Apr 13 (1 day ago)
to josh, Jen, Suzanne, Sean, coral, Porter, pi_who, Peter
show details Apr 13 (1 day ago)
Favorite Art/Creative Magazines
I am working on the upcoming ISM: magazine. I will be sending out info on this special project within the next few weeks as we are attempting to orchestrate a limited edition printed book as well as a documentary film.
I would love it if you could email me a list of your favorite Art/Creative Magazines from around the world... (both in print and out of print, new and old)
Thanks bunches.
::
kevin
::
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply
Coral
to Kevin
show details 4:45 PM (4 hours ago)
Okay Kevin, here's a short list of my newest and all-time favorites, in no particular order.
-Coral
Interview-
Wow was Interview fresh... From the ultra close-up covers demanding your attention, to the huge format on that rough, inky paper and the unexpected celebrity pairings... This magazine was a powerhouse of inspiration for me when I was younger, not to mention a veritable breeding ground for celebrity-worship in our culture nowadays. These were not your run-of-the-mill interview questions, or subjects for that matter. Interview showed me that there was no "normal", and there need be no formula to follow in journalism. Nothing was off limits, nothing was sacred. It was definitely an early catalyst for starting my own zine and I'm sure the founders of many of today's gossip rags can say the same.
Gazette du Bon Ton-
My mother (and her grandmother before her) collected these beautiful magazines and kept them as treasured keepsakes for decades. I can remember sitting on the floor in my mom's dressing room and pouring over Bon Ton's 80/90 year old pages very very sloooowly, soaking in all of the brilliant Art Deco images (my first introduction to Erté) and the stunning lines and falling hems of post-Eduardian couture. As this magazine was only in print for about 12 years until the mid 20's, the oversized pages were frail as my grandmothers skin and brittle as dried leaves, but strong too. These pages had survived the Great Depression, the Great War, and the Great Changes of Fashion-through-Industrialization. And yet still, even now looking through them (when they're not under glass and frames), the writing is contemporary and the images iconic. Every fashion magazine I've encountered since has been somehow less-than... a knock off; constantly inspired by, but not quite living up to the magical quality of La Gazette du Bon Ton.
R-Kive-
Obviously not the best known of zines, but a great part of my life and a venture in writing/editing/guerilla-publishing that would help transform me from an awkward, self-alienating teen, to an awkward, self-alienating adult with minimal trauma and maximum awesomness. The zine introduced me to people and places that I had only seen in the glossy pages of Circus, Rolling Stone and Spin or heard about on MTV's little-known Sunday-at-midnight show "120 minutes". R-Kive was my sounding board, therapy session, and ticket out of small-town mentality; Along with many more like-minded zines of the time (Sourpuss, Girl Germs, Expansion of Life, and Spilt Milk come to mind), it was a turning point in my life and the most profound reason that I am who I am.
Swindle-
Shepard Fairey on Banksy... Need I say more? It's every wannabe graffiti nerd's wet dream. And the Icon issues? The photos alone are enough to make it worth the cover price, but on top of that the stories are short, sweet, to-the-point and yet provocative. Also it's fearless, and I love that. Who else can go from Philippe Starck to Billy Idol to the Space Invader, without coming off a schizophrenic mess? Somehow they pull it off and it's seamless. Of all the contemporary periodicals, Swindle is by far my favorite classic in the making. It's the one I see my son flipping through back-issues of ten years from now.
Metropolis-
Architecture porn. I'd say that since my first year of college I've had an architectural bug. Probably longer, but living in Austin and being far away from home for the first time- thinking that I had it all figured out, suddenly this great art form found me and it's had a very stronghold ever since. So I studied "Falling Water", Wright, Ando and Kahn... I knew the greats, I read the Digest, and later I got a subscription to Dwell. I was well versed in archi-nerd speak and could definitely hold my own in a conversation among laymen. Then one day a few years ago, my architect neighbor's mail was accidentally delivered to my door and among the crappy coupons and unpaid bills was a giant and beautiful magazine called "Metropolis: Architecture-Culture-Design". Ten minutes later, I had gone from Architecture-loving pseudo-intellectual to all out PHONY! I knew squat about anything! Metropolis opened my eyes and blew my mind. A week later I was visiting the Cal Poly admissions office picking through leaflets on their Master's program. And incidentally... the neighbor never got that issue.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
14 April, 2009
12 July, 2008
Taking Flight With Blackbird Raum... "Cause & Effect" Magazine, July 2008
“Drink wine, this is Life Eternal.
