David Sedaris - Naked

Why did I wait so long to read this book? Been on my list for years, finally decided to forego my usual desires to read 40s/50s Euro lit and delve into some contemporary memoirs. Rather than giving A-B-C event timelines, Sedaris focuses on specific events in his life and elaborates to the fullest extent on each one. Despite a brief internet search, I’m still unsure as to the actual validity of these stories, but as Tim O’Brien was the one who got me into literature, answering that question is the low man on this totem pole. Considering the imagination of Sedaris, it is not important if these are actual events. The meaning lies in digging out every piece of dark humor possible, from deceiving the world with a quadriplegic to getting high with his siblings while their mother sits alone on the cusp of death. The callousness of the protagonist can only be conveyed in a book titled Naked. No, his mother wasn’t the sweetest, but he recognizes his own naivety about his cold emotions without changing them. And he shares them. He lets us put on his X-ray specs by putting these words on pages between the covers. The back and forth between imagination (Chipped Beef) and straightforwardness (I Like Guys) creates a surreal landscape, populated by vulgar and awful people (C.O.G., Something for Everyone).

Of course, the point would be missed if we were to pass any judgment on these characters. What this book does is allow us to think of ourselves naked, to bring to our conscious the things we’re afraid to admit to anyone but ourselves. And this is where the book becomes most meaningful to me. I’ve become increasingly aware that I will never be a true writer. Writing involves such a strong foundation of honesty that I will never be able to achieve. As an internalizer, it’s difficult for me to express true feelings to anyone else and (amazingly) this difficulty is true for print as well. While I find no difficulty expressing my opinions on the work of others, why this book is great or why that band sucks or why I have so little interest in a lot of movies everyone clamors for, I view what I feel as so meaningless as to not even look at the map of that train line. And perhaps this is only a continuation of a path I’ve been following since high school, the rationalist vs. the empiricist, the big-picture of the world and the small timeframe that my life takes up. Either way, I will never write a Naked. I may write Winter Clothing, in which I continue to hide by never putting my Self out there. Playing it safe is dangerous territory for an aspiring writer. Alas, don’t expect me to quit my job and go play in the street.

Music: Braids – Set Pieces EP, Radar Eyes – S/T

Texts From Last Night

Victim: Andy Yeo
Time: 3:43 AM

Ears are ringing. Sentimentality is the lowest form of human emotiion. Glve me a ring tmrw. Birds are singing.

Falling Water

My senior year of high school, I became immersed in the world of architecture, particularly with the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. The connection was an obvious subconscious precursor to my interest in juxtaposition. The influence of nature on his urban and residential buildings allowed for the blurring of two seemingly contradictory worlds. Whether it be the horizontal essence of the prairie homes or the formation of structure with the natural environment surrounding, Wright successfully interplayed this dichotomy. Ok, ok, you already know this. You’ve seen the pictures and blueprints a thousand times before. The anthology of his work on my coffee table is one of hundreds, thousands documenting his work (each one apparently not enough). A Google Image Search for “Falling Water” provides 11,800,000 results (in .38 seconds no less) that primarily involve Wright and his masterpiece. But in the age of abundant, two-dimensional-on-demand imagery, we lose the magnitude of the significance of the places and events themselves. Overstimulation begets underwhelming. Or…
“I am here.” Pointing to the ground I was standing on, these are the words I said after following the signs that said ‘View’ towards the iconic spot we’ve seen so many of the pictures taken from of the waterfall rushing through and below the Kaufmann’s estate. “This is amazing.” I repeated this over and over, so in awe of the building that the ineloquence of my words would have been alarming if I hadn’t recognized the brilliance of the space itself and the inadequacy of language to express my feelings for the architecture. Admittedly, it can take some reality checks to actually appreciate the reality of some events. The world of experience is a rich one, and the ubiquity of the media should not take that away. We should be so lucky to engrain in our minds the words of Sean Maguire’s monologue during the “Taster’s Choice moment between guys.” The slow rush of the water due to lack of rainfall in Mill Run, PA recently did not detract from my experience. I was there. I stepped on the fallen leaves, the dirt, the sticks around the house and touched the granite ledges lining the stairs, the masonry on the cantilevers. Jenna, Josh and Lou were there. Over 1200 miles, we’re back. But we were there. It was amazing.

