Yes, it's true. I recorded a bunch of songs in my little home studio. And the result is now available on iTunes, Rhapsody, Amazon, Napster, eMusic, Shockhound and some others. Not sure how easy it is to find. It's called, "Jimmy Moliere in Paradise."
Another manifestation of my "jimmy-ness." I guess I'm ready for my all-jimmy, all-the-time channel! It's my little message in a bottle to the immense universe. Or at least internet-land!
Songs include: Indifference, Walking the Dog, I Be the Man, How Deep are the Trees?, Zombie, Thurston Howell 33 1/3, The Human Game, Giving up the Ghost, Jean Luc Godard, Too Heavy to Party, Waiting for the Alien Invasion, Bleeding is the First Step to Oblivion, and Funky Spermatoza.
It was recorded over the last couple of years. I'm pretty pleased with the final result. Only $9.99. If you're so inclined, give it a try!
Life. I've tried it out for awhile. It's kind of interesting. I've had many ideas about it. Sometimes simultaneously.
Some words that come to mind to describe it: a gift, an ordeal, a job, a test, a journey, an experience, a dream, a nightmare, a joke, a mission, a random blip, an accident, a mirage.
Lately, I think it's just an aesthetic experience or experiment. Especially in the sense of "a heightened sensitivity to beauty."
Only in this case beauty must be defined very, very expansively. Big enough to include the ugly, the deformed, the decaying.
Life can't be put in a box. It's a thing that resists boxes.
So if you go with the mirror neuron concept, then watching someone who is the best at what they do, doing their best, is kind of like you doing it too.
So thanks to Kobe, and my mirror neurons, I had an absolutely phenomenal game last night!
It was briefly very sunny and humid yesterday afternoon. It didn't last, by the end of the afternoon is was windy, cold and rainy. Weather fluctuations!
Anyway, I went for a long run on the lakefront in the middle of the humidity and discovered via my IPod that Green Day's "Holiday" is an exquisitely good running song. Kind of like an additional shot of adrenaline.
We had two very good shows this weekend. Saturday was probably the better of the two. A totally packed, overflow crowd just seemed to give us a little more focus and intensity. I suppose that much concentrated attention on what we were doing onstage was a natural energizer.
Still one of our rules is to never worry about how many people are in an audience. One lonely soul is enough for a show!
We were relaxed and confident. The result of a lot of work over the last few months. It's the kind of work that doesn't really seem like work. I recorded the show and yesterday we listened to the result. We were strong. Some of our songs are so beautiful. And the imagery we filmed was hushed and haunting. Fully realized.
Where do we go from here? Not sure. One step in front of another.
A very satisfying show last night. We do it one more time tonight. Kind of a short run. I like the focus and intensity. We had a nice crowd.
We are in a new place with our work, not really theater, instead, a strange hybrid - utilizing music, video, monologue and movement. Nothing all that radical, just an emphasis on slowness, stillness, poetry and a quiet, engulfing, shimmering sound.
At least that's what I think we're doing. Others may see and hear something different. That's really part of the thing. Each participant brings something and takes something of and for themselves.
And what makes a show successful? The little things. Batteries, cords, guitar stands, pre-show latte. Details. A hundred little details. And somehow, someway they add up to something.
Our theater company, Black Forest will be doing it's last show at the Peter Jones Gallery tonight and tomorrow. The show is called "The Thorn and the Rose." Music, video, live performance. It's a real hybrid.
Peter Jones Gallery will be closing after over 20 years of existence (we been doing shows there for about 9 years). Kind of a sad event. Something I haven't really processed yet. It's maybe sort of emblematic of the era we are in, lots of endings and uncertainty.
So the gallery is complete chaos, there will be a big rummage sale, and everything is sort of cluttered and chaotic. Except for our performance space, a clean, open space, where we will put on a show.
We are trying to create something beautiful, mysterious, unknowable in the middle of a crumbling, disappearing world. That's kind of been our mission from the beginning, except we didn't really know it.
We were out in the city last night. To and from our show. When you are working on a show it's all about the show. Like the show is the important thing. Whether it really is or not doesn't matter.
The show is the show!
Last night, if you paid attention you could hear the world cracking. Around the margins. Things breaking apart. People falling. A madness seeping into the cracks. An accelerated disintegration. It was there, the sound, the feeling, you could sense it if you paid attention.
It's a strange time. Maybe always has been, but the signs of dissolution seem to be piling up.
One false step and you are toast.
If you don't pay attention you are gone. That's how it works. You can be taken out any moment. Pay attention. Attention must be payed. And even then some will cash out without a moment's notice.
I'm not gonna see Opie's new movie. I didn't see the other one either. Still, I love this little "factoid." I think it says something about our culture.
Opie wasn't able to film at the actual Vatican in Italy, so instead, they built a replica Vatican in the parking lot of Hollywood Race Track.
We're getting ready for another theatrical production. We have been working on our set. The watchword is "minimal." Kind of like the famous Director Peter Brook's idea of "open space." That's really all you need to put on a show.
Our latest combines music, video, monologues and movement. It's kind of stark and ethereal. Not a lot of words. Which is where I'm at lately. Not a lot to say. It seems like a time just to "see."
So we were lugging, and sweeping and painting. I was painting everything black. A chair? Black. A stool? Black. A wall? Black. A platform? Black!
The actual piece is full of life and color. But the set is basic black.
I am sometimes stunned by the substantiality of my physical being. I am also sometimes stunned by the insubstantiality of existence for the living.
Our bodies seem to have their own agenda, written in the genes, and beings come and go every second of this life in the universe.
So basically I'm often stunned. Maybe not the most useful way to navigate the slipstream.
And when we "go" it's sort of stunning to think that everything else just continues on. Almost like we didn't exist in the first place. That's a stunner too.
These were thoughts that were swimming around in my head on a sunny afternoon. Still yesterday was an absolutely beautiful day. Good to be alive.
I love watching NBA games. Playoff time. I usually skip the regular season. I do think professional basketball is the best sport to watch. It's a great game for TV. Baseball for instance is a lousy game to watch on TV. It just looks bad.
I think I can thank Michael Jordan for my NBA addiction. The Jordan years were absolutely extraordinary. Chicago was the center of the sports Universe. In my book, Jordan is the best player to have ever played the game. He always hit the clutch shot, he always wanted to be in the pressure situation, and he always excelled. And he did it all with maximum style and grace.
There are lots of good players today too. In fact, the next best thing to Jordan is Kobe Bryant. It's funny, Jordan's long-time coach, Phil Jackson is also Kobe's coach. I don't think it's a coincidence. Phil Jackson knows his shit.
Kobe and company took on Denver last night. It was a great game. The Lakers are a fascinating team, they can be had, but they are plucky and tough, the roster is like the U.N. Denver is young, and brash, a bunch of upstarts. Kobe had his hands full last night. He and Carmelo Anthony battled all night long. It should be a wonderful series.
Kobe came through in the clutch. He took the ball to the hole. Could not be stopped. Very Jordan-esque. He hit his free throws. A true sign of a great.