This, all that youth will give you.
It is the season for wine, roses, and drunken friends.
Be happy for this Moment; this moment is your life.”
-Omar Khayyám
It’s the last day of my weekend, meaning it’s all downhill from here. From the big front window, I observe my poor garden flowers being choked-out by those damn early-spring weeds, but the weeds are winning the battle today—just coming out of my winter weariness, I’m much too lazy to deal with choking flowers. I have only the energy to stare back at them from the couch and send them good vibes... “Be strong! You can do it! Just get through today, and I promise I’ll have your back tomorrow.” I offer them an encouraging thumbs-up, and in response a worn-out pink snapdragon flips me off in disgust.
Ignoring the gesture and the anthropomorphic drama playing out, I turn my gaze to the park across the street and the usual goings on. Children pulling reluctant dogs through the grass, homeless sun bathers, young couples contorting themselves to cuddle whilst enjoying their picnics, Frisbee players, and the random body asleep beneath the billowing, languid trees. Often these sleeping bodies are found near an overturned bike, as though it was just too much to go on and they had to jump off mid-peddle to grab a nap. Under the huge gazebo centerpiece, a few young men sit along the railing and pluck softly at acoustic instruments, providing an aptly half-assed soundtrack to the day’s lackadaisical events. All in all, a typical Sunday in Mitchell Park.
A half-hour later, I at last muster the enthusiasm to walk two blocks to the grocery store, my regular Sunday chore. Cutting through the park on my way home, I hear a vaguely bluesy music and marvel, impressed by the acoustics of that little AM/FM radio the bums sometimes huddle around. But as I approach the gazebo, it becomes clear that the little radio is not responsible for this at all. A handful of tattered musicians and their equally tattered instruments emit something completely unexpected, and completely out of the ordinary here: music. Real music. Something at once soulful and light-hearted, it’s so good it stops me in my tracks. And I’m not the only one. About two-dozen spectators are slowly creeping toward the impromptu concert. Even the napping cyclists are sitting up to take notice. I’ve stumbled upon the very first chords of something truly special, and the opportunity does not escape me. Milk be damned, I set my groceries down on the painfully hot bench, and watch as this neighborhood surprise party unfolds.
Not unlike the musicians, the first wave of onlookers are young, a little dirty, and grinning widely, as if in on a secret. The tempo is slow and soft in the heavy air, and it draws them in gently with that classic acoustic charm. They’re playing guitars, spoons, a banjo, and an accordion, and the energy emitting from them is so palpable you can practically taste it.
Though the instruments have seen better days, they are perfectly paired with these young men. Whatever the musicians lack in life, practice, or ability, the instruments are happy to compensate for. They are rich with the patina of experience and happy to share. They are soul mates. It’s a gorgeous push and pull—a dance perfected between them, and it’s affecting to witness. It reminds one of depression-era musicians—devoid of all possessions, save an instrument that becomes their best friend, meal ticket, and greatest love. In fact, with their suspenders, high waters, ragged edges, and unwashed hair, you could have plucked these musicians straight out of the Dustbowl of 1938, or maybe even the Civil War.
They are timeless and ageless. And these guys aren’t just looking the part, they’re living it; in what seems an unnecessary suffering for both, the instruments cling to the musicians by ratty, thin ropes. But the clothes, the venue, the make-shift guitar straps… they all serve as both a statement and testament to the fact that anyone can do this, and hand-me-downs aren’t just economical, they’re fucking cool.
The crowd is enraptured. They all realize what a treat this is. Inhibitions are put aside, and the musicians are not afforded the least bit of separation from the crowd. Some of them begin to dance; all of them are smiling. Bear in mind, this is not the polite smiling, head-bobbing modus operandi of other such San Luis Obispo happenings. This is heads thrown back, mouths open wide, and arms outstretched, as if worshipping their own release.
