Oh my god.
I just got back from the most incredible Black Rebel Motorcycle Club acoustic show at the Great American. Effing amazing. I've been to a lot of shows and it takes something to get me really worked up, but holy shit. To think I almost didn't go.
So the show starts with Bob Dylan singing Everybody Must Get Stoned and the first guy walks out smoking a cigarette, which he tosses into the waterbottle on his little prop table. He plugs in his acoustic guitar and it begins. With just the one dude out there, they have a spotlight on him, and there's something surreal about him. Maybe his greased back hair. Maybe his wrinkled black shirt. Maybe his long sideburns contrasted with the absolute lack of chest or arm hair. All of it just works. And it doesn't look like he's trying.
As he sings and wails into the harmonica he has this way of rolling his head and shoulders like water, like waves are running through him. And he shakes his head when he plays little riffs between chords so you can tell what his hands are doing just by looking at his face. It is magic. I feel like I'm at a show. As though he's a character in a play that's performing these songs. Everything is perfect. Even when strings come undone or the amps turn off, everything is slow and easy.
He trades between the most beautiful Gibson guitars. And I've never been that excited about guitars, but the way they made love to them tonight, it just made sense. The second guy who joins in to sing harmony halfway through a song, like another character joining the play, could have been kissing his guitar at one point the way his head was resting on it. And where the first guy could have been plucked out of A Streetcar Named Desire, the second one could be your classic Brit rocker. He's got the fluffy hair and draws out his vowels like a Brit when he sings even though I know they're both American.
This was the sexiest show I've been to in a long, long time. And it wasn't just that the musicians were sexy or that there was sexual tension on stage à la Blonde Redhead - the music was sexy. They didn't say much. Just nodded here and there. Smiled occasionally. They played for over two hours. And they played every song I love. Every last one of them. Almost all of Howl. They played some realllly old stuff, one new song, a handful in between. It was perfect. Perfect.
Men singing together is one of the most beautiful things. I love the deepness of it all. Like dark on dark. I secretly love to sing. (You have no idea). And as I walked home I would have given anything to sing with a nice deep voiced man.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Seeing faces
I am very nearly finished reading The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, and towards the end of it we're getting to the idiot savants. And there are these twins who relate to each other and the world using numbers. Not only that, but they recognize numbers and properties of numbers and can see numbers. For example - Oliver Sacks drops a box of matches, and the twins look at the mess and shout '111!' And then one of them also says '37-37-37.' So Oliver Sacks counts the matches as he picks them back up, and sure enough there are 111 of them. Why 37? There were also three 37s on the ground (37x3=111).
Later, Oliver Sacks also finds them sitting together trading numbers, and after each number they'll pause and savour it. He writes a couple down and looks them up later, and they're all prime. These 10- 11- 12- 20-digit numbers, all prime.
So how do people who can't add or even come close to understanding math just know prime numbers? Well, they say it's something like being able to recognize faces. Being able to recognize things as individual things, rather than as a sum of their parts.
I was thinking about this at my banjo lesson the other day as I asked the banjo teacher how I was supposed to know how the chord progression goes over the melody for Salt Creek other than just knowing it by the timing. And how was I supposed to know how and when to swap in the little fancy bits I have stuck in my head? What he said was essentially that music is a language and that, being new to it, I'm looking for rules and hard patterns. This is true, I am looking for rules and patterns, but what I need to do, he says, is just soak it all in. To just listen until I can hear it.
The first time I tried to play the chords over his melody, I got all tied up. I could barely even hear the melody - and I know this song. The notes just sounded like a big mess of floating individual pieces. He could tell I was struggling, so we played chords together a couple times then he let me at it again. And I wasn't even listening, but I heard it. Especially the F's. There was something warm and dark about them - even when they're played up the neck. You could just hear when they were coming. And the song sounded like a completely different song. It sounded like a quilt, like individual characters stitched together.
I've been similarly thinking about the impossibility of fretboards. How are you ever supposed to use that whole thing? There are so many frets on a banjo. How could they possibly all mean something to you? But I can feel that they're slowly starting to take on character. And that it's easier and easier to find them.