I like to think that I'm practical, that I see the world around me with clear eyes. But I've always had "the dream," out there in front of me. It has always been one of my "drivers" the reason I get up in the morning. Ever since I was a little kid.
The dream always changes. And if I look at things clearly, the dream is usually some weird mirage of success and happiness and validation - a "day dream," a fantasy. I mean, not that I don't realize those things, but they always come in other forms. The specifics of the dream can be big, or little, it doesn't matter. Sometimes it's just something to "tickle my fancy" or sometimes it's a grand life-changer.
Dreams.
There are times when I think the dream is just baggage. The burden of dreams.
Much of my creative work seems in the dream realm, and I'm always expending energy to bring dreams into the "real world." Still the dreams always evaporate. Sometimes I think they vanish without a trace, but probably not, just their brief appearance remakes the world in some weird alchemical reaction. At least on my better days that's what I think.
I sometimes wonder should I just toss these dreams over-board, but then something happens that tells me the dream can be real, it can be realized. That's part of the eternal seduction of the dream.
Even as I take my last breath, I'm sure there will be some dream dancing on my brow. Maybe that's just another dream I can't give up...
The Telepaths played at the Mutiny (check out the famous Mutiny urinal) yesterday afternoon. It was a r&r BBQ. Kind of a can't miss combo. I thought we were playing a little hole in the wall place, but it turned out to be a beautifully laid out classic Chicago-style bar, with cheap beer and eats.
The sound system and sound guy were probably the best we've worked with so far. And the band itself was in great form. Our new drummer and bass player have opened up a new door for us. Both are incredibly accomplished musicians and our r&r IQ has gone up tremendously.
We played for nearly an hour and the audience cried for more. I was ready and willing to play another set, but it was our lead singer's birthday, and he was ready to delve into the party scene.
We all reveled in the good vibes of a show well done. It's great to watch this little creative enterprise continue to evolve.
We played Cal's last Thursday night. A true Chicago landmark. It was a great night. WWSP really upped the ante. The Lovely Carla and the Lovely Sara dressed up in "costume", and they truly brought some excellent r&r brio and dazzling energy to the performance.
Sara billed it as our "Punk Rock Show."
It was all such tight quarters. About 30 people meant the place was totally packed. High energy. High. I think I was riding on the fumes of all the spilled beer seeped into the bar and floor of the place over the last 50 years. I thought it was a major coming out for us. At the end of the show I blew my amp (and voice) out. I take that as a good sign.
Maximum r&r. We owned the room. The Lovely Carla was dressed as a "naughty nurse" from some punk planet. She was channeling a Patti Smith High Priestess vibe.
I wore a funny hat!
For some reason, I thought of the great CBGB's in New York (never went there except in my imagination). I was thinking Cal's might be Chicago's version of that classic hole in the wall. It is the real deal. Been around for 50 years or so.
The spirits are behind the bar and in the air. Awe-inspiring.
P.S. The Telepaths followed WWSP. It was the first show of the band's new lineup. Sanjay, our marvelous drummer from WWSP is now a Telepath too. He joins The Professor who holds down the bass groove. Suddenly we have a rhythm section that rivals Entwistle and Mooney. Wow. Some how some way we need to capture that live rock sound on tape. Haven't done it yet!
One thing that is kind of strange in my life, I've been around for a while, walking around in the world, putting some miles on the body, but still I always feel like a "fledgling."
As per the web definition:
newcomer: any new participant in some activity fledgling(a): (of a young bird) having acquired its flight feathers; "a fledgling robin" young bird that has just fledged or become capable of flying young and inexperienced; "a fledgling enterprise"; "a fledgling skier"; "an unfledged lawyer"
I've had a theater company for many years, but each production is like a newly hatched chick. I've played with a couple bands over the last few years, and still I feel like an "unfledged guitar player."
My professional career (if I have such a thing) is always in a state of fledge. My life is basically a constant state of fledge.
I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. I've got these feathers for flight, I'm capable. But still I'm often bumping my ass on the ground.
Supposedly we have these "mirror neurons" in our brains. You eat a banana, and in my brain, I mirror your action, these neurons allow me to empathize with your action. I'm eating the banana too, but I don't get the calories!
Maybe this explains the whole porno industry. Tommie Lee has sex with Pamela Andersen, and well, let's just say, I "don't get any on me!"
There are some people who have more mirror neurons than others. This may explain mind-reading, empathy, imitation. Monkey see, monkey do.
And what does this say for artistic types? Someone like Bob Dylan is a mirror to the world. He mirrors the world, and the world recognizes itself in his mirror. If he puts on mirror shades, he mirrors the mirror, which mirrors the mirror, or something like that.
I mean, I guess the whole she-bang, the shooting match is like just one big hall or mirrors. To paraphrase Mirror Man Dylan: "I'll let you be in my mirror if I can be in yours."
Supposedly there used to be a guy called a "Sin Eater." But now sin is so passe. Instead we have debt. Mountains and mountains of debt. We have built our empire on debt. So I guess now what we need is a "Debt Eater." We're going to need someone with a fucking insatiable appetite.
And what about all those people who don't believe in evolution? Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Like a bunch of close-minded monkeys...
So anyway this article talking about viruses tells us:
"The sheer number of viruses on Earth is beyond our ability to imagine. “In a small drop of water there are a billion viruses,” Dr. Wolkowicz said. Virologists have estimated that there are a million trillion trillion viruses in the world’s oceans."
I think fundamentally I am an optimist. But maybe by being fundamentally optimistic, I can entertain myself with pessimistic views of the world and not get seriously twisted. I can't explain it. Sort of contradictory. But there it is...
I am seriously impressed with John Robb, who has a fundamentally pessimistic outlook on the future of the current system...
"So, we can expect to see an increase in entropy in all fields of human endeavor; expressed as chaotic forms of pollution, warfare, economic crisis, and societal discontent. Worse, this trend line can't be mitigated with even with best of management (if we were only so lucky) at the national or global organizational level, since the only process which might accomplish this is organizational fragmentation/death."
Last night we had a great band rehearsal. WhiteWolfSonicPrincess is going to play a show at Cal's Liquors next week, and we want to bring the maximum rock groove to that little dingy Punk club.
It's been awhile since all four of us have been in a room together. And for some reason, everything aligned. Our band has never sounded better.
At one point we just got into a long extended jam, and the Lovely Carla did a sort of poetic, stream of consciousness monologue over Sara's throbbing bass groove, Sanjay's exquisite drumming and my broken chords and mis-placed riffs. It was a new thing.
It just sort of happened. A nice rambling looseness. Most of our songs are very tight, well-constructed, actually pretty complex. We've been able to take that complexity in and just play.
It's the result of some intensive work. The good work.
And it was certainly a break-through for us! Ride the vibe!
Maybe it looks attractive, but maybe celebrity in all it's glory is actually like contracting a horrifying, totally transfiguring disease.
And those that don't have it, think they want it, but really, they are lucky they don't have it.