Falling Water

Sean Maguire

Spiritualized

I confess the modest knowledge I have of the art world. But a concept that is intriguing to me is allowing multiple people to simultaneously view a work and perceive entirely different things. Obvious examples include any sculpture, statue or otherwise three-dimensional piece. The texture or material can affect this, as well as the use of lighting or dimensions of the piece, not to mention viewer placement to object (above, below, in front, behind, etc.). Maria Irene Forne achieves this in theater with the play Fefu and Her Friends, in which the second act is viewed in four sections with audience members watching in a different order. Other examples are vast in the visual domain of art, but the reason Spiritualized’s Ladies and Gentlemen We’re Floating in Space continues to amaze me is that it does this with sound. What I focus on and specifically listen to on any given song can and most likely will be different from someone listening to the same piece.
The simplest (but arguably most complex) place to start with this album is the eponymous opener, fading in as if in a dream that we don’t know how it started, but already are in the middle of it. Reverberating tambourine and a single vocal line stand out; panned shimmerings and a stoic appregriated guitar. The second vocal line comes in, and the photo of Jason Pierce nodding off in a space helmet immediately springs to mind. Well-placed beeps from ground control let us know someone is there. And then: the chorus. Drums build up and the electric guitars kick in. Vocal harmonies and a string section attach us back to Earth. A third vocal line emerges and indeed, and our attention is already bouncing between multiple poles. Simultaneously wanting to take it all in as well as focus on the individual components of this song, our senses and imagination are overwhelmed. A final chorus builds up and a sharp ending. We would have fallen completely into the depths of space if ‘Come Together’ didn’t reach out with its robotic arm to snatch us from the perils of the universe. The sweet melodies and comforting atmosphere of the first track are traded in for feedback and a gospel chorus, a more aggressive bass line and horn section. And if the instrumentation weren’t enough to focus on, the vocal content shifts entirely as well. Drug references abound and the repeating title lyric. And the hardest hitting part of the song? After a distortion-bass lead bridge, two handclaps that sound like the smack of a backhand to the face of a junkie in a zoned out bliss.
No silence between tracks, but a fluid transition allows us to recuperate at the beginning of ‘I Think I’m in Love.’ Droning synths, wah pedals, harmonica and hypnotic bass. Its sounds so simple but already overwhelming by the time Pierce’s layered vocals enter almost a minute in. As the song itself has the dual A/B sections of no drums/drums, the lyrics express the dual +/- that is in every thought. “I think I’m in love (probably just hungry)…Think I want to tell the world (probably ain’t listening).” Who do we decide to believe? Who do we listen to? If we’re merciful to ourselves, the first lines feel justified. But we also have to consider the reality. Perhaps our perceptions have been altered by what we’ve had for breakfast (off a mirror or from a bottle as the case may be) and perhaps it really is a shitty day out there. The genius of the album is that on a whole, the music reflects these sentiments via a dialectic fashion. Through the dynamic of music, at times quiet, at times loud, soothing or frustrating, it’s all there and never in an order we expect. The distorted cacophony of ‘The Individual’ moves right into the somber ‘Broken Heart,’ which pulls down the window shades on even the nicest of July days. And again, the frenetic energy that follows in ‘No God Only Religion,’ the chiming of church bells playing off a horn section and feedback guitars, an imposing string section backed by a rock drum beat. The eclectic amalgamation of sounds that Pierce crafts are as mesmerizing as they are mystifying. Once we think we finally understand, we are baptized in the holiness of ‘Cool Waves’ to begin life anew. The Dr. John assisted closer ‘Cop Shoot Cop…’ reaches level of epic intensity that only its mentor Sister Ray can top. Everything the album has been building up to comes back around here. The dynamic shifts, blocks of noise, the gospel chorus, repetition, repetition, the view from the moon of the Earth eclipsing the sun, the ups and downs of drug use, the lefts and rights of relationships. The album can be experienced from any of these views, and assuredly a multitude more. With so much going on, Pierce challenges our ideas of focus: the drug that irritates the mind the most is reality and our addiction to knowledge becomes disassembled when we don’t know what exactly to pay attention to. Often enough it’s the most simple, banal ideas that require our greatest awareness. We think we’re alive, probably just breathing: Spiritualized are mind blowing, probably just playing music.