Crazily, I don't usually have to watch my left hand to tell it what to do. I always watch my right hand. I don't always get the notes right, but I'm suprised at how close I get. And how I can sometimes play stuff with my eyes closed. It's like those Mongolian girls playing all up and down those giant lap harp things, knowing how to make them sing just so.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Folk, part 2
Decatur Island, Washington
So I was flipping through my September Sunset magazine and found this article about Decatur Island. It turns out the article is only in the print edition (hence not linking to the article on their website), but, in any case, the article is about this island where they have no tourist anything, where you build your own house, grow your own food and recycle and reuse your own refuse.
And at first I thought that would be impossible - the whole no garbage service thing - but then if you're growing your own food, there's no packaging there. And if you're canning your own jam and vegetables, no waste there either. So of course I'm horrified by the amount of frivolous waste we generate by living so far from where this stuff comes from.
Decatur Island, though, is the kind of place where you could live in a pirate ship in the trees, which is to say: ideal. Something about doing stuff from scratch, about doing real things, brings people together. People watch out for each other because you're all on some kind of common ground.
And that's what I think folk is about - on the fringes, at least. I mean, folk means people, right? but there's something folky about people getting down in the dirt and growing their own food and getting an up close look at nature. Not just because it's old, but because it's true. And I want to get back to that - to the realness of causes and effects.
I really think that it's still the natural world that gives us meaning. That tells us why we do the things we do. Why we don't build permanent settlements in flood plains or why we take a sweater when we go out. And all this new-fangled modernity frees us from nature to an extent, but I think we lose in purpose and meaning at least as much as we gain in convenience.
It's that connection. And connection is what folk is about. Connecting between people and between people and nature. Nature puts us on a common footing and makes all the rest of it possible.
So I was flipping through my September Sunset magazine and found this article about Decatur Island. It turns out the article is only in the print edition (hence not linking to the article on their website), but, in any case, the article is about this island where they have no tourist anything, where you build your own house, grow your own food and recycle and reuse your own refuse.
And at first I thought that would be impossible - the whole no garbage service thing - but then if you're growing your own food, there's no packaging there. And if you're canning your own jam and vegetables, no waste there either. So of course I'm horrified by the amount of frivolous waste we generate by living so far from where this stuff comes from.
Decatur Island, though, is the kind of place where you could live in a pirate ship in the trees, which is to say: ideal. Something about doing stuff from scratch, about doing real things, brings people together. People watch out for each other because you're all on some kind of common ground.
And that's what I think folk is about - on the fringes, at least. I mean, folk means people, right? but there's something folky about people getting down in the dirt and growing their own food and getting an up close look at nature. Not just because it's old, but because it's true. And I want to get back to that - to the realness of causes and effects.
I really think that it's still the natural world that gives us meaning. That tells us why we do the things we do. Why we don't build permanent settlements in flood plains or why we take a sweater when we go out. And all this new-fangled modernity frees us from nature to an extent, but I think we lose in purpose and meaning at least as much as we gain in convenience.
It's that connection. And connection is what folk is about. Connecting between people and between people and nature. Nature puts us on a common footing and makes all the rest of it possible.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Man-style
So I've heard that girls can't really pull off the collared shirt and tie thing now that Avril Lavigne or whichever of those angsty girl pop stars that I can't tell apart claimed it.
But time out, let me back up. Boys are so easy to dress. I can't understand why so many of them have trouble finding hot clothes to wear. It's not just about skinny pants (although a lot of men look better in skinny pants than girls do) - there are whole genres of looks that men can just rock so easily. Maybe it's that there are fewer options and evolution has honed man-style into a number of sexy sexy outfit genres, but needless to say, I would effing love getting dressed in the morning if I were a boy.
Now, one of those boy-looks that I'm totally into is that whole tie and collared shirt thing. Esp. when the top button(s) are open. It's like dressy and casual. It says to me: I am such a rockstar that this tie can't hold me back. So, given that the odds of me waking up as a boy one morning (without a lot of pointed deliberation and effort) are pretty slim - not to mention that I don't necessarily want to be a boy - I'll be damned if I can't wear collared shirts with tie-things and my top buttons undone. For example:
[I am totally outing myself as closet photobooth addict, but it's for a good cause.]