And the ones that do have it try to pretend it's not so bad, or that it's really great, but really, it's horrible.
But like any enterprising disease it wants to spread.
And a world of celebrities is like a plague. And maybe that's where we are headed and we should all be doing our best to be anonymous, keep our heads down, live simply and try to live lightly on the land.
Then again, we all love the bling, baby! "My precious..."
I don't really know why, but I'm in the middle of reading Eric Clapton's autobiography. It's not a very uplifting read. Clapton comes off as the "accidental tourist." Someone with a great gift, who is just sort of walking through the rock and roll universe in a drug-addled, alcoholic haze.
And Eric doesn't really make anyone else look very good either. It seems his circle was filled with a lot of a sad, needy people.
I'm kind of amazed. I get much more enjoyment playing guitar, writing music, playing for a lot of empty clubs and rehearsal spaces then Mr. Clapton seems to get from playing to the world. You'd think the guy was "sitting on top of the world" but instead he seems like a very unhappy, kind of twisted, tortured, not very deep or enlightened human being.
Maybe there's a payoff later in the book. But it's kind of a slog reading it. I guess there's something to be said for cold honesty. Maybe it's the Oprah-ization of the world. Living a wasted existence, owning up, and then happy, clean and sober in the end. It's just kind of sad and annoying to see someone whose work I admire come off as such a hollow cipher. Maybe Clapton should sue the author for defamation?!
The Lovely Carla got up and made a beeline to the CD player. She said she had a song going through her head and she needed to hear it first thing this morning.
Mahalia Jackson came out of the speakers singing: "Keep your hand on the plow, oh Lord."
Okay. I get it. Loud and clear!
UPDATE: And what song is going through my head this morning?
Ramones: "Beat on the brat, beat on the brat, with a baseball bat..."
I'd wager I was the only being in the universe yesterday, all dressed in black, wearing the dead man's military boots, sipping an iced mocha latte, listening to Roxy Music's first album on an iPod, taking the train to heart of Chicago to bet the Derby.
I exist!
And if I didn't would someone have taken my place?
I almost didn't make the trip. Before I got on that train, after all was said and done, all the research, making my picks, counting out my money, I hesitated, thinking, "Do I really want to battle the ponies today?" I mean, I actually said the words out loud. The Lovely Carla heard me and replied, "What happened, did you lose your MOJO?"
I decided right then and there, that no, my MOJO was still intact. Of course I was gonna bet the Derby!
And I went down in flames! All my horses were left in the mud. Running backwards! Humbling. No, I did not need that lesson, again.
And looking over the Racing Form this morning, I must say, I still wouldn't bet on the winner, Mine that Bird. Not in a million years. It just doesn't add up. I mean, I guess knowing what I know today, I'd bet on him, but only because I know he won.
There's nothing that you can point to to say, "This is my horse!" Nothing really to recommend. I mean, he does have four legs, and they all work. Still, on paper Mine that Bird should have come in just about last.
But there's the race, and as Godinla says, it was a great race. Mine that Bird, a little scrawny kind of horse, found an opening on the rail and bolted for daylight. Left the field well behind. A rousing performance. Everything had to be just right. And it was.
And guess what? The Lovely Carla picked him. Before I left I read off the names of the horses and she listened and then said,"Mine that Bird, bet him $5 to place." I did. And she won. Big time. $5 to place and she's gonna collect $135!
That's the way you do it! Freaking Magic! There's another lesson in there somewhere...
Some habits die hard. Especially the bad ones. And sometimes those bad habits are the ones that kill you. The first Saturday of May means The Kentucky Derby. I can't help it, I have to make the trek down to the betting parlor and give it a go today.
It's not exactly the best investment strategy in the world, although, all those Wall Street investors went down the tubes on some bad bets too.
Yesterday I plunked down my money to buy a Daily Racing Form. The only bible I believe in. So I'm already in the hole. It's all in black and white: the times, the conditions, the speed ratings, the jockeys, the breeding, the medications, etc. So many facts and so little intelligence with which interpret them.
I like the challenge of looking over past performance to predict future outcomes. It's like pretending to be Sherlock Holmes for a day. Inductive reasoning. There's the facts of the case and then we derive general principles. But of course, sometimes those general principles don't add up to a pile of manure.
Usually the fastest horse wins. Sounds simple. 19 or 20 horses running today. As always this race is wide-open. 3 year olds who have never run this distance before. And don't forget "racing luck."
And then you wonder, is what happens, the only thing that could happen? Is there some kind of destiny? Or is it only destiny after the fact?
Beats the hell out of me. I don't like touting horses. My personal idiosyncrasies should not be spread amongst the population. I just want to be on the record. I'm going with Dunkirk. A pricey yearling who is lightly raced. Looks to be getting better every time out. I'll be putting him in some exactas and trifectas too. If it's muddy I'll also include Friesan Fire in some combos.
Anyway this is what's called a Leap of Faith. I'm making the Leap! Look out below. Leapers fall hard!
Yes, I think this is probably a spiritual journey, but of course, we need to bring our bodies along for the ride. And maybe that spirit/body duality is a false picture. We are complicated beings in a world of complicated beings. And there's all kinds of competing expectations and agendas. It's a long, strange ride. And there's no place to hide!
“It is the same poisonous philosophy that we had here, based on a lack of moral awareness and greed, and people who thought nothing of flying Elton John into Iceland for their 50th birthdays and paying him 70 million Icelandic kronur,” or roughly $600,000." - Iceland's Steingrimur Sigfusson
Yesterday was sunny, 80 degrees of paradise. It came out of nowhere.
No, the warmth came on a stiff southern breeze.
Everybody came out. Kind of like the Clay People in those old Flash Gordon's - white, pasty-faced people emerging into the daylight to greet the blue sky, the spring greenery, the roiling lake.
It was one of those days where you were happy just to be alive. No plan, no agenda. Just one long-form improvisation. Remember - always say "yes," keep the game going forward, don't wait for the laugh, just listen and respond.
So you ask me this awkward question: "jimmy jammer, you like the Smiths, okay, it's been a long, long time since they made a record, I mean that group is long dead and gone, they are so last century, but still, if you were gonna delve into their catalog, which of their records would you recommend?"
jimmy jammer: "I haven't heard every record they ever made, just a few, I don't know why, I mean, I love them. I owned one or two on vinyl and then bought the same ones in cd format. I recently loaded up a couple discs on my iPod and it's like finding an old long-lost friend. I'm a big fan of "The Queen is Dead." Just about every song is great. I mean Morrissey is not only a great singer, he has the literary chops to write exquisite lyrics and Johnny Marr's approach to the guitar is unique and relevatory."
"It's so easy to laugh It's so easy to hate It takes strength to be gentle and kind Over, over, over, over It's so easy to laugh It's so easy to hate It takes guts to be gentle and kind Over, over Love is Natural and Real But not for you, my love Not tonight, my love Love is Natural and Real But not for such as you and I, my love Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my ... Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can even feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my ... "
Hey it's all over the news, I'm not gonna bother to find a link. The Black Hell of Illegal Torture consumed a good portion of the last administration. It is no surprise. Very old news.
