das Ding an sich

The gyroscope just keeps on spinning...

2011-12-25T21:03:00.000-05:00

Jack White's been busy being brilliant again. Actually, though, that's a misnomer, as the man seems to never stop being brilliant. If you haven't been paying attention, it'd be easy to think he's not done anything since the end of last year's Dead Weather tour or this year's handful of shows with the Raconteurs but, in actuality, he's turned out a tremendous amount of music and records over the course of this year. It just hasn't all been the sort to put him in the spotlight.

As far as newness in his own music goes, 2011 was a year of collaborations. First released was the spaghetti western-inspired Rome, a five-year-in-the-making labor of love by Danger Mouse and Daniele Luppi, on which Jack contributed lyrics and vocals to three songs. The lyrics are not a huge a stretch from what a dedicated White Stripes fans might be familiar with, but his vocals and the music they're paired with are quite a departure.

Next was the long-awaited release of The Lost Notebooks of Hank Williams, a project begun by Bob Dylan roughly a decade ago. In a turnaround from Rome, the musicians involved in this project were asked to write music for unfinished Williams lyrics and then perform on the album. I've not yet listened to the entire record, but from what I have heard it doesn't seem that any of the other artists involved created anything as authentic as Jack did.

Most recent was a startling cover of U2's Love Is Blindness on the AHK-toong BAY-bi covers compilation, which I babbled about a couple months ago, but will post here again for the sake of comparison.

I'm struck every time I listen to these songs by the contrast between the delivery of them-- Not so much in the difference in style, but in how Jack chose to approach them. In You Know That I Know, the "quiver and twang" in his voice and the distinctive pedal steel guitar in the music he wrote are a touchingly faithful recreation of Hank's style. He's done this sort of thing before, notably with the White Stripes' covers of Blind Willie McTell's Your Southern Can Is Mine and Lord Send Me An Angel, and Bob Dylan's One More Cup of Coffee and Isis, but not to quite this fine a degree. In comparison, he took Love Is Blindness and ran miles away from U2's original to create something so much more extreme and intense, which, again, he also did with the Stripes on Dolly Parton's Jolene, Son House's Death Letter, and Robert Johnson's Stop Breaking Down (though he and Meg also did a slightly more faithful rendition of that one, as well). And there's pretty much no way to compare the songs on Rome to anything he's done before. When news leaks of things like this year's cover tunes and collaborations, the most exciting part of waiting to hear them is that there's just no telling what direction Jack will have taken. It's fascinating to contemplate-- How does he make the decision each time? Is it pure gut instinct based on a visceral reaction to the music? Or does he actually thoughtfully consider the song and make conscious decisions? He spoke in a recent interview (that I now can't find) about problem-solving in relation to the business at his label, Third Man Records, of how he prefers to vary his own style from problem to problem rather than tackling every challenge that comes up from the same perspective, and that seems to also speak directly to how he approaches music.

This same diversified approach is reflected in the output of the Blue and Green Series singles from Third Man, on which Jack steps into the background as producer. This is where he's really been busy. What's notable about these records aside from his astute production is that he personally searches out and contacts individuals with whom he feels he can create something new and inspiring. With 33 releases in less than three years, these two series run a gamut that defines the word "eclectic"-- From relative unknowns like JEFF the Brotherhood, the Secret Sisters, and Chris Thiles, to actor John C. Reilly and 70's icon BP Fallon, Conan O'Brien and auctioneer Jerry King, Japanese girl group the 5.6.7.8.s and rapper Black Milk, to Carl Sagan and, controversially, Insane Clown Posse, the catalog of these two series is a blatant indication of just how wide-ranging Jack's interests and imagination run.

The most recent of the Green Series singles has totally blown me away. It features poet/actor/playwright, Edgar Oliver, whom Jack apparently noticed in an episode of the Discovery Channel's Oddities program. For his Third Man single, Oliver wrote and read a pair of poems-- In The Park and Hunger and Light. While his voice, delivery, and poetry are certainly not necessarily everyone's cup of tea, they're right up my own eerie little alley. A clip of the a-side, In The Park, can be heard at the Third Man Records on-line shop. It's a gruesome yet lovely contemplation on the approach of death, read in a manner that summons up a delightfully daft combination of Vincent Price and Peter Lorre. But the b-side, Hunger And Light, is the kicker.