If this were an ideal world, I'd own (and wear constantly) and awesome v-neck argyle sweater vest, but what I've got is this scoopneck brown sweater. And I'll say that I am kind of pleased and intrigued by the curve of the neck and how it contrasts with the v of the open shirt and how the girly thin sweater works with the man-ish faux tie especially when I wear it all with my fabuleuse new skirt.
[Side note about the skirt: it has the most incredible, incredible pockets and is brilliantly comfortable. If I hadn't gotten it as a gift - thanks mom! - I should totally have bought for myself. Skirts with pockets are hands down rad.]
So, I suppose the question I've been contemplating lately is if these hot man-styles just look good, or if they look good because they're man-styles. And if they look good because they're man-styles, what does that mean for me? Or, I guess the question should be - what can it mean for me?
Are these looks that you can break down into their geometry and recreate in women's clothing? And what's the difference, really - aside from the cut, which is important obviously because I have hips and a tiny rib cage in lieu of broad shoulders and chicken legs? The shape of clothes isn't just about the shape - it's about the shape on you. In any case, it's a question I'm curious about.
But time out, let me back up. Boys are so easy to dress. I can't understand why so many of them have trouble finding hot clothes to wear. It's not just about skinny pants (although a lot of men look better in skinny pants than girls do) - there are whole genres of looks that men can just rock so easily. Maybe it's that there are fewer options and evolution has honed man-style into a number of sexy sexy outfit genres, but needless to say, I would effing love getting dressed in the morning if I were a boy.
Now, one of those boy-looks that I'm totally into is that whole tie and collared shirt thing. Esp. when the top button(s) are open. It's like dressy and casual. It says to me: I am such a rockstar that this tie can't hold me back. So, given that the odds of me waking up as a boy one morning (without a lot of pointed deliberation and effort) are pretty slim - not to mention that I don't necessarily want to be a boy - I'll be damned if I can't wear collared shirts with tie-things and my top buttons undone. For example:
[I am totally outing myself as closet photobooth addict, but it's for a good cause.]
If this were an ideal world, I'd own (and wear constantly) and awesome v-neck argyle sweater vest, but what I've got is this scoopneck brown sweater. And I'll say that I am kind of pleased and intrigued by the curve of the neck and how it contrasts with the v of the open shirt and how the girly thin sweater works with the man-ish faux tie especially when I wear it all with my fabuleuse new skirt.
[Side note about the skirt: it has the most incredible, incredible pockets and is brilliantly comfortable. If I hadn't gotten it as a gift - thanks mom! - I should totally have bought for myself. Skirts with pockets are hands down rad.]
So, I suppose the question I've been contemplating lately is if these hot man-styles just look good, or if they look good because they're man-styles. And if they look good because they're man-styles, what does that mean for me? Or, I guess the question should be - what can it mean for me?
Are these looks that you can break down into their geometry and recreate in women's clothing? And what's the difference, really - aside from the cut, which is important obviously because I have hips and a tiny rib cage in lieu of broad shoulders and chicken legs? The shape of clothes isn't just about the shape - it's about the shape on you. In any case, it's a question I'm curious about.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Were you aware of it? vol. 9: Bigfoot, now with DNA evidence
When a coworker mentioned a couple of Georgians had caught Bigfoot, there was a long pause as we waited for the punchline. But here it is in the New York Times, just like he said:
SAN FRANCISCO — In the hairy and hoax-filled history of Bigfoot, those who believe in the mythical beast have offered up all manner of evidence, from grainy photos to hoarse recordings to tracks of those aforementioned feet.
But on Friday at a hotel in Palo Alto, Calif., a pair of Bigfoot hunters say they will present what they contend is the most definitive proof yet of an animal that science says does not exist: DNA evidence and photographs of a dead specimen they say they found in a remote swath of woods in northern Georgia.
“It was very frightening at first,” said Rick Dyer, 31, a former corrections officer who — coincidentally — runs a business that offers Bigfoot tours. “And it got even more frightening when you saw the others.”
Indeed, Mr. Dyer said he and his partner, Matthew Whitton, saw three more of the beasts nearby as they dragged the body of said creature out of the woods. Moreover, Mr. Dyer says he has video clips and photographs to prove it.