It’s a release from conformity, stereotypes and expectations, and this little performance has opened a floodgates. As dancers spin one another along while moving round and round through the circular structure, I’m reminded of an 18th century costume ball. The independent turning of the couples and the collective turning of the assembly leaves me half-hypnotized. Twenty minutes pass before the music breaks for a moment and I’m startled to discover a man, equally enthralled, sitting beside me. We manage to shake off the spell just long enough to exchange pleasantries and remark on our good fortune in stumbling upon such a spectacle. “Paul” is a museum curator from San Francisco, in his early 40’s and has been a frequent visitor to San Luis Obispo for about twenty years. Happily, just as our conversation reaches the inevitable crescendo, before plummeting into awkward valley, the music starts again and we are transfixed. Without taking our eyes from the stage before us, we marvel aloud at the totally unexpected talent of the band. Suddenly one of the musicians breaks off and brandishes a microphone seemingly from out of nowhere. In that moment it occurs to me that this has been their plan all along. Like pied pipers they set out to charm the crowd toward them, coaxing it to a careful simmer and now, having their full attention, they would stoke it to a boil. Effortlessly, a young man perches himself high atop a railing, where, overseeing the pulsations of the collective, he begins to organize them into partners.
Mind you, throughout this transition, the music does not falter. It is growing faster and louder, breathing in time with the crowd. It rises and falls and fills the gazebo, spilling out low over its sides and rising high into its rafters. The participants happily acquiesce, pairing off at random—some friends, some strangers, all sharing in this rare moment of unselfconscious freedom. The mood is reminiscent of a tiny Woodstock, except that it’s not. It’s nothing so significant, and nothing so overdone. It is intimate and sweet, a civic love affair… a little, unexpected gift to the town, with no reciprocation necessary. And there is no reason for it—not money, promotion or notoriety. Here in this moment, it is all that exists.
Under the direction of this anonymous band, and the man with the microphone, the crowd shapes itself into a jubilant, fast moving, square dancing mass. He leads them, step by step, and they are laughing their way through the motions. Eventually, the square dancing gives way to a waltz. The crowd is carefully guided through every stride, and they are clearly appreciative of the lesson. In fact, it’s become impossible at this point to discern who is gaining more pleasure from the experience—the crowd or the band—as they seem equally enamored with each other. And as if the music weren’t enough of a tribute to this little fling between them, suddenly- randomly there is food, and lots of it. As though they had willed it to happen this way, a few kids stop dancing just long enough to pull out bags full of watermelons and pies, and offer huge slices of each to the unsuspecting crowd.
It’s not until now that I realize an older man has joined in with the band. He’s appeared from out of nowhere to accompany them with his large, steady hands and his heavy, white beard. In fact, I’d guess that the beard itself is older than his fellow musicians- but he has melded perfectly with them. As if in a trance, neighboring residents begin to emerge from behind picket fences and make their way into the park, drawing ever closer to take it all in. Women in their 50’s are laughing, and being swung around by stinky teenage boys. Some are pulling out mobile phones to call friends and family, and “You have to get down here!” is the general consensus. A conservative-looking couple timidly joins in, and within 20 seconds they are separated from each other and paired with strangers—he, with a teenage girl, whose dreadlocks, bare feet, and braless breasts move in contradiction to gravitational law; she, with a young man, whose age and appearance are in direct contradiction to his ease and good manners. He offers a wide, genuine smile, and taking her gently and respectfully by the waist whisks her around the room so carefully that it may as well have been choreographed.
It may as well have been just the two of them dancing on that cramped stage—the entire group seems gracefully and subtly aware of each other. The dancers move around and through and together and back again, like magnetic energy, incapable of clumsiness. Couples exchange partners, young women hold hands, and grandmothers twirl their skirts into knots. Impervious of classes, stereotypes and social constraints, awkwardness does not exist in this moment.
Paul leans toward me, his eyes fixed upon the dancers. “Can you believe this is happening here in San Luis? This town needs this so bad,” he admonishes, and he is absolutely right. For all its big trees and open spaces, clean parks and cultural potential, San Luis Obispo—my adopted hometown—is so in need of raw, spontaneous expression that the city itself is like a pent-up and ignored housewife, a fertile woman convinced of her own barrenness and panting at the possibility of passion- however dirty and unplanned. This music… this entire affair, is a fantasy fulfilled.
More than an hour has passed now since those first chords were struck and something has shifted imperceptibly. The music is reaching a climax. The honey-drunk, bluegrass waltz that seemed straight out of some Adirondack mountain cave has given way to something bigger, tougher, and reminiscent of a battle cry. The voices are straining, screaming in harmony, and rubbed raw—and they’ve never sounded so good. The entire park has emptied toward the stage now, just to be nearer to them. The gazebo itself has long since reached capacity and the rest of us must be content to watch from the side.