Recorded in Triple Reverse Cryptophonica™, it left me initially nonplussed at what sounded like nothing but gibberish. I thought it would be great to listen to at Halloween, but it had no meaning for me beyond that.

But then Third Man announced a contest promising a gold record of the single to the first person who could correctly interpret and transcribe the poem. I had no clue of how to accomplish this, but there were plenty of other technologically-inclined audiophiles who took up the challenge. When the results hit the internet, it left me giddy. Whether Oliver's dark themes and creepy tone are appealing or not, the production of this piece is still a wonderment. First, the single was pressed to physically play in reverse, from the inside run-out groove to the outer edge of the record (which produces the sounds heard above). But by flipping the head of the turntable tonearm, it can be played in the normal direction of outer-to-inner edge, which creates the second reverse-- the direction of the sound. But instead of hearing "Paul is dead" or some Satan-worshipping mumbo-jumbo like you'd hear if you played your records in reverse in the old days, you get this--

The final fantastic element is that Jack recorded Edgar reading the words in reverse order (as heard above). Reversing things for a third and last time through transcription reveals the original poem—

”Hunger and Light. I’m going in my sleep to the Galaxy Deli for a bacon and egg sandwich. I must cross daylight to get it. I went to the Galaxy Deli in my sleep. I crossed the Egyptian daylight on 3rd Avenue, fearing death at every step, but exalting in the sun on the mud in the street. This was not dreaming. I really crossed that Styx, and came back with two bacon and egg sandwiches, both for me and some for my cats, who are driven mad by the smell, as am I, of bacon and sunlight. The day, like a beautifully fried egg, sits coolly on a blue plate. Today is a blue plate special. I’ll go swimming around the rim and drown in my hunger. Sun sets a gold eye on a fly, hungry for everything glinting in the mud. It’s today in my dream. Cruelly today. Today I will eat the last bite.”

Now that I'm able to comprehend it, I find it beautiful in every direction. What leaves me most excited about it, though, is wondering how on earth Jack came up with the Triple Reverse idea. How many people's minds work like that? It's obvious that his brain is on a different plane than those of average individuals. I've joked at one of the message boards dedicated to him that if you opened up his head, instead of a mass of grey matter like the rest of us have, you'd find a gyroscope spinning at breakneck speed, spitting out ideas like lightning. Though the lightning image makes it more appropriate, probably, to compare Jack's brain to a Tesla coil like the one displayed on the roof of Third Man Records, or the one he showed off in Jim Jarmusch's Coffee And Cigarettes--

Clearly, the spark gaps of the Tesla coil inside Jack's head have always been adjusted for overdrive performance and that's something for which we should all be thankful. The music world would be a damned dull place without him in it.

Note: Bearing in mind how he seems to feel about his tangible creations being turned into internet ephemera, I debated for several days whether to post the videos and translation of Hunger And Light. In the end, I decided it was worth risking Jack's displeasure in order to demonstrate to the few people who read this just how insanely creative he is. If anyone affiliated with Third Man Records should happen to stumble across this and feel that it should be removed, by all means please let me know.

I'm gonna sing this song, An I ain't goin' to sing no mo'

2011-12-19T11:52:00.000-05:00

Finally made the pilgrimage to Skip James' gravesite at the Merion Memorial Park outside of Philadelphia.

Merion's a fairly small cemetery but it sprawls down a hillside, so I decided to make things easy on myself by asking in the office where to find Nehemiah James. The two older white folks working the office couldn't seem to find him in their register, but when I mentioned he had been a musician also known as Skip James, a lightbulb went off. They sent me back outside to ask one of the groundskeepers, a young, dreadlocked black guy who knew right away who I was talking about and who was very happy to walk down the hill with me, chatting along the way about blues music and what it's like to work in a cemetery full of Canada geese (and their droppings). Then he left me alone to sit in front of Skip's headstone and smoke and think about the man, the music he made, and how he came to be buried in Pennsylvania rather than in some cypress grove in the Delta.

Here's hoping you've been resting in more peace than you had in life, Skip.