One photograph provided to the news media showed what resembled a gorilla — or maybe an old sheepskin rug — lying twisted in a freezer, with a dollop of intestines protruding from its belly.
“There’s a lot of comment being made that it looks fake, or it looks like a suit,” Mr. Dyer said. “But these people wasn’t there when I was sweating, pulling this thing through the woods.”
Tom Biscardi, a longtime Bigfoot booster from the Bay Area, who traveled to Georgia to see the animal, said he was “150 percent” sure that the carcass was a Bigfoot, an American Indian legend whose modern fame dates to an elaborate “footprint” hoax perpetrated at a Northern California logging camp in 1958.
“This is ‘Eureka!’ man,” said Mr. Biscardi, whose operations include a Bigfoot Web site, a Bigfoot merchandise line and a Bigfoot Internet radio show. “I touched it.”
Both Mr. Biscardi and Mr. Dyer said they expected skeptics to discount the find, which is being kept in a freezer in an undisclosed location outside Atlanta. But they promised even more proof, including video, a DNA test and, of course, a mission to capture one of the big guys.
“I’m not asking anyone to believe us,” Mr. Dyer said. “I’m just asking them to sit and watch, because you’re going to eat your words.”
CNN also had a few more details.
We were on the verge of planning a field trip out to the "hotel in Palo Alto," but then we realized it was just the DNA evidence and not the beast himself on parade. Too bad.
SAN FRANCISCO — In the hairy and hoax-filled history of Bigfoot, those who believe in the mythical beast have offered up all manner of evidence, from grainy photos to hoarse recordings to tracks of those aforementioned feet.But on Friday at a hotel in Palo Alto, Calif., a pair of Bigfoot hunters say they will present what they contend is the most definitive proof yet of an animal that science says does not exist: DNA evidence and photographs of a dead specimen they say they found in a remote swath of woods in northern Georgia.
“It was very frightening at first,” said Rick Dyer, 31, a former corrections officer who — coincidentally — runs a business that offers Bigfoot tours. “And it got even more frightening when you saw the others.”
Indeed, Mr. Dyer said he and his partner, Matthew Whitton, saw three more of the beasts nearby as they dragged the body of said creature out of the woods. Moreover, Mr. Dyer says he has video clips and photographs to prove it.
One photograph provided to the news media showed what resembled a gorilla — or maybe an old sheepskin rug — lying twisted in a freezer, with a dollop of intestines protruding from its belly.
“There’s a lot of comment being made that it looks fake, or it looks like a suit,” Mr. Dyer said. “But these people wasn’t there when I was sweating, pulling this thing through the woods.”
Tom Biscardi, a longtime Bigfoot booster from the Bay Area, who traveled to Georgia to see the animal, said he was “150 percent” sure that the carcass was a Bigfoot, an American Indian legend whose modern fame dates to an elaborate “footprint” hoax perpetrated at a Northern California logging camp in 1958.
“This is ‘Eureka!’ man,” said Mr. Biscardi, whose operations include a Bigfoot Web site, a Bigfoot merchandise line and a Bigfoot Internet radio show. “I touched it.”
Both Mr. Biscardi and Mr. Dyer said they expected skeptics to discount the find, which is being kept in a freezer in an undisclosed location outside Atlanta. But they promised even more proof, including video, a DNA test and, of course, a mission to capture one of the big guys.
“I’m not asking anyone to believe us,” Mr. Dyer said. “I’m just asking them to sit and watch, because you’re going to eat your words.”
CNN also had a few more details.
We were on the verge of planning a field trip out to the "hotel in Palo Alto," but then we realized it was just the DNA evidence and not the beast himself on parade. Too bad.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
thirty-eight cents
I finally took in my old bicycle to recycle for scrap metal yesterday. I now know where all those homeless guys with huge shopping carts overflowing with aluminum cans are headed early in the morning. The janky-ness of my bike, which had reasserted itself as I attempted to extricate if from its grave in the closet seemed to fade as I rolled it up onto the scale at Alliance Metals.
The place was like 1000x louder than a rock concert with all the clanging of metal cans being poured onto a conveyor belt to God knows where. I suspect it also stank something awful, but I tried not to notice and was grateful for my lack of a strong sense of smell. I felt a bit silly strolling up there listening to Spanish tapes on my iPod surrounded by gritty-looking (but pleasant enough) people who recycled for a living.