It serves us right. The musicians, the instruments, and the dancers… they are in another world. They’ve opened themselves up, and made themselves vulnerable. The rest of us, on the outskirts, we are the onlookers—voyeurs lucky enough to find ourselves in the right place at the right time. From the safety of the sidelines, we have nothing to lose—for those playing, and those being played to, it has risen above the ordinary, and they deserve their higher plane. If it all stopped right at this moment they’d be cruelly jolted from the intimacy of the experience.
But alas, it must draw to an end. Rather than the subtle fade to black, it happens suddenly and without warning. Maybe the voices gave out, maybe someone busted a rope strap and lost an eye, but I tend to believe that they accomplished what they set out to do and therefore their work was done here. The voices trail off abruptly, but the instruments, impervious to fatigue, beg to play on. And as a sort of compensatory cool-down, they are plucked and strummed and slowed to a crawl before finally being put away.
Once the final note had rung out and fallen away, the spell was broken. The people seemed to disappear rather than disperse. Thankfully, the band offered its own CD’s as parting gifts. Rushing home to grab my emergency cash I panicked thinking they’d sell out before I could get back. I flung open the door, threw my groceries on the ground, and rifled through my underwear drawer like the world’s most inelegant cat burglar. Cash in hand, I marched back to the park and up onto the nearly empty stage. As the young man handed me the jewel case, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I wanted to jump into his arms, give him a huge bear hug and thank him for what he did.
What they did… They roused us all from a self-imposed hibernation. We, a sleepy little community, happily lazing through our Sunday, confident that nothing short of an earthquake could shake us out of our routines. These men, and this amazing little show seemed to fall out of the sky and into our laps, setting hearts racing and senses afire. It’s difficult to find a worthy musical comparison, as everything that comes close stops short and goes cold. But if you closed your eyes and imagined The Arcade Fire, thrown back 100 years or so, and playing English pub songs to an encouraging little crowd, in an acoustically flawless venue, you’d be getting warm.
Restraining myself from a full-body hug and opting instead for a sincere “Thank you!” I couldn’t mask my obnoxious kid-in-a-candy-store grin. I clutched the CD close as I walked away, coveting the treasure in my hands. It was mine! The music belonged to me now, the band was no longer anonymous, and this wasn’t all a dream. And though there was no more reason to stay, I collapsed onto a bench and allowed myself a sort-of weaning off period before making my way home.
When at last, I shoved myself off of the ride, and back into the house, I wasted no time in getting to know Blackbird Raum. Their album Purse Seine has become a fixture in my home, and the song “Ars Goetia” can be heard with a particular frequency, to the point of compulsion. I can’t be sure if they even played it that day, but of all the songs on the album, that one just feels the most like that afternoon in the park. Warm and throaty, and sweet but with a pulse that seems to pound so hard beneath the surface, it could break the whole thing apart in an instant... it lulls and empowers at the same time, never failing to suck me back into that trance.
I can’t call it a discovery, because I didn’t find it on my own, but Blackbird Raum gifted me with a sampling of what I’d been missing out on—holed up in my quaint little house with my picturesque view of the park, and my stale old play-lists. They ruffled something out of me and woke me up a little. Even my disgruntled flowers took notice. Since that day they’ve grown not upright, but forward: straining toward the park, and keeping a watchful eye out for the band that welcomed us all into spring.
This, all that youth will give you.
It is the season for wine, roses, and drunken friends.
Be happy for this Moment; this moment is your life.”
-Omar Khayyám
It’s the last day of my weekend, meaning it’s all downhill from here. From the big front window, I observe my poor garden flowers being choked-out by those damn early-spring weeds, but the weeds are winning the battle today—just coming out of my winter weariness, I’m much too lazy to deal with choking flowers. I have only the energy to stare back at them from the couch and send them good vibes... “Be strong! You can do it! Just get through today, and I promise I’ll have your back tomorrow.” I offer them an encouraging thumbs-up, and in response a worn-out pink snapdragon flips me off in disgust.