Welcome to the "Middle of Everywhere"

2011-12-18T16:05:00.000-05:00

Take a step back with me, would you please? Back to a time several decades ago, a time that was both simple and yet, in many ways, every bit as complex as those we live in now. It's a very easy time to romanticize. The music of that era is very different from what's produced these days-- It's one of the simpler elements of those years and contributes mightily to that sheen of romance, but it's pretty well overlooked by a majority of today's contemporary music listeners. There are a handful of artists out there, though, who not only appreciate this music but do everything they can to keep it alive and vital. One of those groups is Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three, and I'd like to introduce you to 'em.

I first heard of these fellas via the 7" single they cut for Third Man Records earlier this year-- A tune with the tongue-twisting title "Chitlin' Cookin' Time In Cheatham County", backed with the just as terrific "Pack It Up". Their vintage look and traditional roots sound got me curious, but one particular recommendation from a conversation at a message board I frequent intrigued me even more-- "[Pokey] inhabits the authentic essence of the old music but carries it on with original lyrics and tunes. imagine alan lomax combining all the dna of american music and injecting it into this slight lad from south st louis..." That's a kicker, folks. Few people have done more to preserve and promote true American music than Alan Lomax did throughout his career, so the idea that this group could possibly distill the spirit of Lomax's work within their songs was compelling. Think of the film "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" embodied by four very young men from St. Louis, Missouri, and you begin, just begin, to get the picture.

So I began reading about them and watching videos here and there (NPR, especially, has a terrific archive of Pokey and SC3 material). I loved the idea of the group, but didn't quite connect. Until, that is, I found out that they would be opening for the Raconteurs' first performance in three years at Third Man Records in Nashville in September-- I wanted badly to attend that show just to see the Racs, but had missed the tickets that sold out immediately. Hemmed and hawed about spending a couple hundred dollars via eBay, plus the price of a plane ticket, and then heard that these guys would be the opening act. They were the deciding factor, as my gut told me that this was a combination not to be missed.

Well, I'm happy to tell you, my gut was dead right. Seeing this band live made all the difference in the world. Their sound is one thing, but their performances are quite another. They are consummately professional and meticulously talented, both smoothly polished and raucously fun at the same time. Not to mention, endearing to a fault. Pokey is a little guy with a huge voice, who plays rhythm on a beautiful old parlor guitar and occasionally hangs an amplified kazoo from his neck to add a snazzy accompaniment to various tunes.

Photo from bothell-reporter.com

Ryan Koenig gives Pokey some serious competition for the spotlight on just about every tune, alternating entertainingly delivered accompanying vocals with some of the most intense harmonica going, then putting down his harp and strapping on his homemade washboard, complete with dishes and a bell, which is fascinating to watch.

Photo from arianecdesign.com

Photo from beforetheblink.com

The self-effacingly self-described "rhythm kings" of the band are Adam Hoskins on guitar and Joey Glynn on standup bass. I'd never seen anyone play standup bass before this band and really looked forward to the experience. Checking out Joey's bass on the stage before the show began at Third Man, I wondered how the heck you got sound out of string like that-- The lower strings looked practically like twine. When he started slapping away, I was spellbound by the thumping beat he created.

Photo by Corey Warner

But some of my favorite moments came from Adam Hoskins and his gorgeous vintage acoustic guitar. When he jokingly referred to himself as one of the "rhythm kings" of the band, he was actually way off base. He plays some of the most beautifully articulate guitar I've yet heard, with perfectly clean technique whether he's finger-picking notes or sliding a bottle-neck along the frets. (And talk about endearing-- When I saw the band again, as described below, it was mentioned during the show that Adam had just bought himself a $3,000 vintage Gibson. When I asked him about it afterward, I was struck by not only how eager he was to get it set up and be able to play it live, but also by his comment that it was the first guitar he'd bought himself with money that he'd earned by playing guitar. It was sweet to see just how gratifying this was for him.)

Photo by Ryan Leith

So I came home from Nashville and immediately ordered a copy of their most recent record, Middle of Everywhere. The album is terrific. But, as fun and fantastic as the music is, the attitude behind it is what makes it real and significant, not just a campy bit of fluffy entertainment. In the liner notes, Pokey talks about just what this style of music means to him--

...When jazz, blues and country took off early on, where the artists came from was as much of the music as the music itself, that framework giving deep meaning and relevance to what they were saying and playing. While the old music may have origins in regions and communities, it's been grabbed hold of and evolved as it's spread across America. For me, the point is to find my place in this changing landscape and continue to express myself speaking the language of the old music while holding on to the roots.

