didn't even realize I longed for, as was the case of The Favorite Game by Leonard Cohen--the book that, when I still had any delusions of being a writer, remained on my desktop for as long as I sat at the keyboard. Others, like A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, or The Comedians by Graham Greene, because they revealed to me what it truly meant to create and tell a story.

There is only one book that I wish I'd written because it might have been possible to. One that came so close to my experience; to the story I wanted to tell. The one I might've told had I the talent to do so. And that was Fortress of Solitude, by Jonathan Lethem. It hit me so hard, each sentence felt like a dream of a thought not realized.

I have always been a huge fan of Lethem's. I've loved every book of his I've read, from Girl in Landscape to Motherless Brooklyn, which was the first book of his that I came across. And while I found the story less interesting overall, what impressed me, and what led me to look for his other titles was his incredible talent with language. If you haven't read it, the main character is afflicted with Tourette Syndrome and Lethem does not shy from using the difficulty that creates in communication. Rather, he is unequivocally successful in maintaining not only the flow of conversation, but the poetry of affliction. It was an incredible risk, to use tortured language to tell a story, yet somehow he managed to not only bring to life an unforgettable character, but also never allowed him or his dialogue to become tiresome or distracting.

But Fortress of Solitude. It is not my favorite book of all time, but is simply one of those stories that works on my insides more than an evening out drinking with an old friend. I know a lot of people enjoyed the book, and I know many who raved, but there is something about the way that Lethem wrote it--and frankly this is also a testament to his ability--that manages to express the specific experience of growing up in NYC in the 70s without alienating those who did not. I did not grow up in Brooklyn as his main characters Dylan and Mingus do (it was Queens), and the years they experience are slightly off for me, too. In the end, their experiences fall somewhere between my own and those of my parents. But, his use of the street, the games kids played, the way those streets smelled and sounded, and in particular, his understanding of what it was like, and what it meant, to be a kid from an outer borough. How it felt during your first pilgrimage into Manhattan by yourself. The sense of both belonging and being an absolute outsider in your own hometown, simply because you were a bridge away. The awe of getting on the subway without a parent. Or going to "the Village." Of discovering a new band and a whole new world on a slip of vinyl. Being creative and weird and smart. Of growing out of your childhood joys of reading comics or playing those street games. Watching a brilliant friend destroy themself. Of realizing for the first time that you are not invincible. The way that Lethem was able to meld an experience so specific, without losing the universality of it is quite simply, an incredible accomplishment.

When I finished it and slowly, sadly put it down, I closed any thought of ever writing again. And for the first time, I did not mind at all.

i wish i was in new orleans

... I can see it in my dreams
arm-in-arm down Burgundy
a bottle and my friends and me
...
tenor saxophone calling me home
and I can hear the band begin
"When the Saints Go Marching In"
...
I'll drink you under the table
...
New Orleans, I'll be there
...

Some Tom Waits to celebrate Fat Tuesday ... (I'll probably be sued for posting that many lines of lyrics ... but for a good cause, though ... heh).


[Mardi Gras, 1950-something, that's Grandpa with the glasses behind the bar]

A little decadence goes a long way in healing (trust me).

Mardis Gras History & Timeline
Mardis Gras 2006--Official Site
Mardis Gras Inc.
Mardis Gras Countdown
Mardis Gras Central

Cheers, New Orleans.

the moonlight ... or something said long ago

With regard to the acquisition of someone else's memory through the telling of tales--my great-Aunt's, for example--one of the questions Sonata for Jukebox, and many novelists (and myself) have over the decades been fascinated by, look at is the essence of whether either--the experienced memory, or the remembered telling--is even remembering at all. And the importance not only of what we remember, but what we choose to remember. It is the question of memory itself--whether a favorite song, or other cogent expression of experience--and whether it is simply a reenactment of the original event, or how the mind prefers to be comforted by the sameness of the telling--its created image of the tale, and the controlled response produced.

From a fictional perspective, years ago I accidentally picked up Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat. The novel explores (more often succesfully than not) "the language of inheritance" and the doubling of memory. Breath, was especially compelling in how it explored the doubling of language (in the fragmented English/French/Creole retelling of family history) and how that shapes memory--how the words and language used define the experience of remembering. While imperfect, it is also an exquisite exploration of how human pain is shared and even physically manifested through shared memory, as well as how language shapes what is understood and what is not in the stories that we tell each other. And while there is much that can also be said on what Danticat was trying to express with regard to female interactions and the trauma of what men do to women, that was less compelling for me than the novel's creative perspective and telling of family history.

Helen Weinzweig’s novel Basic Black with Pearls asks similar questions, though she looks inward, at the places many of us live in our own minds, and the human need to find meaning in our physical life and our (often mistaken and possibly entirely invented) memory as part of the way people seek healing. Weinzweig's protagonist is even more appealing to me because she is completely unreliable. While we are always at the mercy of the novelist in the stories we read, it is generally a given that when we sink into our chair with a book, the place we are being taken is "real." In Basic Black, however, because the main character is uncertain in her memory, we are entirely at the mercy (as is she) of the reliability of the people she encounters. We learn about her and her memory as she does, by what she is told (about herself and her lover) through the memories and stories of strangers. Many readers recoil from this type of uncertain account, as we would if we were listening to someone who we were unsure was being honest. But, Weinzweig is quite accomplished at playing at the basic human need to hear stories that tell them about themselves, either to reinforce or newly invent, and she is quick to show us that there are only certain stories that the narrator is accepting and, in turn, letting us know about, in order to gain what she seeks--through chosen memory.

that mysterious form of time

Last year sometime, my generally peaceful and petite mother shoved (literally) the book Sonata for Jukebox: Pop Music, Memory, and the Imagined Life by Geoffrey O'Brien into my hands, exclaiming, "You must read this," and then she said it again, as if I hadn't quite understood ... in fact, she required me to give it to my father as a Christmas present. She hasn't spoken to my father in seven years, barely speaks his name. She recently cut him out of all the old photos and gave me the rest. An exorcism perhaps, as music may be the only thing that remains that they cannot untangle their memories of each other from ... my father wouldn't go to a Springsteen concert for years after they split because it was too much of my mother. But such is the effect of music, and perhaps why this book is so extraordinary for those who find themselves in other parts of time when a familiar tune comes on the radio (or iPod or stream).

There has been quite a lot of research about how music enhances memory, but as O'Brien explains in his Introduction, "this is a book written in the presence of music." And by presence, he is examining "how one listener hears" and the "fragments" of memory that music produces. And that is what has always fascinated me, the produced memory, not the quality of it.

And if you grew up in a home constantly filled with music as I did, you know how powerful simply hearing the opening riff of a familiar tune can be. In fact, that I remember most songs by their opening four chords may be an entirely unique music memory, thanks to my father who would spend hours making mixed tapes, timing segues within nanoseconds of the song's opening note. Drop the needle ... click the tape recorder ... [some kind of expletive] .... pick up the needle ... rewind ... drop ... over and over. Each cut, perfectly aligned. I remember my mother vacuuming to White Man in Hammersmith Palais and then In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning in one sweep. And it's shared not only in common experience, but in musical lore, as well. I loved listening to my great-Aunt Virginia tell me how she bought "Standing-Room-Only" tickets to see Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall and how she sat in the aisle, clutching her skirt to her knees, weeping. Without even putting that CD on, just thinking about her memory of that event makes me feel a little choked up.

technologies of memory in the arts
screening the past
words from the front
the perfect mix