The guy in front of me got something like $11 for a metal lamp stand, but when I brought my bike up to be weighed the woman at the scale tilted her head asked if I was sure I didn't want to keep it. I explained that the pedals and brakes were broken and that the tires were flat, which she accepted reluctantly, but honestly my bike had never looked so new and healthy as it did in that loud loud hall of dirty, used up bits of this and that.
She said she could give me thirty-eight cents for it. Probably because it was steel rather than aluminum and because they'd have to separate out all the non-metal parts before they could turn it into something new. I did feel a little bad for it and wondered if I couldn't have at least Tried leaving it out on the street or posting it on Craigslist for 75¢ as a bicycle, rather than scrap metal. But what's done is done.
In the meantime, I have fallen in love with all the new space in my closet. Just moments ago I was dancing my heart out in there to that riff at the beginning of Day Tripper that's been stuck in my head since Steven taught me how to play it earlier today. I've only stopped to see if I couldn't put on some actual music, and I must now go off in search of whatever Beatles songs I can dig up.
The place was like 1000x louder than a rock concert with all the clanging of metal cans being poured onto a conveyor belt to God knows where. I suspect it also stank something awful, but I tried not to notice and was grateful for my lack of a strong sense of smell. I felt a bit silly strolling up there listening to Spanish tapes on my iPod surrounded by gritty-looking (but pleasant enough) people who recycled for a living.
The guy in front of me got something like $11 for a metal lamp stand, but when I brought my bike up to be weighed the woman at the scale tilted her head asked if I was sure I didn't want to keep it. I explained that the pedals and brakes were broken and that the tires were flat, which she accepted reluctantly, but honestly my bike had never looked so new and healthy as it did in that loud loud hall of dirty, used up bits of this and that.
She said she could give me thirty-eight cents for it. Probably because it was steel rather than aluminum and because they'd have to separate out all the non-metal parts before they could turn it into something new. I did feel a little bad for it and wondered if I couldn't have at least Tried leaving it out on the street or posting it on Craigslist for 75¢ as a bicycle, rather than scrap metal. But what's done is done.
In the meantime, I have fallen in love with all the new space in my closet. Just moments ago I was dancing my heart out in there to that riff at the beginning of Day Tripper that's been stuck in my head since Steven taught me how to play it earlier today. I've only stopped to see if I couldn't put on some actual music, and I must now go off in search of whatever Beatles songs I can dig up.
I'm telling you, Europeans have it going on
I swear I did get outside today. I totally went to the farmer's market and biked to Berkeley Bowl. And I played music in the park for hours. In the plural. Till it was too cold to stay any longer (...because i was wearing just my shorts and teeshirt and didn't bring a sweater..).
But! Look what I also stumbled into in my studies:
This is how Europeans learn English. Seriously. They totally hit YouTube and like all the Hollywood classics and tv. I mean, this guy is good:
He can imitate an Arizonan cloud and fake British and American accents. Like, even if I weren't obsédée with Iceland, which, yes, I am, this guy is totally rad. I need to befriend him. I am going to be this good.
On a side note - everyone in Iceland has this sweater. I must also have this sweater.
But! Look what I also stumbled into in my studies:
This is how Europeans learn English. Seriously. They totally hit YouTube and like all the Hollywood classics and tv. I mean, this guy is good:
He can imitate an Arizonan cloud and fake British and American accents. Like, even if I weren't obsédée with Iceland, which, yes, I am, this guy is totally rad. I need to befriend him. I am going to be this good.
On a side note - everyone in Iceland has this sweater. I must also have this sweater.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Að læra íslensku
This girl is totally cute.
How is it that Icelanders speak such good English that they know words like fucktard?
Sometimes I wonder how it is that I find myself listening with rapt attention to kids on YouTube teaching me Icelandic or Scots Gaelic or Irish Gaelic or any of a million languages whose speakers are probably more fluent in English than I'll ever be in those languages. But I think it's fascinating - people holding on to that stuff. And having something small to call your own.