It's that compulsion to keep this music alive rather than just to recreate it that makes it essential listening for anyone who cares about the history of American music. Even if it's not your bag, it's hard to deny that maintaining that "language of the old music" is a worthwhile undertaking for young contemporary artists like Pokey and the South City fellas. Like losing any other historic language, for this music that's so rich in history and culture to go extinct would be a sad and unnecessary loss

I followed the show in Nashville a few weeks later with a, get this, free show at Hill Country BBQ in Washington, DC, where I danced, talked to a couple of the boys in the band, and picked up a cd of their earlier record, Riverboat Soul. The crowd at Hill Country packed the downstairs bar/performance area and was apparently full of friends and long-time fans of the band, and the atmosphere of the over-two-hour long show was joyous. These boys work hard and seem to enjoy every drop of sweat they put into their performance as much as their audiences do. If you get the chance to go see 'em, do yourself a favor and do so. I intend to every chance I get.

Pack It Up at the Watermelon Park Festival in Berryville, VA, a show I would have attended if it hadn't been an hour and a half away and pouring down rain when I left work that night. Comments from the audience at Hill Country BBQ made me very sorry I'd missed it--

So, now that we've stepped back, let's follow Pokey and the boys and step forward to keep the wonderful traditions of this music alive. As Pokey says, "We'll see you down the road..." Let's just hope it's a long one.

Back to Mississippi: Exploring the Delta, part II

2011-10-28T23:59:00.000-04:00

Freaking hell, it was cold in Clarksdale when I woke up on this day. And still grey as a tomb, though the sun ended up breaking through the clouds after I got on the road and headed along the very scenic way towards Tennessee and Nashville.

After the same breakfast as yesterday again at the Rest Haven, I steered the Shark up route 6 to route 55 with the plan to stop in Como on the way to Senatobia in order to find the gravesite of Mississippi Fred McDowell. Como's so small it didn't even have a stoplight, but it did have Blues Trail markers for both Fred and fife master Otha Turner. Fred's mentioned that he was buried north of town at Hammond Hill Missionary Baptist Church on Hammond Hill Road, but the young guy at the gas station where I asked didn't know where it was. Just for shits'n'giggles, I decided to head up route 51, which parallels the larger, four lane route 55 up to Senatobia. Went a little ways looking for Hammond Hill Road, but when I crossed into the next county it seemed that I was on the wrong side of the north end of Como. So I decided to turn around and head back to check out the other side of town. Picked a random side road in which to pull a u-turn and, lo and behold, there was a sign for Hammond Hill M.B. Church that wasn't visible from the direction I'd been headed.

That road ended at a T intersection, but there were no more signs specifying a direction to the church. Made another random decision and headed right (The first sign said "keep right", right?). About a mile down, tucked next to a crossroad between pine and sweetgum woods on one side and empty fields on the other, was Hammond Hill M.B., with the cemetery on the hill across the street. I always get a hell of a kick out of such serendipitous discoveries.

Hammond Hill cemetery had many of the same style of home-made headstones I'd seen yesterday at Charley Patton's gravesite, in addition to newer ones on which much more money has obviously been spent.

From Como, the Shark and I headed up to Senatobia, then juked east toward Holly Springs to see if I could find a record shop listed on the Mississippi Music Tourist Sites map-- Aikei Pro's (Pronounced "ecky", as in "ecky thump". Some of you will catch the White Stripes connection...) Stopped first to choke down the worst fried green tomato po'boy in the history of southern cooking (fried green tomatoes should be breaded, not battered), then asked at the lunch counter if they could direct me to the street where the shop was located. The woman who worked there didn't have any idea, and when she asked a local who'd come in to pick up carryout, we were told that the record store had closed. I went back out and drove around anyway, and within five minutes had found both the old town cemetery (of course, I have a built-in radar for these things) and Aikei Pro's. Wondered whether perhaps the woman at the lunch counter was correct, because when I peeked in the door it appeared that there were piles of records and magazines and Lord knows what other sorts of junk leaning up against each other just inside.

