‘The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate
Someday cynical and drunk and boring
Someone in some dark café.
“You laugh,” he said, “you think you’re immune
Go look at your eyes they’re full of moon
You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you
All those pretty lies, pretty lies
When you gonna realize they’re only pretty lies
Only pretty lies, just pretty lies.”
He put a quarter in the Wurlitzer and he pushed
Three buttons and the thing began to whir
And a bar maid came by
In fishnet stockings and a bow tie
And she said “Drink up now
it’s getting on time to close.”
“Richard, you haven’t really changed,” I said,
“It’s just that now you’re romanticizing
Some pain that’s in your head
You got tombs in your eyes
but the songs you punched are dreaming
Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet
When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
Oh and love can be so sweet, love so sweet.”
Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and
A coffee percolator and he drinks at home
Now most nights with the TV on
And all the house lights left up bright.
I’m gonna blow this damn candle out
I don’t want nobody comin’ over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin’ behind bottles in dark cafes dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away — Only a phase, these dark café days.’
Publicly fund your elections. Alpha children wear grey. Publicly fund your elections. They work much harder than we do, because they’re so frightfully clever. Publicly fund your elections. I’m awfully glad I’m a Beta, because I don’t work so hard. Publicly fund your elections. Most men and women will grow up to love their servitude and never consider revolution. Publicly fund your elections. Think different. Publicly your elections fund. What’s in your wallet? Wait, hold on. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Elections your publicly fund. Gammas are stupid. Publicly your fund elections. Oh no, I don’t want to play with Delta children. Your elections publicly fund. It melts in your mouth. Epsilons are still worse. Not in your hand. Your fund publicly fund. One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them. Have it your way. Fund publicly your fund. Can you hear me now? Elections fund elections. A diamond is forever. Don’t leave home without it. Fund your fund. Fair and balanced. Like a good neighbor. Wait. All the news that’s fit to print. Impossible is nothing. Don’t be evil. Please wait. No more tears. The best a man can get. I’m sorry. I’m loving it. It’s everywhere you want to be. Just do it.
“If you’re gonna write a hit song,
make it a short one.”
Years ago, I saw Yann Tierson perform live on my birthday in Brighton, England. Between “comptine d’un autre été,” “j’y suis jamais allé,” and this Takeaway Show of new material, I was super excited. During a break in the music, all disconcerting takes on songs I had never heard, someone yelled out, “Play Amelie!” and he gave the crowd the most disgusting sneer I’ve ever seen from a performer.
“I don’t play songs I don’t like,” he said.
Then he played a really crap experimental version of Palestine.
I mean, yes, be an artist; make art, not money — and I do totally get hating those songs after playing them and playing them and playing them. I do. But don’t forget in your success that you have money because people paid you. They didn’t pay you for existing — they paid you because they were enlivened, enriched, entertained by the art. Arrogance is an ugly and unfortunate thing.
Art isn’t about you, Yann. Once you take it out of your basement, once you perform it for profit, then art is about bringing beauty and solace to the lives of the people who took hours of their lives, turned them into money, and then gave that money to you. A working artist has an obligation to their audience, not the other way around.
When I’m rich and successful, please remind me of this: No matter how sick you are of playing to the common denominator, it’s not okay to forget there are people here who chose to spend their birthday with you. I don’t care how French and Famous you are, it’s never okay to be a spoiled, self-centered dick.
That’s not at all what I sat down to write. After some reflection, I think I either believe what I’ve written here, or the complete opposite. The truth, I suspect, is somehow both.
Anyways, enjoy the Takeaway Show. What I do believe for sure is that what matters is the art, not the artist. Whether Yann Tierson is a poor tortured soul, ground down by profiteering capitalist pressures, or an obnoxious piece of shit, made vain and obscene by fame, is fundamentally irrelevant.
What matters is the art — and this art is fantastic.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Washington Phillips, circa 1927, playing a pair of fret-less home-made zithers. Never have I envied someone their faith as much as I envy his. That certainty sounds so soft and sweet.
“The world is so full of old sin and woe
And many sorrows everywhere you go
But remember Jesus, who’s everywhere
If you get in trouble now, he’ll meet you there.”
I don’t truck with the word faggot, let’s get right to that. It perpetuates actual harm to actual people in the real world, it’s lazy writing, and it’s just slack-jawed stupid, especially for an also-persecuted minority. Using it for shock value to promote yourself is incredibly selfish — Grow the fuck up. If you’re really an independent thinker, independent think your way out of that box.
So that’s the rub, the hesitation: he’s basically a kid, talking about kid shit, being obscene for effect, same as the vast majority of Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All (yes, seriously) music. I quit being interested in the attention-seeking vanity of teenagers when I stopped being one.
But still, here we are. All of that being said, this video is worth your time. The beat is stark, his flow is smooth, the intention behind the frustration is expression, and the direction? Top-shelf, unadulterated, ART. God damn, that camera. That aesthetic. It’s so deathly perfect it’s pretty.