I could learn Chinese and I am listening to my Spanish tapes again, but there's something about these little languages that's absolutely addictive. Maybe it's that I love sounds. I love the butter of French and the zing of Spanish and the lilt of Icelandic and Swedish and the sweetness of Mandarin and the shapes of Irish and Scottish Gaelic. I'm a total player, flirting with all these languages without every really learning them up proper. I'd love to though.
I would like make out with languages. I'd find a quiet corner and stare into their eyes at parties. I'd get drunk and tell them jokes. We'd wake up late and cook breakfast together.
And I love English too. I love how intimate we are. How well we work together. How easy it is to spill English out. To be precise or delicate. And I want more and more and more. More turns of phrase and feeling.
Is there a job where I could work 13 hours a day getting it on with languages (instead of spreadsheets, contact flows and email programs)? And there would be people behind the sounds and shapes and touch of all the new words. Sign me up.
Ok, ok, I'll leave you with just one more.
This will really be the last one, I swear:
Sigh, I need to go to Iceland and make friends with a rabbit.
How is it that Icelanders speak such good English that they know words like fucktard?
Sometimes I wonder how it is that I find myself listening with rapt attention to kids on YouTube teaching me Icelandic or Scots Gaelic or Irish Gaelic or any of a million languages whose speakers are probably more fluent in English than I'll ever be in those languages. But I think it's fascinating - people holding on to that stuff. And having something small to call your own.
I could learn Chinese and I am listening to my Spanish tapes again, but there's something about these little languages that's absolutely addictive. Maybe it's that I love sounds. I love the butter of French and the zing of Spanish and the lilt of Icelandic and Swedish and the sweetness of Mandarin and the shapes of Irish and Scottish Gaelic. I'm a total player, flirting with all these languages without every really learning them up proper. I'd love to though.
I would like make out with languages. I'd find a quiet corner and stare into their eyes at parties. I'd get drunk and tell them jokes. We'd wake up late and cook breakfast together.
And I love English too. I love how intimate we are. How well we work together. How easy it is to spill English out. To be precise or delicate. And I want more and more and more. More turns of phrase and feeling.
Is there a job where I could work 13 hours a day getting it on with languages (instead of spreadsheets, contact flows and email programs)? And there would be people behind the sounds and shapes and touch of all the new words. Sign me up.
Ok, ok, I'll leave you with just one more.
This will really be the last one, I swear:
Sigh, I need to go to Iceland and make friends with a rabbit.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Folk, part 1
Devendra Banhart
I don't think I've ever seen a beard look so feminine.
If I were a boy, I would grow this beard. And I would wear the vest regardless. I like to think that Devendra Banhart and I are sort of on the same wavelength in terms of getting dressed - which is not to say I pull it off, but that in an ideal world, we are of a similar mind. I think my favorite clothes are things that remind me of other things, like costumes. Take moccasins or cowboy boots, for example.
After seeing pics of Devendra Banhart at OutsideLands from this past weekend, I pulled Cripple Crow out from my stack of cds and have been listening to it on repeat. I was having a discussion with Russ and Ciana a few months ago (back in June) about folk. We were leaving the SFMoma and debating whether Frida Kahlo is a folk artist and what folk art is in the first place.
And there are lyrics that float through this Cripple Crow album that scream folk to me. For example: Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are the only Beatles in the world... or I heard somebody say that the war ended today, but everybody knows it's going still. Our motherland and motherseas. Here's what we believe: it's simple - we don't want to kill... And there are the songs about having babies and growing your hair out long. Topical, but still something people will be able to relate to for a long long time. I mean, if having babies isn't of the people, I don't know what is.
I guess what I want to say is that I'm all about folk. And I don't believe folk art means art done by people who don't know what they're doing. Maybe you could say it's about the stuff that brings us together, instead of what alienates us (even if alienation is what brings us together these days..). I think folk art is about drawing on common symbols and a shared understanding to make a connection. And I like that connection. I like the connection with the past because it's so hard to find these days.
Where modernity is about new new new, folk to me is about digging up the old and knowing it like you were there the first time. It's about being human instead of a machine. It's about taking your time. It's about being here now while slipping out of yourself into that collective consciousness. I think there's something to that. And I want to find out first hand.
I don't think I've ever seen a beard look so feminine.