Obsession

A derivative of Bryan Ferry’s pharmaceutical of choice: obsession. Girls’ states it clearly in ‘Goddamned’: “Obsession is my favorite drug.” The innocent vocal delivery is only suspect in the nuanced aggression in the pronunciation of ‘goddamned.’ The obsession seems carefree at first, perhaps still simple puppylove. But deviousness lies behind the exterior promises of pleasures and games involved in relationships. The unconventional choice of percussion underlines the playfulness of the campfire acoustic guitar juxtaposed to the true menacing nature of the lyrics.
To be sure, the singer is not looking for love. The singer prefers the state of desire to fulfillment: playing hard to get is preferred: the chase is the thrill of it all. Does the totality of obsession have a place in love? Of Montreal’s “Gallery Piece” off Skeletal Lamping has an opinion of its own. Here, there is a complete totality in the descriptions sung by Kevin Barnes (or is it Georgie Fruit?). “I want to slap your face” is followed by “I want to paint your nails,” “I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams.” Everything is explored to its extreme: love, hate, jealousy, pride, sex, violence: “I wanna be your what’s happening.” The bridge admits the deep reflection it took to bring out all of these emotions, rejecting the safety of the subconscious and cultivating all of the possibilities love contains. Attempting not to sound too Psych 101, we repress ‘abnormal’ emotions that may frighten us or make us feel alienated. But there comes a time when this needs release, be it a creative, sexual, or violent act, a transgression takes place, even a metamorphosis. The id needs to be engaged every now and then, and even challenged: confrontation, internal and external is what provides love its strength, rather than a simulacrum of what it should be.
Such an unconventional notion of love (or at least the suggestion that obsession has its place within love’s realm) was recognized as well by playwright Sarah Kane. Specifically, the play Crave equates love with drugs as Roxy Music’s leading track of Siren had done before. The play involves four nameless characters speaking sporadically and rarely to anyone in particular. B, at different points admits: “I smoke till I’m sick,” “I drink till I’m sick,” “I shake when I don’t have it.” The ambiguity of the last line suggests addiction to love as opposed to obsession. The climax of the play (if such a conventional term can be used) is A’s monologue, a period-less overwhelming love treatise. The I-want-to-do-this-to-you repetition is akin to Barnes (or considering our timeline, Barnes is akin to her) but for all of the violence we expect from Kane’s plays, there is an surprising amount of innocence and playfulness to A’s monologue.
Full circle, we can recognize the different stages love plays with obsession. Any new drug will at first give a ridiculous high, a mind expanding, eye opening, highly sensitized cliché of a high. And you want it more. It’s a change from the daily monotony, the one-night stands or the lost buzz from cigarettes. You want it more. You want to play hide and seek and make her jealous and buy her things. It’s still not enough. And it never will be. To love something is to completely ignore every conventionality set before you. Your addiction can lead to a great albeit short-lived love. Johnny Thunders’ addiction got the best of him, as did Romeo and Juliet’s. For better or worse? Jean Richepin: “The love of art makes us lose real love.” Does real love make us lose our love of life? I haven’t lived long enough to say. But I’m still moved by Kane, comforted by Girls, and I’ll kick up my feet to Of Montreal. Love is the drug, obsession is the overdose: the junkie understands the risk when he spikes his veins.