Still it's kind of amazing how many supposedly bright, high-profile people approved methods that were clearly violations of international law. And there is a good portion of the Washington establishment: politicians, and media pundits who are basically cheerleaders for torture. And there's probably plenty of people out in the heartland who have no problem with torture either.
There should be a "perp walk" of some prominent people in the near future. Whether it will happen or not is anybody's guess. Probably not. But if not, it only shows that a sickness and corruption has over-taken the body politic. If we can't get the basics right, then we are truly fucked.
Ever since I was a wee lad, I've always been partial to those songwriters who could write a good lyric. I think Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Paul Simon probably set the standard for me. Plus later I discovered some other guys, especially Johnny Mercer who wrote some killer songs, literate, sophisticated and funny.
I recently read a book on Roxy Music and ever since, I've been obsessing over some of the great British lyricists. My favorites include, Ray Davies, Bryan Ferry, Pete Townsend, Robyn Hitchcock and Morrissey. I'm especially a big fan of the Smiths, one of those great bands that really sounded like no one else. Sort of fey and precious. The Smiths are another instance of a great collaborative effort between a singer and a guitar player (Morrissey and Johnny Marr).
By the way, Morrissey played a set at the recent Coachella festival. He is a long-time vegetarian and as the story goes...
The wafting smell of the hamburger and gyro stands made it to the crooner’s nostrils. Morrissey grimaced and then gagged. “I can smell burning flesh and I hope to god it’s human!”
Indeed!
Cut to the YouTube a nice video montage featuring a Smiths song created by someone out in internet-land!
It seems we don't know what we know until we know it. And we don't really know what we know until the moment's over, the dust has settled, and we're looking back at the wreckage, or the post-party, or whatever.
So it's one of those things like, you're in the moment, and moment sort of seems like chaos, unknowable, and you think you know what's going on, but you're quite not sure. You're looking for clues, details to hang onto. And you surmise. And plan and hope.
And then the thing happens, the world unfolds, the moment passes, and then there's some kind of dawning. Oh yeah. That's it. Or you think you know. And you move on. Although everything is fungible or up for re-evaluation. And maybe that re-evaluation goes on for a lifetime.
The Lovely Carla and I watched Bernardo Bertolucci's "The Dreamers" again last night. It's one of our favorite films. Bertolucci is a supremely accomplished visual poet. Every scene is suffused with a hushed beauty. Not quite as brutally stunning as "Last Tango in Paris," but still a superb companion to that film.
Both are based in Paris. Both are about creating a private paradise and the limits to that strategy. Both films feature amazing soundtracks, in the case of "Tango" it's Gato Barbieri, and in "The Dreamers" it's primarily the great music of the those fallen 60's heroes, Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison. All of them done in by self-induced excess.
I hadn't heard Jim Morrison's voice in awhile. And it really called out to me. What a great vocalist. Forget the legend for a moment, forget the excess, forget the leather pants. The man could really sing. Indelible. The Doors were a great band. One of those groups with no middle ground, you either loved them or hated them. Put me in the camp of love...
You come here, you can't explain it, one day, you find yourself ambling around the planet with no real clue about origins or destinations, you have no brief or mission book, and the maps and rule books people try to shove into your greedy mitts seem so lame or implausible, or just not appealing at all.
You'd prefer not to.
So on your good days you dream. You dream big dreams and you dream little dreams, and you dream about dreams and dreaming. You dream how you're gonna change the world. And you burn up a lot of time and energy making plans and hatching schemes and how you're gonna implement all these dreams and schemes, and how happy you're gonna be when A and B and C and D and E and F and G happens.
And maybe the dreamed up things happen and maybe they don't. And then you have learn how to be happy anyway, or maybe no that's not what happens, sometimes happiness comes down on you like rain, and it really doesn't matter what happens or what doesn't happen, sometimes you are happy and sometimes you are not happy and you can't really explain how or why it happens that way, it just does.
Just more mystery to add to your closet full of mysteries.
And then one day you notice that maybe you haven't really changed the world, it hasn't happened like that, no the world has changed you and maybe that was the dream that the world had, that it would be impervious to change but it could change the beings who lived in the world. And really the world isn't impervious to anything. The world changing you means the world changes too. It's some weird equation where everything adds up, even the things you can't sum. And you helped fulfill that particular dream and really that was what you meant anyway.
You dreamed of changing the world but what you meant was you wanted the world to change you and it was gonna happen anyway whether you wanted it to happen or not. And that is the dream and the dream was realized. It was always gonna be realized. You just didn't realize it. Until you did.
My fair weather friends won't understand since they get sunshine and blue sky and moderate temps all the time. Here in the city of Big Shoulders, the days of gorgeousness are few and far between. And when you get one of those days, it's usually already fading away, or you're deeply in the know that this is a gift that won't last, it can be taken away with one stiff breeze. The next one down the line will probably be soggy or cloudy or cold.
Yesterday was one of the gorgeous ones. And I was on a trek to the Heart. Off to play music with my brother in Wicker Park. Which is always a weird-ass kick. We fire up our amps and wail. Sometimes it's ecstasy and sometimes complete madness. Usually a little of both. I'd probably enjoy it all the more if I was on the juice, but I've opted for a more clarified existence. So that means everything comes sort of bifurcated.
Cognitive Dissonance should be tattooed on my freaking forehead.
So, I wore my dark shades, plugged in my iPod and rode the vibe of the day. Kind of like Williard on his way to his reckoning with Kurtz. The young ladies were out, showing off the latest fashions. Suddenly, everything seemed brighter and lighter. A spring day, and the green shoots of the future were poking from the mud.
And unaccountably a certain joy just seemed to completely envelope me. I was a letter of joy without a sender. It was a day of clues and no solutions.
The Big Media Megaphone just loves the stupid. And it seems if you blare enough stupid out into the atmosphere it saturates everything. We all eat it, breathe it, regurgitate it.
It's all just too much stupid. And we are getting stupider. No doubt. Wired, connected, on-line and fucking stupid.
We can turn the Megaphone off. Stuff our ears. Pick up a book and actually read it, or sit in silence, or change the subject.
Live outside the herd for awhile. It's a little less crowded and less stupid.
I do like my people to be smart, funny, articulate and creative.
* I originally titled this post, "Vanishing Breed?" But really, I don't think it's about breeding at all. The circumstances of our births are pretty much circumstantial. And I don't think they are vanishing either, just rare. These are the kind of ducks who don't like to be put in a row.
All of us are capable. Each and every one of us. We are human beings.
Equal.
Alive.
In the moment.
Now.
How do we choose to be in the world? What do we value? How do we treat each other?
I think it's more a question of choosing to be awake or asleep. There's upsides and downsides to both.
I drink way too much coffee to hang with the sleeping ones for long. So I put myself in the "awake" category, although, to be honest, I could be just a light sleeper.