The other great thing about Odd Future, besides this one video, is the saga of Earl Sweatshirt. But that’s a tale for another day.
Before Giorgio Morodor, before Wendy Carlos, there was Mort Garson. Mort was a deeply weird man, who trained at Juilliard, fought in WWII, then got his hands on one of the first Moog synthesizers, with which he did deeply weird things. Here’s the title track, “Plantasia” from Mother Earth’s Plantasia: Warm Earth Music for Plants.
It’s an album for plants.
And it’s a strange, soothing, wonderful album. “Concerto for Philodendron and Pothos” would become the inspiration for the theme music to the original Legend of Zelda. I recommend the whole thing, even if you aren’t a plant.
But especially if you’re a plant.
It took me a long time to realize I had been misled all my life about Success. In the end, I discovered, you have to do a thing for yourself because it pleases you. The thing itself has to be enough — all else is smoke and mirrors. There is merit and wisdom in picking a thing, devoting yourself to it, doing it beautifully, then setting it on fire. I learned, through much trial and error, that Fame is not Success.
This veneration of individuals, the gurus and cult figures, the phony idol worship, it’s all bullshit — people are just people, even famous people. Some of them deserve respect and admiration for their craft, sure, but so do all sorts of people. Fame itself is a vice, and a handicap; a careful-what-you-wish-for. Venerating fame is a sickness, and our society is terminally ill, while most of my favorite people toil away excellently in obscurity.
Anyways, you get the point. I’m not here to meditate on our collective obsession with gossip magazines. I’m here for Valerie June.
We met once, after a small show she performed at The Dock in Ithaca. She came out after the lights went up and stood by her merchandise table, where a line formed. Her hair was enormous and she was remarkably skinny. People came up to talk to her, and she talked to them. It was very sweet. Mostly though, people were talking at her, giving her their opinions on this or that, and I’m standing there thinking, “What are you telling Valerie June?!” So I got it in my head that instead I would just ask her for a hug, say thank you, then dip. This became the plan.
So I waited, and waited, and finally the last person left and she looked me right in the eyes. My mouth went instantly dry, as all my carefully cultivated opinions on fame shattered and rained down around me. I managed to ask her for a hug and, bless her, she gave me a good one. Then, having achieved my goal, I started to leave, and — she wanted to talk! She was asking me something or other, but at this point I was a robot working on its original line of programming: 1. Get hug 2. Say thank you 3. Leave. She’s being all fucking sweet and human and giving me this strange look as while she’s asking me something, I’m slowly backing away. I found myself saying “thank you, thank you” over and over again like a broken machine, while half-saluting her. Yeah, saluting her. Then I turned and lurched away.
So not my proudest moment. But I did get a hug from a talented and ethereally gorgeous woman. And I did get to eat crow and question my convictions, before having them reaffirmed in the best possible way. I’m sure it didn’t help me any that long before this encounter I had said out loud to friends (mostly joking) that I’d decided to swear off all other women and devote myself exclusively to her.
Don’t tell her that, okay? This has been embarrassing enough. But if you happen to run into her, maybe you could, I dunno, test the water a little for me?
I mean people are just people, right?
Even famous people?
“Well if you’re tired, and feeling so lonely…”
When I heard The Antlers were putting out a new album, I wondered how they could possibly follow Hospice. If I haven’t ranted hysterically in your presence about Hospice, well, prepare yourself: It’s so good. It’s SO good. The legend goes that the lead singer disappeared into his New York apartment for months, cutting all contact, losing his girlfriend, basically letting the rest of his life atrophy. Nobody knew where he was, how he was, or what he was doing. When he emerged one day blinking, back into the light, he was holding the first awkward drafts of Hospice.
What can I say about it? The back of the book jacket would say it’s a concept album about a hospice worker who falls in love with a terminally ill child(?), with whom he has a sexual relationship and an abortion, and who lashes out in emotionally abusive waves of rage and sadness and frustration as she waits for her senseless death.
Hah. I know, right? But it’s also one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.
Anyways, I wondered how they could possibly follow that. They did it by not following it at all — they didn’t even try to make another Hospice. Instead they just made a regular excellent album. Part of what made Hospice so good was that quietly, hidden beneath the avant-guard nature of their accomplishment, The Antlers are excellent pop composers. Combine that with his voice and writing and you don’t need much else.
And that’s the central conceit to Burst Apart; the primary reason for its success: They didn’t try to make another Hospice, because they didn’t have to. They already had all the parts. The follow-up is dark, but not bleak, and there’s a warmth to the sadness that carries, even in the upper register of his incredible falsetto.
So go get Hospice. I know you won’t, but just, do. Next time it enters the orbit of your life, grab it. Put on headphones, lie down, close your eyes, and devote an hour to that thing. You won’t regret it. Then when it’s over, come find this song.