Ignoring the gesture and the anthropomorphic drama playing out, I turn my gaze to the park across the street and the usual goings on. Children pulling reluctant dogs through the grass, homeless sun bathers, young couples contorting themselves to cuddle whilst enjoying their picnics, Frisbee players, and the random body asleep beneath the billowing, languid trees. Often these sleeping bodies are found near an overturned bike, as though it was just too much to go on and they had to jump off mid-peddle to grab a nap. Under the huge gazebo centerpiece, a few young men sit along the railing and pluck softly at acoustic instruments, providing an aptly half-assed soundtrack to the day’s lackadaisical events. All in all, a typical Sunday in Mitchell Park.
A half-hour later, I at last muster the enthusiasm to walk two blocks to the grocery store, my regular Sunday chore. Cutting through the park on my way home, I hear a vaguely bluesy music and marvel, impressed by the acoustics of that little AM/FM radio the bums sometimes huddle around. But as I approach the gazebo, it becomes clear that the little radio is not responsible for this at all. A handful of tattered musicians and their equally tattered instruments emit something completely unexpected, and completely out of the ordinary here: music. Real music. Something at once soulful and light-hearted, it’s so good it stops me in my tracks. And I’m not the only one. About two-dozen spectators are slowly creeping toward the impromptu concert. Even the napping cyclists are sitting up to take notice. I’ve stumbled upon the very first chords of something truly special, and the opportunity does not escape me. Milk be damned, I set my groceries down on the painfully hot bench, and watch as this neighborhood surprise party unfolds.
Not unlike the musicians, the first wave of onlookers are young, a little dirty, and grinning widely, as if in on a secret. The tempo is slow and soft in the heavy air, and it draws them in gently with that classic acoustic charm. They’re playing guitars, spoons, a banjo, and an accordion, and the energy emitting from them is so palpable you can practically taste it.
Though the instruments have seen better days, they are perfectly paired with these young men. Whatever the musicians lack in life, practice, or ability, the instruments are happy to compensate for. They are rich with the patina of experience and happy to share. They are soul mates. It’s a gorgeous push and pull—a dance perfected between them, and it’s affecting to witness. It reminds one of depression-era musicians—devoid of all possessions, save an instrument that becomes their best friend, meal ticket, and greatest love. In fact, with their suspenders, high waters, ragged edges, and unwashed hair, you could have plucked these musicians straight out of the Dustbowl of 1938, or maybe even the Civil War.
They are timeless and ageless. And these guys aren’t just looking the part, they’re living it; in what seems an unnecessary suffering for both, the instruments cling to the musicians by ratty, thin ropes. But the clothes, the venue, the make-shift guitar straps… they all serve as both a statement and testament to the fact that anyone can do this, and hand-me-downs aren’t just economical, they’re fucking cool.
The crowd is enraptured. They all realize what a treat this is. Inhibitions are put aside, and the musicians are not afforded the least bit of separation from the crowd. Some of them begin to dance; all of them are smiling. Bear in mind, this is not the polite smiling, head-bobbing modus operandi of other such San Luis Obispo happenings. This is heads thrown back, mouths open wide, and arms outstretched, as if worshipping their own release.
It’s a release from conformity, stereotypes and expectations, and this little performance has opened a floodgates. As dancers spin one another along while moving round and round through the circular structure, I’m reminded of an 18th century costume ball. The independent turning of the couples and the collective turning of the assembly leaves me half-hypnotized. Twenty minutes pass before the music breaks for a moment and I’m startled to discover a man, equally enthralled, sitting beside me. We manage to shake off the spell just long enough to exchange pleasantries and remark on our good fortune in stumbling upon such a spectacle. “Paul” is a museum curator from San Francisco, in his early 40’s and has been a frequent visitor to San Luis Obispo for about twenty years. Happily, just as our conversation reaches the inevitable crescendo, before plummeting into awkward valley, the music starts again and we are transfixed. Without taking our eyes from the stage before us, we marvel aloud at the totally unexpected talent of the band. Suddenly one of the musicians breaks off and brandishes a microphone seemingly from out of nowhere. In that moment it occurs to me that this has been their plan all along. Like pied pipers they set out to charm the crowd toward them, coaxing it to a careful simmer and now, having their full attention, they would stoke it to a boil. Effortlessly, a young man perches himself high atop a railing, where, overseeing the pulsations of the collective, he begins to organize them into partners.