“You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive. It is not for unsteady souls.” - M. Cunningham
And isn't it true of anything that we truly value? The precious moments of our lives? You can't hang them on a wall, or store them away in a drawer. A faded photograph really doesn't do the trick.
A life fully-lived to the absolute max is not for "unsteady souls."
I bought this Andrew Bird Nobel Beast disc yesterday. And played it in the rental car on my way to visit family.
If you are named Andrew Bird, you should be fine-boned, with feather-like locks, you must warble, you must know what a whip-poor-will is, you must have a nice singing voice, you probably play violin, you fill your songs with stringed instruments: mandolins, maybe dulcimers, or other organic sounding things.
And you whistle. I mean, you are a world class whistler. You are a virtuoso whistler. And people are amazed at how good you whistle. You bring the house down with your whistling. Yes, Mr. Bird, you do.
I just finished Michael Bracewell's book on Roxy Music "Re-make/Re-model. It's really a revelatory read. Not just about a band, but about Pop Art, the Rockers, the Mods, Marcel Duchamp, Andy Warhol, the Art School world of the 1960's in Newcastle and Reading and London, and the whole what is art anyway conundrum.
I just absolutely loved the book.
I think so highly of the book even in mid-read, I ordered another Bracewell book. I think he's a superb writer. He tackles the subject of Roxy Music as if they are worthy of the utmost research and respect. He makes the case that Bryan Ferry and his vision of Roxy was the perfect melding of fine art and pop art, the living embodiment of the collision of the two.
And the characters that you meet are an extraordinary lot: Richard Hamilton (the Warhol of England), Brian Eno (the avant garde prodigy) Andy Mackay ( the brilliant, classically-trained sax player in the band) Simon Puxley (the tragically brilliant intellect who did PR for the band) and of course Bryan Ferry.
Bracewell also spends a lot of time exploring the fashion of the times, who made the suits and dresses, who styled the hair, and these little details seem to assume major significance - social and cultural impact. The book changes the way you look at the world. Nice job.
Here's a clip from Roxy Music in their early incarnation at a show at the Royal College of Art June 1972. They all seem like exotic birds, or a strangely-stylized aristocratic contingent from a wildly colorful unknown island out beyond the stars. Ferry loved Motown, Ethel Merman, John Coltrane, Albert Ayler, John Cage, Muddy Waters, Gene Kelly. Eno and Mackay loved the outer fringes of the serious avant garde. The melding of all those influences made something new and totally exhilarating.
Check out this sonic blast of pure pop art adrenaline. Wow.
1. It's probably not a good idea to start a conversation with your long-time girlfriend thusly: "I was at the coffee shop and that young Asian girl was on the other side of the counter, and she caught me accidentally looking at her ass and..."
2. Sometimes you are just one hot chocolate away from feeling good.
3. The Lovely Carla told me that "hairy" was in. Now if "grizzled, worn-out, beat and wizened" (think Walter Brennan) come back in, I'll be freaking hot!
4. It seems I'm always waiting for the next shoe to drop. It's like there's a bunch of shoes up there. Some filled with gold and daisies, some filled with daggers and stones. And they are just up there waiting to hit the pavement at an inopportune time. Of course, just the shoe-dropping itself could be dangerous. Still I spend much of my days thinking of/waiting for those damn shoes to drop. Gives a whole new meaning to the concept of "loafing!"
Today some people are burning brain cells over some long ago Messianic Rabbi who kind of ventured off the ranch. It didn't work out so good for the poor guy, sometimes Love is a rebel yell.
Anyway my Mythological Heroes are Tricksters in every way. Not perfect. Supremely quirky. In my book quirky passes for holy.
The Native Americans have Coyote. The ancient Greeks had Hermes.
"It must be the Southern air. It’s filled with rambling ghosts and disturbed spirits. They’re all screaming and forlorning. It’s like they are caught in some weird web - some purgatory between heaven and hell and they can’t rest. They can’t live, and they can’t die. It’s like they were cut off in their prime, wanting to tell somebody something. It’s all over the place. There are war fields everywhere … a lot of times even in people’s backyards." - Bob Dylan
We say we like consistency in others and ourselves (safer? more predictable?), but really it's our contradictions that make us fully human. And where the contradiction springs is where we find our greatest strengths.
Maybe the most admirable among us, are not those without contradiction (because we know this is a false face, a bald lie, and only the shallow mask of the hypocrite), but those who are fully comfortable with all of their contradictions fully on display.
We are all of us crucified on the cross of contradiction. It's the crux of the human story.
Sunday night I braved the ice and snow and made my way to Silverspace to videotape Sara Thompson's (Sara is in our band WhiteWolfSonicPrincess check out her vocals on "Don't Look in the Mirror") beautiful dance performance piece called "Flying Things."
I basically pushed the buttons and followed the action. Here is the raw footage that Sara posted on YouTube, no edits. What a hauntingly beautiful piece. She is an artist in every way.
I don't know if Dmitri Orlov is right or not. He's predicting COLLAPSE of good old USA. He is quite the fascinating and funny writer; always a good, provocative read.
I find much of what he writes quite plausible, which is sort of scary, but the madness of our current situation seems palpable.
So what to do?
Orlov suggests starting a garden, owning a donkey, getting to know your neighbors, maybe getting a sailboat - the wind is a good energy source.
Learn to do something that will be useful as barter in an economy where money is worthless.
I was out on the streets of the big city Saturday night. I was in my own little bubble of genial bliss. Listening to Green Day and the Who.
I'm not sure what it was, but as I watched the passing scene, the people, the cars, the pulse of a busy metropolis, this incredible and overwhelming sense of violence and danger came over me. It was just something in the air. So strong I could almost touch it, smell it.
Nothing in particular happened. It was just like a passing cloud or fog. It seemed as real as death. I can' explain it. It was just something I sensed and couldn't shake.
It was with me the next morning in kind of a hang-over although I had not altered my consciousness with any chemicals or beverages. Nothing stronger than coffee and chocolate. I just thought that I had picked up the general vibe of the night, the city.
We are a land of drugs (legal and illegal) and guns. We are awash in the need to desensitize ourselves with chemicals, we are armed to the teeth preparing for an enemy who lurks in the mirror.
And sometimes it seems the door is coming off it's hinges. The frames are crumbling. What emerges from the haze of narcotics and concealed handguns? Not sure, just America my friends.
I notice that I hate nostalgia, and love history. It's not in my nature to look back at my life wistfully or longingly for times long past. My life has been filled with good moments and not so good moments and moments that now seem neither good nor not so good.
I'm usually just in the moment. And that's good enough.
On the other hand I do like reading history, or especially biographies or autobiographies of people from other times and places. I have found it's a great way to ground events, and draw the crazy strands of our world into some kind of focus. You have to kind of trust that the author isn't completely fabricating shit, some are better than others, but in the right hands it's not that great of a leap of faith.