Sound and Nothingness

Admittedly a suburban transplant, ostensibly a Chicago native, it seems as if from birth I am to be fully aware of the life of Alexander Calder. From the Flamingo in Federal Plaza to the ubiquitous expositions at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Calder is as much a staple of Chicago culture and history as Terkel and Burnham are. His major achievement involves mobiles, a form of art that requires the viewer to crane his or her neck upwards to recognize the empty spaces above that are too often ignored. Likewise, the stage and settings of the works of Samuel Beckett and other absurdist playwrights employ the use of empty space (more to the point, Waiting for Godot constantly reminds us of a character who isn’t there). In the realm of music, the most famous example of this attention to nothingness is undoubtedly John Cage’s 4'33'’. But whereas Cage’s work involves absolute silence on behalf of the performer(s) in juxtaposition with the sounds of the environment around them, two recent albums allow the artists talents to effectively converse with the surrounding empty space.
From the beginning of Peter, Bjorn and John’s 2009 album Living Thing, we know this will not be a rehashing of Writer’s Block. Gone is the explosive attack of “Objects of my Affection” and the impatient drums and jovial whistles of “Young Folks.” Instead, we have start-stop vocals/drums, a feeling of apprehension confounding the listener. Perhaps the most striking use of negative space is on track two, “It Don’t Move Me.” A barren wasteland of a verse by PB&J standards sets up the catharsis-achieving chorus. The emptiness of the verse, the recognition of love lost (manifested in loss of sound) allows our hero to overcome, accompanied by the encounter of instrumentation. Likewise, the monotonous verse of “Losing My Mind,” with its repetitive snare and ominous lyrics, help guide tension, primarily through the slow tempo which only exaggerates the void: my fingers tap a beat too soon in anticipation of getting back in the comfort of sound. Historically, silence has held a dual definition, cliched as either ‘golden’ or ‘awkward.’ The purpose of adapting negative space in music is to help bridge the gap of these two extremes, to sense dialectically the tension then release.
Empty spaces can also help one to appreciate the subtlety of change. As PB&J employ a subtle dynamic within their songs and album, the XX use space as a way to draw a greater focus on the details of their instrumentation. Throughout “Heart Skipped a Beat,” off their debut eponymous album, the empty spaces allow the alternating and overlapping male/female vocals assume a greater sense of distance when they sing, “sometimes I still need you.” By the time everything is brought together at the end, it leaves immediately. Ambient sounds and hushed male half-slurs fill the winter alleyways emanating from the speakers. The contrasting pulsations from the bass with the fleeting guitar lead take over, and although it ends much too soon (as with many fantasies), there is a hint of what’s to come with “Shelter.” A female lead now occupies our space; we transferred from the mind of one to the other. The desolate alleyway of “Fantasy” is now a hardwood-floored, barren white-walled room; shelter from the extremes, but still cold and empty. Repeating lyrics and a build up essentially lead as far as most ruminations of a distracted mind: an eventual fade into perturbed sleep. But the dreamlike atmosphere of “Basic Space” that follows offers reconciliation with the dual vocals. The emptiness of the first verse allows a surreal transition before the clarity of the dream chorus. Certainly this is the most playful tune of this middle block of the album, the drums appropriating more fills as well as a faux-disco bass interlude. But the XX recognize the singularity of dreams, located solely in the basic space between our ears. Eventually, we wake up and return to the void.
As Tony Smith allows an aluminum sculpture to take up space and allow nothingness as part of the work, so to do PB&J and the XX recognize the importance of leaving open the window of sounds: its important to listen to what they’re not doing. The stage need not be elaborate to be a set, and the border of a painting can reveal just as much as the brush strokes. With our lives already so filled up with constant diversions, the breeze from an open window refreshes and enlivens.

Broken Neck

Wrote this after guitar broke and computer died. I just anticipated the next thing was carpal tunnel so I couldn't write anymore (hint: I was close).


My neck broke and took the strings with it. This hollowed body is no use without fingers grinding my veins. Red, but not from life. As stiff and lifeless as a chopped down tree, but never as strong as it had once stood. The wiring is severed; nothing connects inside of me, it all stumbles around aimlessly within the gravity-less pull of my organs.

My discs won’t spin anymore. I can’t read anything. Time is slowly scratching everything out of my memory. Click. Click. Click. And then: flashing. Rather, blinking. A dull, dumbeyed glassy look. Gin and catatonic.

My hand now disobeys the commands of the mind-brain question. First my thumb stopped responding. From there it straddled the curve between the palm and backhand ever so carefully, ignoring the freckle speedbump. The nails stopped growing: it was futile to claw at the walls. No light at the end of this tunnel.