Mind you, throughout this transition, the music does not falter. It is growing faster and louder, breathing in time with the crowd. It rises and falls and fills the gazebo, spilling out low over its sides and rising high into its rafters. The participants happily acquiesce, pairing off at random—some friends, some strangers, all sharing in this rare moment of unselfconscious freedom. The mood is reminiscent of a tiny Woodstock, except that it’s not. It’s nothing so significant, and nothing so overdone. It is intimate and sweet, a civic love affair… a little, unexpected gift to the town, with no reciprocation necessary. And there is no reason for it—not money, promotion or notoriety. Here in this moment, it is all that exists.
Under the direction of this anonymous band, and the man with the microphone, the crowd shapes itself into a jubilant, fast moving, square dancing mass. He leads them, step by step, and they are laughing their way through the motions. Eventually, the square dancing gives way to a waltz. The crowd is carefully guided through every stride, and they are clearly appreciative of the lesson. In fact, it’s become impossible at this point to discern who is gaining more pleasure from the experience—the crowd or the band—as they seem equally enamored with each other. And as if the music weren’t enough of a tribute to this little fling between them, suddenly- randomly there is food, and lots of it. As though they had willed it to happen this way, a few kids stop dancing just long enough to pull out bags full of watermelons and pies, and offer huge slices of each to the unsuspecting crowd.
It’s not until now that I realize an older man has joined in with the band. He’s appeared from out of nowhere to accompany them with his large, steady hands and his heavy, white beard. In fact, I’d guess that the beard itself is older than his fellow musicians- but he has melded perfectly with them. As if in a trance, neighboring residents begin to emerge from behind picket fences and make their way into the park, drawing ever closer to take it all in. Women in their 50’s are laughing, and being swung around by stinky teenage boys. Some are pulling out mobile phones to call friends and family, and “You have to get down here!” is the general consensus. A conservative-looking couple timidly joins in, and within 20 seconds they are separated from each other and paired with strangers—he, with a teenage girl, whose dreadlocks, bare feet, and braless breasts move in contradiction to gravitational law; she, with a young man, whose age and appearance are in direct contradiction to his ease and good manners. He offers a wide, genuine smile, and taking her gently and respectfully by the waist whisks her around the room so carefully that it may as well have been choreographed.
It may as well have been just the two of them dancing on that cramped stage—the entire group seems gracefully and subtly aware of each other. The dancers move around and through and together and back again, like magnetic energy, incapable of clumsiness. Couples exchange partners, young women hold hands, and grandmothers twirl their skirts into knots. Impervious of classes, stereotypes and social constraints, awkwardness does not exist in this moment.
Paul leans toward me, his eyes fixed upon the dancers. “Can you believe this is happening here in San Luis? This town needs this so bad,” he admonishes, and he is absolutely right. For all its big trees and open spaces, clean parks and cultural potential, San Luis Obispo—my adopted hometown—is so in need of raw, spontaneous expression that the city itself is like a pent-up and ignored housewife, a fertile woman convinced of her own barrenness and panting at the possibility of passion- however dirty and unplanned. This music… this entire affair, is a fantasy fulfilled.
More than an hour has passed now since those first chords were struck and something has shifted imperceptibly. The music is reaching a climax. The honey-drunk, bluegrass waltz that seemed straight out of some Adirondack mountain cave has given way to something bigger, tougher, and reminiscent of a battle cry. The voices are straining, screaming in harmony, and rubbed raw—and they’ve never sounded so good. The entire park has emptied toward the stage now, just to be nearer to them. The gazebo itself has long since reached capacity and the rest of us must be content to watch from the side.
It serves us right. The musicians, the instruments, and the dancers… they are in another world. They’ve opened themselves up, and made themselves vulnerable. The rest of us, on the outskirts, we are the onlookers—voyeurs lucky enough to find ourselves in the right place at the right time. From the safety of the sidelines, we have nothing to lose—for those playing, and those being played to, it has risen above the ordinary, and they deserve their higher plane. If it all stopped right at this moment they’d be cruelly jolted from the intimacy of the experience.
But alas, it must draw to an end. Rather than the subtle fade to black, it happens suddenly and without warning. Maybe the voices gave out, maybe someone busted a rope strap and lost an eye, but I tend to believe that they accomplished what they set out to do and therefore their work was done here. The voices trail off abruptly, but the instruments, impervious to fatigue, beg to play on. And as a sort of compensatory cool-down, they are plucked and strummed and slowed to a crawl before finally being put away.