I realize that I live in a world where our Pop Culture has leached into everything, so for me these characters that I have delved into are all of equal weight, I mean, each a human life: Crazy Horse, Bing Crosby, Jean Genet, Dean Martin, William Blake, Bill Graham, Josef Stalin, Anthony Keidis, Christopher Marlowe, Bono, Arthur Miller, Bertolt Brecht, Elvis Presley, Marcel Duchamp, Jimi Hendrix, Samuel Beckett, George Amstrong Custer, Che Guevara, Richard Sheridan, Morrissey, Francis Bacon, Phil Lesh, Jasper Johns, Richard Nixon, Andy Warhol, Errol & Sean Flynn, Sonny Liston, Jerry Lee Lewis, Andre Breton, William Shakespeare, Charles Darwin, Led Zeppelin, Robert Oppenheimer, Muhammad Ali, Bob Dylan, Yukio Mishima, The Flaming Lips, The Futurists, Emmet Miller, The Beatles, Robert Motherwell, Mark Rothko, Vince Lombardi, Black Elk, John Peel, Jean Paul Satre, Johnny Rotten, Sonic Youth, The Dadaists, Pink Floyd, Yoko Ono, Joseph Cornell, Alberto Giacometti, Pablo Picasso, Aleister Crowley, Dante, Terry Southern, Philip K. Dick, Rolling Stones, Nicholas Ray, Samuel Fuller, Charles Laughton, Billy Strayhorn, Thomas Merton, Syd Barret, Machiavelli, Daniel Pearl, George Orwell and a bunch more that I can't recall at the moment.
Which is weird. How come we don't remember everything? And why do we remember the things we remember? And where do the things we forget go?
And what have I learned from all this reading?
There are billions of ways to live a life. Each unique. Like another world. None like any other.
So put 100 monkeys in a room with typewriters, give them 3 or 4 billion years and one of them will type up "Macbeth." And let's say that for some reason the monkey that comes up with "Macbeth" assumes some kind of cache, and thus scores more chicks.
That's sort of the idea.
And if our DNA code is a script, just a long string of letters, we are actually the result of a mechanism (natural selection) very much like those 100 monkeys in a room and that one lucky stud monkey with a Shakespearean bent.
Everything living on the planet is the result of this mechanism. So that's kind of interesting, or mind-fucking. And then if we think of our lives, and our bodies and brains we think isn't all kind of amazing?
We are kind of a controlled experiment. Or an uncontrolled experiment. Or maybe an experiment gone awry. Or an experiment with no point. Or not really an experiment at all. Those 100 monkeys just can't help themselves. Click, clack, click. (We don't let them have word processors, it's more satisfying to think of them whacking away on old Remington typewriters for some reason).
So there's no good reason we shouldn't just have a great old time while we're here. I mean what the hell.
"Evolution is good for life, not so good for the living."
There's a bug in the hardware/software of being a human being. Or no, it's just an ego-killing operating feature: "Planned obsolescence."
"The process of a product becoming obsolete and/or non-functional after a certain period or amount of use in a way that is planned or designed by the manufacturer."
Okay, who is the bastard that came up with that damn option?
I wanted to go with the leather seats and "under-coating."
It's kind of strange to think of your life as the sum of odd occurances, chance encounters, happy or not accidents, weird phenomena, positive fuck-ups, unexplainable epiphanies, molecular collisions, and supremely lucky and unlucky moments.
But there it is...
Or is it that "everything happens for a reason?" Even if you don't know the reason, and never will. And the Universe don't need no stinking reason for anything? It just is?!
Sort of makes the idea of a "plan" or "career" or an ordered existence seem sort of silly or irrelevant, or just plain off the mark.
I was wondering what happened to Billie Joe Armstrong and Green Day. A couple of years ago, at a friend's suggestion, I gave American Idiot a try and it is certainly one of my favorite albums of the new millennium.
Billie Joe is actually quite the ambitious rocker. The music didn't really seem "punk" to me, even if that's where Green Day started. The music is melodic with some great hooks, more in the mode of slick power pop. There's nothing like a cranked Marshall and a Les Paul Jr. wielded with authority to get the adrenaline flowing.
I have always been a fan of the "rock opera." Which sort of seems like a contradiction. A bastard genre. But ever since Sgt. Peppers bands have been playing with the form.
The Who scored with two rock opera masterpieces - "Tommy" and "Quadrophenia." Superb music, great themes, ambitious without being overly grand. Hard rocking and not pretentious (ok maybe a little) in the least. At least that's my take.
And it turns out Green Day is gonna take another crack at it - "21st Century Breakdown." I'm making room on my iPod!
UPDATE: Plus Billie Joe is a funny guy. I mean, I don't think he takes himself too seriously. Which is sort of refreshing. He's the Jesus of Suburbia living on a diet of "soda pop and Ritalin."
Thrasher on Neil Young News gives a nice capsule review of Robert Greenfield's book, "Bill Graham Presents..."
Do you want to meet one of the inventors of the rock and roll universe? Bill Graham, born Wolfgang Grajonca, had much of the 20th century etched into his bones.
He fled Europe, escaped the Holocaust (his mother was not so lucky), grew up in New York, worked as waiter in the Catskills, hitchhiked across the country, went to the Korean War, earned a Bronze Star, became an actor, (did a scene study class with Marilyn Monroe!), and opened the Fillmore West in San Francisco.
The Greenfield book is a great read. Graham is one of the most fascinating, original self-made American characters to emerge from the Sixties flowering. The book is made up of interviews, the audio-tape must have flowed like a river of beer, or ganja smoke.
Other voices that emerge and inspire: Pete Townsend, Carlos Santana, Jerry Garcia, Keith Richards. Graham was a famous screamer. He could use obscene language to superb effect. He ran a small family operation whether it was one of the Fillmores, Winterland, or a Rolling Stone world tour. An amazing dude. He did it all.
Talk about creative booking, a Graham show might be Lenny Bruce and Frank Zappa. Or Neil Young and Miles Davis. Or Buddy Rich and The Grateful Dead.
The book takes you from the 30's to the 90's. What a long, strange trip.
As I was reading this book I was so happy to have met Bill Graham. I wish my father would have had the chance to meet him too. By the way, there is a great site devoted to the music that Bill Graham promoted. Check out Wolfgang's Vault to stream an amazing collection of rock shows. Simply incredible stuff.
It snowed here yesterday. It was kind of a confounding event. We were just getting used to the idea of Spring. But it's the heartland, and Mother Nature is a real joker.
We used the snow as an opportunity to do some filming on the beach. We are working towards a Black Forest Theater show in May. We have been filming scenes of color and beauty.
It's some kind of theme.
The Lovely Carla and the equally Lovely Sara put on some colorful dresses and I manned the camera. We were trying to capture something of the hushed exquisite grandeur of water, sky, sand, (and snow!) and the feminine form.
The beautiful images in my view-finder can't really be reduced to words.
So it turns out snow is just a prop, or part of our set design.
We spent a good portion of the day yesterday at my brother's recording studio trying to catch lightening in a bottle. Or maybe it was trying to invent a butterfly. Or trying to corral a shooting star. Or trying to ride a moon beam.