After the gorgeous frozen emotional tundra of Hospice, Burst Apart is like getting wrapped in a fluffy blanket and given something hot to drink. It’s still awful outside, and death is still coming — that isn’t going to change — but here at least, you’re watching it through a window. Here, at least, somebody cares.
“But trust me to take you home…”
“By 1995, Clear Channel owned 43 radio stations and 16 television stations. When the Telecommunications Act of 1996 became law, the act deregulated media ownership, allowing a company to own more stations than previously allowed. Clear Channel went on a subsequent buying spree, purchasing more than 70 other media companies and individual stations.”
Man, this Ben Howard guy. When I first heard his voice through phone speakers I immediately wanted to dislike him. Him and his 9 million views. I know, that’s not fair. But hear me out.
I grew up in the age of Clear Channel, the media conglomerate that quietly bought up an enormous market share, fired all the independent DJs, and replaced them with pre-recorded patter and standardized set-lists. These set-lists consisted of whatever media executives paid them the most to play. Subtly, carefully, without alerting the public that the game had changed, this single corporation neutered and homogenized radio music across vast swaths of the United States, for profit.
Fuck them so much. Seriously.
Clear Channel and their ilk are the reason an entire generation was subjected to bands like Creed and Nickleback. Bands nobody asked for and nobody liked, but who had clever and wealthy management, and were bland enough not to rile any focus groups. Instead of the steady diet of Lou Reed and David Bowie we should have been getting, what we got instead were pre-paid formula songs, selected by empty suits, that then played constantly in the dentist’s office while we read Highlights magazine and waited to get our teeth cleaned.
The local Clear Channel puppet in my time was Lite 97 FM — Cursed be their name. By the time I hit puberty I had already heard a lifetime’s worth of samey musical mush, all of it polished to a shiny nub of inoffensive nothing and poured down the ears of an undiscriminating audience. Hell, I was part of that audience. The radio was where you heard music, that’s just how it was. That’s how it had been since humans first harnessed the airwaves. How was I supposed to know the DJs were dead?
My childhood was a dark time for music. The period between the demise of the DJs, and the rise of the internet was rough, and music didn’t mean much to me as a kid, not really. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of polished plastic trash. That top 40 shite, for both the suits and the musicians, is all about making money — about “making it“ — it’s not about making art. The ongoing commercial success of these people and their barren dreams and hollow ambitions really upsets me. Can you tell?
It doesn’t upset me so much that they are rewarded — I mean fuck them, I really don’t care if they live in a cardboard box or an island mansion, as long as I never have to interact with them — it upsets me because in pursuit of personal profit they’re stripping something gorgeous from the world. They’re stripping honest art from the casual lives of people; leaving them to suffer without its solace. Life is hard enough. Stop fucking doing that.
So I heard this Ben Howard guy, all polished and professional and what not, and I figured, hell, more studio-executive-approved-focus-group-pandering turd music. And I shook my fist and got on with my life. But for some reason I came back to this one. Despite that initial reaction, I found myself coming back for that melody, that guitar, and I brought headphones this time and, oh.
Then I found myself sitting at my desk, trying to learn it, discovering it’s in this weird tuning — some sort of open D, tuned down a step, then brought back up with a capo. I couldn’t get it to sound right, so I stopped. Bah. But then
I was in the kitchen late at night, cooking a bachelor’s midnight dinner, and found myself listening to it again. Aw, man, it’s pretty, I thought, but it’s really sad. And I was standing there all lonely, late at night with headphones on, listening to this guy sing and cooking these really somber scrambled eggs, when the guitar started to pick up. And then suddenly I was dancing around the kitchen, smiling like an idiot, while my eggs sizzled in silence. He really got me good, that guy.
So fuck Clear Channel, still, always and forever, but this isn’t about them, not really. And it isn’t about Ben Howard, or making money, or “making it,” either. It’s about expectations, and art, and lonely scrambled eggs. It’s about being sad, and listening to a song.
“Tell me, who am I
darling, to you?”
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not go better with coke.
The revolution will be no re-run, brother.
The revolution will be live.
a Bob Dylan song
Search terms used today to find the bindle:
2. “How to kill yourself using a handkerchief”
3. “Unknown search term”
Really makes you wonder about number 3, doesn’t it?
“it will follow you,
it will follow you…”
One of my father’s all-time favorite guitar players, Jourma Kauokonen is maybe the last of the legendary proteges of Gary Davis, schooled during the Reverend’s late-life renaissance in Harlem. Continue reading “genesis”
I’m breaking one of my own rules here, dating the piece by getting topical, but it was time to write this the day Donald Trump was elected — on a foaming backwash of tribal disaffection — to the august seat of Abraham Lincoln. Continue reading “it puts the knowledge in the monkey or else it gets the hose again”