Once the final note had rung out and fallen away, the spell was broken. The people seemed to disappear rather than disperse. Thankfully, the band offered its own CD’s as parting gifts. Rushing home to grab my emergency cash I panicked thinking they’d sell out before I could get back. I flung open the door, threw my groceries on the ground, and rifled through my underwear drawer like the world’s most inelegant cat burglar. Cash in hand, I marched back to the park and up onto the nearly empty stage. As the young man handed me the jewel case, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I wanted to jump into his arms, give him a huge bear hug and thank him for what he did.
What they did… They roused us all from a self-imposed hibernation. We, a sleepy little community, happily lazing through our Sunday, confident that nothing short of an earthquake could shake us out of our routines. These men, and this amazing little show seemed to fall out of the sky and into our laps, setting hearts racing and senses afire. It’s difficult to find a worthy musical comparison, as everything that comes close stops short and goes cold. But if you closed your eyes and imagined The Arcade Fire, thrown back 100 years or so, and playing English pub songs to an encouraging little crowd, in an acoustically flawless venue, you’d be getting warm.
Restraining myself from a full-body hug and opting instead for a sincere “Thank you!” I couldn’t mask my obnoxious kid-in-a-candy-store grin. I clutched the CD close as I walked away, coveting the treasure in my hands. It was mine! The music belonged to me now, the band was no longer anonymous, and this wasn’t all a dream. And though there was no more reason to stay, I collapsed onto a bench and allowed myself a sort-of weaning off period before making my way home.
When at last, I shoved myself off of the ride, and back into the house, I wasted no time in getting to know Blackbird Raum. Their album Purse Seine has become a fixture in my home, and the song “Ars Goetia” can be heard with a particular frequency, to the point of compulsion. I can’t be sure if they even played it that day, but of all the songs on the album, that one just feels the most like that afternoon in the park. Warm and throaty, and sweet but with a pulse that seems to pound so hard beneath the surface, it could break the whole thing apart in an instant... it lulls and empowers at the same time, never failing to suck me back into that trance.
I can’t call it a discovery, because I didn’t find it on my own, but Blackbird Raum gifted me with a sampling of what I’d been missing out on—holed up in my quaint little house with my picturesque view of the park, and my stale old play-lists. They ruffled something out of me and woke me up a little. Even my disgruntled flowers took notice. Since that day they’ve grown not upright, but forward: straining toward the park, and keeping a watchful eye out for the band that welcomed us all into spring.
10 July, 2008
Ass-Backwards Auditory Assault... 2/2
The Mozart CD was picked up in a check-out line at Safeway earlier that day. My mother later said that she just had a sudden impulse about it, thinking that because I liked the music in "Fantasia", I might appreciate some classical. The lady was so right. It should be noted, my mother is very hit or miss when it comes to taste assumptions where I am concerned. Case in point...
Norma Kamali bathing suit, in style of 1940's siren... HIT!
6th and 8th grade graduation dresses with huge white-laced collars, in style of Sandra Day O'Connor... MISS!
Alarm clock set to play Billie Holiday every morning... HIT!
Bamboo backpack... Ummm... Shall we take a wild guess or a flying leap on this one?
Mozart was an obsession for me, and by that I mean a full-fledged love and insatiable appetite for all things related to. Further, it was my first free-forming obsession. It needed no guidance, no prompting, and no encouragement; but mama certainly enjoyed the novelty of a 5th grader capable of recognizing the odd concerto, aria, or overture where and whenever they appeared. Incidentally, Mozart's music is used far more often in popular culture than most realize or acknowledge. I became a party-trick and playing the first opening notes of various tracks on the CD's and guessing how long it would take me to "NAME THAT COMPOSITION" was an endless source of entertainment for mother and her dinner guests. In a matter of months, one CD had grown to four and the giant map covering a wall in my room was full of colored-coded pins indicating his birthplace, working locations, and place of burial. I fantasized about Vienna constantly, his beloved "City of Music". I practiced German out of a library book in preparation for the journey- which by my calculations would be in ohhhh... 2 or 3 years, as I was fairly sure I could convince my mother to let me travel there on my own at the ripe old age of 12; 13 at the very latest! PHEW, that would be old.