If I was tasked to write an Operator's Manual for being a human being, I think my first instruction would be to follow Quentin Crisp's pithy admonition:
"To know who you are - and be it like mad."
I'd also recommend that you should never run to catch a train. Don't worry there will be another.
And if you are looking for the calm center in the storm, you don't really need to venture very far - it is between your ears.
Last Friday night my ugly step-child band, The Telepaths played at Sylvies Lounge. It's one of my favorite bands (probably because I'm in it!), playing at one of our favorite places. The band is still evolving. We do have some nice original songs influenced by everything in the rock and roll universe.
This band is primarily dedicated to three chords and a swagger. Sometimes it works and sometimes not. But it's always an adventure. Anyway the Lovely Carla took some pictures. These are my favorites. It's best to see me as a shadowy blur. Really! What with the goofy hat, and the goofy grin. But man, my Telecaster is quite photogenic! That's the Professor on bass.
Wow. Check out Chris Hedges this morning ("In decaying societies..."). Quite the substantial breakfast.
The Corporate State Vs. Moral Autonomy!
Guess who is winning?!
"The manipulative character is a systems manager. He or she exclusively trained to sustain the corporate structure, which is why our elites are wasting mind-blowing amounts of our money on corporations like Goldman Sachs and AIG. “He makes a cult of action, activity, of so-called efficiency as such which reappears in the advertising image of the active person,” Adorno wrote of this personality type. These manipulative characters, people like Lawrence Summers, Henry Paulson, Robert Rubin, Ben Bernanke, Timothy Geithner, AIG’s Edward Liddy and Goldman Sachs CEO Lloyd Blankfein, along with most of our ruling class, have used corporate money and power to determine the narrow parameters of the debate in our classrooms, on the airwaves and in the halls of Congress while they looted the country." - Chris Hedges
I think Matt Taibbi may be the Hunter S. Thompson of the Post Bubble Years. Maybe without the ether and the poppers and the Wild Turkey, although, who knows, it's likely that Matt has some of his own kinks too.
I mean really Matt and Hunter S. have very little in common except maybe a jaundiced eye for the absurd, and the knack for a good turn of phrase.
Anyway Matt's got a great overview of the "global economic crisis" in Rolling Stone, it's online so you don't really have to buy the magazine, which is a good thing me thinks, because that glitzy piece of celebrity trash seems light years away from the glory days of Jann Wenner's late 60's counter-cultural rag.
One man's counter-cultural marker is another man's urinal. Or something like that.
Taibbi kind of explains the unexplainable and sort of makes it all hilariously understandable. We've been fucking swindled. And the folks who have done the swindling are now threatening to shoot the puppy if we don't shovel more cash down their greedy fucking gullets.
Welcome to the Audacity of Hope!
"These people were never about anything except turning money into money, in order to get more money; valueswise they're on par with crack addicts, or obsessive sexual deviants who burgle homes to steal panties. Yet these are the people in whose hands our entire political future now rests. Good luck with that, America." - Matt Taibbi
The Lovely Carla and I have resolved this morning (the coffee is good) to talk to Angels more. And the Little People too. Or maybe I mean the Village People?!
It's seems to have worked out fine for this guy. Talk about beautiful tone. This supremely sweet man exudes pure, soul-stirring, music. I love the way Carlos plays guitar. We're spinning "Abraxas" on the cd box this morning. SANTANA!
''I truly believe that we're going to be visited in prime time by a landing from the so-called invisible people,'' Santana says. Uh...oye como va? ''The invisible people,'' he explains. ''The extraterrestrials. Pleiadians, Arturians, Andromedans, angels. I've been saying for a long time that we have friends outside our eyeballs and friends inside our eyeballs.'' - C. Santana
Maybe so. If true these other beings probably speak a language sort of like this:
If you ever thought that our lovely little economic system was really just a rigged game, rigged by and for those at the top of the pyramid, well, my friend, your time has come.
If you ever thought that the whole insurance game seemed like just another way to fleece the rubes, or an elaborate protection racket, not that different from your local neighborhood mafia organization, well, congratulations! You win the prize! A one-way ticket to Palooka-ville!
I do think this is the new age of the truth-teller. The last few days everything I see and hear seems to reinforce this intuition.
First there was the Jon Stewart thing. Then I read an article about Tony (Fuck You) Gilroy, a filmmaker/screenwriter trying to navigate the supremely compromising world of major movie-making.
Then I saw Gilroy's film "Michael Clayton," with it's theme of corporate corruption, and how we are all part of a game where everyone is only in it for themselves. A game of no trust, no truth, except the corrupting luxury of money.
Gilroy shows us that sometimes truth is as awkward, as unwelcome, as jarring, as distasteful, as a naked man ranting in a conference room.
And if you build a society that only values money, you have a society of no values at all.
And then The Lovely Carla bought Antony and the Johnson's new disc, "The Crying Light." It's a superb disc of beauty and truth. Heart-breaking, breath-taking and inspiring.
I used to work with some real grade A, number one, USDA choice assholes (note: if you think I'm talking about you, please see disclaimer to the right!).
The money was pretty good. I was a successful front for a bunch of idiots.
I'm happy to say that now I am totally asshole free. I only work with people who I know, trust and respect.
It's probably the most important lesson I've learned over the years. You think you can handle the assholes, that somehow they won't bring you down, that you can make it, defend yourself, survive.
It's not worth the effort. Avoid the assholes at all costs. Take a different job. Take lower pay, become a dog-walker, start your own business, sell your blood, whatever!
I am asshole free. And if I encounter an asshole I call them out and move on. Of course, they are everywhere, you must always be on guard.
Which is OK. Be aware. Be alert at all times. It's the only way to go.
It is supremely entertaining to watch Jon Stewart totally eviscerate Jim Cramer (Mr. Mad Money) on the Daily show.
I give Cramer points for even going on the show, although, I'm sure he's working under the premise that any publicity is good publicity.
Still Cramer ends up looking like an ass-kissing, smoking corpse; an enabler, a snake-oil cheerleader for the greedy bastards on Wall Street.
And Jon Stewart is the dangerously intelligent, smirking, wise-cracking hero! Amazingly Jon Stewart seems to be the only "truth teller" on the idiot box.
Maybe it's a sign when your Dealer of Choice, uses your image (that's Brian Kim one of the K Brothers, the Lovely Carla and I in the picture) as an example of a happy satisfied customer on their web site ?
Anyone who reads this blog, knows I have a deep and abiding addiction to coffee. This is my rocket fuel of choice. I usually brew up a nice pot of the black gold in the morning to get me going, to assure that "dumps" to "sunny" transformation. It usually works.
Later, sometime during the day, I inevitably find myself at the Brothers K Coffeehouse (their coffee concoctions and baristas are top of the pops) on the corner. This is the neighborhood hub, the place to meet and greet. It has become the focal point for my little neighborhood tribe.