If I were a boy, I would grow this beard. And I would wear the vest regardless. I like to think that Devendra Banhart and I are sort of on the same wavelength in terms of getting dressed - which is not to say I pull it off, but that in an ideal world, we are of a similar mind. I think my favorite clothes are things that remind me of other things, like costumes. Take moccasins or cowboy boots, for example.
After seeing pics of Devendra Banhart at OutsideLands from this past weekend, I pulled Cripple Crow out from my stack of cds and have been listening to it on repeat. I was having a discussion with Russ and Ciana a few months ago (back in June) about folk. We were leaving the SFMoma and debating whether Frida Kahlo is a folk artist and what folk art is in the first place.
And there are lyrics that float through this Cripple Crow album that scream folk to me. For example: Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are the only Beatles in the world... or I heard somebody say that the war ended today, but everybody knows it's going still. Our motherland and motherseas. Here's what we believe: it's simple - we don't want to kill... And there are the songs about having babies and growing your hair out long. Topical, but still something people will be able to relate to for a long long time. I mean, if having babies isn't of the people, I don't know what is.
I guess what I want to say is that I'm all about folk. And I don't believe folk art means art done by people who don't know what they're doing. Maybe you could say it's about the stuff that brings us together, instead of what alienates us (even if alienation is what brings us together these days..). I think folk art is about drawing on common symbols and a shared understanding to make a connection. And I like that connection. I like the connection with the past because it's so hard to find these days.
Where modernity is about new new new, folk to me is about digging up the old and knowing it like you were there the first time. It's about being human instead of a machine. It's about taking your time. It's about being here now while slipping out of yourself into that collective consciousness. I think there's something to that. And I want to find out first hand.
Monday, August 25, 2008
***
I was playing music in the park yesterday, as has become my ritual. The park was full - not in a Dolores Park way, but such that wherever I sat someone was going to hear me play. I picked a spot at the edge of where the sporty kids' base camp was when they weren't playing ultimate tackle frisbee or football. [They were an interesting group, actually. Six guys and two girls, black and white, nerdy and jock-y]. And then on the other side of me, this other guy sat down with a truck load of baby toys and a tiny tiny girl baby in a little jean jumper.
I sat there contemplating whether the vast expanse of the park would absorb the sound coming from my picnic blanket before it got to the people around me, one of whom was sleeping.
I played Salt Creek about a hundred times and Cripple Creek and Fireball Mail and played chords and my new bit in Sylvia. I strummed through Idea, Frankenstein, Marcher, Picture Yourself, having puzzled out what a major seventh shape might look like on a banjo and which chord structure it might go with Saturday night. Determination: major sevenths - easier to play than normal sevenths.
And I think there's something about musical instruments, right? because on their own they're silent. And you can't make those sounds on your own either, but then you + instrument makes something happen that wouldn't be there otherwise. One of those whole is greater than the sum of its parts things. You know, the kind of relationship you feel you ought to have with everything - where you can just hear and feel how well its going. And it makes you better than yourself.
Anyway, this is all to say that as I was packing up to go, the man with the baby rolled over on his mat to say that I'd done some beautiful playing. I smiled and said thanks, having wondered earlier in the day at what point you move from being someone who plays an instrument to being a musician.
I sat there contemplating whether the vast expanse of the park would absorb the sound coming from my picnic blanket before it got to the people around me, one of whom was sleeping.
I played Salt Creek about a hundred times and Cripple Creek and Fireball Mail and played chords and my new bit in Sylvia. I strummed through Idea, Frankenstein, Marcher, Picture Yourself, having puzzled out what a major seventh shape might look like on a banjo and which chord structure it might go with Saturday night. Determination: major sevenths - easier to play than normal sevenths.
And I think there's something about musical instruments, right? because on their own they're silent. And you can't make those sounds on your own either, but then you + instrument makes something happen that wouldn't be there otherwise. One of those whole is greater than the sum of its parts things. You know, the kind of relationship you feel you ought to have with everything - where you can just hear and feel how well its going. And it makes you better than yourself.
Anyway, this is all to say that as I was packing up to go, the man with the baby rolled over on his mat to say that I'd done some beautiful playing. I smiled and said thanks, having wondered earlier in the day at what point you move from being someone who plays an instrument to being a musician.
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