Needless to say, I was a little off in this estimation. At 29 I've yet to visit Vienna. Invariably, the obsession waned and the interest gave way to subsequent musical preoccupations. But Mozart was my first and he set the bar sky high. He taught me what it was to hear music in movements and few artists have come close to the hair-raising, goose bump-inducing, passionate perfection of Amadeus. Maria Callas at her peak comes to mind... Edith Piaf... And in a similar way- Nirvana, The Clash, and Arcade Fire. Albeit there was the occasional embarrassment along the way. For example, no matter how I attempt to justify the choice, there were just no excuses for the purchase of "The Bodyguard" soundtrack in 8th grade. *cringe* Or that time I bought Paula Abdul's "Spellbound" and Joy Division's "Closer" in the same transaction. *sacreligious cringe* Of course, I'm still making embarrassing music choices today, but I learn from my mistakes and love the good ones with a burning fervor more often reserved for soul mates than CD's. I can't be bothered to question the evolution from Bob Marley to Motown to "The Mickey Mouse Club" to Mozart to The Melvins to NOFX to Bikini Kill to Blondie and countless others in between... But it was my musical education and it was vast and grand and it continues every single day. And in my estimation, Mozart- the man who wrote such treasured beauties as "The Marriage of Figaro", "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" and "Don Giovanni", but also had the sick and darling sense of humor to write the canon "Leck mich im Arsch" (literally, "Lick My Ass") would be terribly proud.
Norma Kamali bathing suit, in style of 1940's siren... HIT!
6th and 8th grade graduation dresses with huge white-laced collars, in style of Sandra Day O'Connor... MISS!
Alarm clock set to play Billie Holiday every morning... HIT!
Bamboo backpack... Ummm... Shall we take a wild guess or a flying leap on this one?
Mozart was an obsession for me, and by that I mean a full-fledged love and insatiable appetite for all things related to. Further, it was my first free-forming obsession. It needed no guidance, no prompting, and no encouragement; but mama certainly enjoyed the novelty of a 5th grader capable of recognizing the odd concerto, aria, or overture where and whenever they appeared. Incidentally, Mozart's music is used far more often in popular culture than most realize or acknowledge. I became a party-trick and playing the first opening notes of various tracks on the CD's and guessing how long it would take me to "NAME THAT COMPOSITION" was an endless source of entertainment for mother and her dinner guests. In a matter of months, one CD had grown to four and the giant map covering a wall in my room was full of colored-coded pins indicating his birthplace, working locations, and place of burial. I fantasized about Vienna constantly, his beloved "City of Music". I practiced German out of a library book in preparation for the journey- which by my calculations would be in ohhhh... 2 or 3 years, as I was fairly sure I could convince my mother to let me travel there on my own at the ripe old age of 12; 13 at the very latest! PHEW, that would be old.
Needless to say, I was a little off in this estimation. At 29 I've yet to visit Vienna. Invariably, the obsession waned and the interest gave way to subsequent musical preoccupations. But Mozart was my first and he set the bar sky high. He taught me what it was to hear music in movements and few artists have come close to the hair-raising, goose bump-inducing, passionate perfection of Amadeus. Maria Callas at her peak comes to mind... Edith Piaf... And in a similar way- Nirvana, The Clash, and Arcade Fire. Albeit there was the occasional embarrassment along the way. For example, no matter how I attempt to justify the choice, there were just no excuses for the purchase of "The Bodyguard" soundtrack in 8th grade. *cringe* Or that time I bought Paula Abdul's "Spellbound" and Joy Division's "Closer" in the same transaction. *sacreligious cringe* Of course, I'm still making embarrassing music choices today, but I learn from my mistakes and love the good ones with a burning fervor more often reserved for soul mates than CD's. I can't be bothered to question the evolution from Bob Marley to Motown to "The Mickey Mouse Club" to Mozart to The Melvins to NOFX to Bikini Kill to Blondie and countless others in between... But it was my musical education and it was vast and grand and it continues every single day. And in my estimation, Mozart- the man who wrote such treasured beauties as "The Marriage of Figaro", "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" and "Don Giovanni", but also had the sick and darling sense of humor to write the canon "Leck mich im Arsch" (literally, "Lick My Ass") would be terribly proud.
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