Anyway the Brothers K Coffeehouse has a new website and it's one of the nicest looking websites I've ever seen. Beautifully designed by Jonathan Liss.
If you are ever in the hood, come on and check it out. I'll probably be there hunkered over a latte, or possibly easing off on a hot chocolate. What a way to go...
I've had a nasty lingering cold for awhile now. I'm figuring it's just a metaphor for the state of the world. A kind of congested and wheezing condition, maybe not terminal but certainly disheartening. It's the stuff you can't see (germs, credit default swaps) that will lay you out.
So winter in Chicago, a bad cold; I've done a lot of reading lately. There's a cool little used bookstore a few blocks from my apartment. I sometimes wander in and just pick something off the shelf. That's the old fashioned way of finding a book.
Sometimes you come across a book that you'd never specifically order, but since it's sitting there, it's cheap, ($8 bucks) you think, "what the hell."
So I plunged into Nicholas Shaffner's "A Saucerful of Secrets, The Pink Floyd Odyssey." I'm not the biggest Pink Floyd fan in the world, but I've always enjoyed listening to some of their discs, especially "Dark Side of the Moon," and "Wish You Were Here." In the 70's listening to Pink Floyd was some kind of cultural marker. The bongs helped.
I thought "The Wall" was pretty much an overblown piece of crap, (as well as a perfectly realized 4 sided dystopia) and certainly the movie is a hideous example of a self-absorbed Rock Star who thinks he's the center of the world. I mean I guess that's the theme of the movie, but it's seems it's also Roger Waters primary modus operandi.
Roger Waters comes across as a control freak who makes no compromises, who has made some supremely compelling music, grand and ambitious, and who has also made enemies wherever he goes. In some ways Waters is the ultimate, self-absorbed artist, one who wants to save the world, but seems to despise everything and everyone in it. Some call him Megalomaniac. I find him completely fascinating and a little repellent too.
I certainly admire his commitment to his vision.
Anyway, the book is a great read, it's interesting how focusing on a group or a person, taking them through the decades of their existence really illuminates the world, culture, society, politics, business, music, fashion, etc. It's a story about us too. And since I lived through some of the times described in the book it is quite the personal odyssey too.
The book is dominated by some interesting personalities, primarily, the aforementioned Roger Waters, David Gilmour (those two dudes ended up hating each other) and of course the Madcap, the Crazy Diamond himself, Syd Barrett.
Ironically both Barret and Waters ended up outsiders to their own band. The last phase of Pink Floyd was firmly in the hands of David Gilmour.
Syd headed up the band in their early "underground days," when they were the house band at a club in London called UFO. Some consider that early version of the band the real deal. Certainly it was an experimental, arty band, that didn't have a lot of commercial potential. Maybe a lot like Syd himself.
Anyway, I found a very rare clip, (who knew it even existed?) of Syd and company playing "Interstellar Overdrive" live at UFO and at a recording session. There are some great scenes of the English Hip Psychedelic scene in it's infancy and glory.
You can even see Syd Barret wanking away on his Danlectro and his mirror Fender Esquire guitar. Man those times are long, long gone. Did they ever really happen?
It's all from a movie called "Tonight Let's All Make Love in London." It's worth giving a try, (maybe a little spacey and annoying, but also sort of enjoyable), almost like finding a video of a lost island tribe on Atlantis or something. I'm thinking the drugs were probably better then, although really they didn't seem to sit well with Syd one bit.
We've entered the "Night of the Living Dead" or "Shaun of the Dead" phase of our culture. The Zombies are multiplying. People, companies and Institutions that are dead and just don't know it. And if they bite you, you're dead and don't know it too. It's a creepy new world.
The Binge Economy. Steroids World. Globe on the Juice.
Isn't it kind of weird that the Entertainment world, the Sports World, the Economic world all went off the rails simultaneously? It just kind of happened and we didn't notice.
Everyone ended up juiced. And since everyone was doing it, it was kind of imperceptible.
The bubble world in all it's splendor has been driven by scam, deceit and chemical cocktails.
In a way aren't we all Barry Bonds, Alex Rodriguez?
Pumped up on easy credit, inflatable housing, huge consumer debt? The steroids of finance? The steroids of the web?
And in a way we all cheated. Except it turns out we only cheated ourselves.
I've got shelves full of books. I've always been a seeker. Looking for answers. And really the questions seem to just continue to pile up.
How to Dismantle a Spiritual Epiphany?
My previous post mentioned one such episode. And after I read what I wrote it seemed so paltry, so cliche, so trite. I certainly didn't do it justice.
How to Dismantle a Spiritual Epiphany?
I don't know, it's kind of like dissecting a cat, right? I mean, what you love about your cat, the meaning of your cat, the importance of your cat cannot be found in analyzing the parts. By looking inside, you might understand some of the plumbing, but that understanding does not add up to what you love about the cat.
And by dissecting, you kill it. You end up with a dead cat. Not the same thing at all.
How to Dismantle a Spiritual Epiphany?
So I think the answer is you can't. You can have one, experience one, but can't really explain it. That's one thing I've learned after all these years of seeking - reading all those books.
And it's the same with other things too.
I can take U2's music apart (for instance). And tell you that Edge is a great, inventive guitar player, that Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen are an exquisitely good rhythm section, that Bono has an evocative voice and that his song lyrics speak on a transcendent plane, but that doesn't really add up to what U2's music means to me.
It might explain why I think they're a good band, but it doesn't really tell you why they are important to me. Why they speak to me on a deeper level, why their music seems wise and holy in some weird pop cultural way.
And what of that feeling of oneness, of everything is perfect, that flooded my consciousness, my being? I can't dismantle that. I can't explain it. There was the water, the sky, the beach, the dog, the music, and me. And it was all so much more than that.
I don't know if you're excited about the release of U2's latest music. I've heard that radio stations and MTV (does any one watch MTV anymore?) aren't really all that pumped about playing it. It's kind of funny. Finally a band gets so big, no one wants to see or hear them anymore.
Sometimes over-saturation has it's limits.
Still these guys are masters of playing the pop consciousness game, and I figure we'll all be seeing a lot of them. Check out this great site. You can listen to the complete album "No Line on the Horizon," and see cool pictures and videos.
Not long ago I had an amazing spiritual epiphany while listening to their song "One Step Closer" on my iPod. I was dog-walking on the beach, and this incredible wave of good feeling and oneness overcame me.
I ended up buying a bunch of U2 albums that I never really listened to before and loaded them up on my private music unit. They really do have a remarkable discography. I think Pop, Zooropa, How to Dismantle and Atomic Bomb and Achtung Baby are absolutely superb. These are the discs that U2 really dismantle and remake their sound. Their collaborations with Brian Eno, Flood and Daniel Lanois are truly remarkable.
Plus Boy and Unforgettable Fire, Joshua Tree and War are the discs where U2 defined U2. U2 makes music that rewards repeated listens. It is sophisticated Pop/Rock. Some of the best music ever recorded. Really. And those spiritual epiphanies don't come easily and often. So I am eternally grateful to those dudes.