Photo from deltablues.net

That video must be an old one, because the path from the front door that you can see for just a second at the beginning is no longer there. Started to head back to the car, where a down'n'out local started to pester me for a ride to somewhere, when the door of the shop opened and out squeezed a college-aged white girl and a grizzled little old black man. After she thanked him and wandered off, I squeezed as far in as I could get (which was about one foot), said hello to the grizzled guy and told him I'd heard this was the place to come for good records. He laughed and started talking, and it was an hour before I got myself back into the car. Mr. Caldwell talked to me about how there's no such thing as hill country blues-- That's something created by the white folk because they came along and wanted to be a part of things. All blues are delta blues, no matter whether the musician playing them came from Mississippi or Texas. He went on to describe his experience of coming to Mississippi from Kentucky after serving a handful of years in the army in Europe-- After being called a nigger for the first time in his life and being told to go back where he'd come from, he decided that, no sir, he was going to stay put. In his time in Holly Springs, he's since seen them desegregate the local schools and elect a black mayor. I can't help but think that he had at least a little to do with that. But he also told me that if we went back to the lunch counter that very afternoon and ordered coffee, that he wouldn't be served. I'd like to think that's not true, but we didn't put it to the test. In hindsight, perhaps I should have offered to buy him a cup. He's apparently also pretty famous amongst blues aficionados (he showed me a couple of magazine articles he's been interviewed for), as well as a good friend of Junior Kimbrough. The one thing I could actually see in the shop that I wanted to buy was a record of Junior's up on the wall, but Mr. Caldwell told me that album wasn't for sale for any price. I'm unable to embed the video from this link, but you have to go and watch it in order get a feel for the place and the man-- Portrait of a Record Dealer: Holly Springs, MS - Aikei Pro's. (If the video there doesn't work, go here.)

Back on the way towards Tennessee, the empty roads I'd become used to began to fill up with more and more traffic. By the time I got to Nashville, it was well after dark, I was hungry, tired, and pissed off at being challenged on the highway by assholes in SUVs. Much as I was looking forward to the plans I had for N'ville, couldn't help but wish I was back down in the Delta at the Shack Up Inn, listening to that cold wind blow outside the windows.

Complete set of photos from this trip, here.

Back to Mississippi: Exploring the Delta, part I

2011-10-27T23:59:00.000-04:00

It's a cold, grey day in Clarksdale. I've returned for a more extensive visit than last year's, back again at the Shack Up Inn, but with a different ride. Lucifer the Pony, a black Mustang, has been replaced by a silver Camaro that, with it's wide mouth-like grillwork and side "gills", reminds me of a shark.

The weather, though, is just as unsettled as last year. Woke up this morning to the sound of wind whipping around outside the windows of my Cadillac Shack. Broke the night's fast at the Rest Haven restaurant, smoking a cigar while waiting for two eggs sunny-side up with a pork chop, surrounded by good ol' boys who were all also puffing away while waiting for their meals. Smoking in restaurants is enough of a novelty these days, at least where I come from, but is even more exotic before breakfast. Reminded me of my crotchety grandfather who began each day with coffee and a cigarette, which was soon followed up with the first of many Budweisers. But back to Clarksdale-- The topics of conversation among the Rest Haven regulars that morning ranged from deer hunting to ant and roach control. A handful of Japanese tourists then wandered in and squeezed into the booth in front of mine to complete the scenario. William Least-Heat Moon wrote in Blue Highways that the more calendars on the wall in little country restaurants, the greater the guarantee of good food. Rest Haven has only one calendar, but I've now had the same breakfast there three times and the pork chop has been perfect every time. So much for Least-Heat Moon's rule.

Headed into downtown Clarksdale, such as it is, to re-visit the Delta Blues Museum, then stopped in Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero blues club for a post-breakfast Coke and peach cobbler. Perhaps it's ignorance or snobbery on my part, but I just don't think much of Freeman's place. His intentions are good, but it's like Bourbon Street is to New Orleans-- You get only a gloss of the real thing, a touristified version. I'm sure the music booked at Ground Zero is very good, but the atmosphere, with the encouraged graffiti of visitors on every bare bit of wall and ceiling and the studied dilapidation, is just too cheesy for me. And their peach cobbler leaves much to be desired.

While spooning up the gooey, soggy cobbler, I sat and contemplated the scribbles all over the bar and the wall behind it. What is with the need people have to write on walls, anyway? From graffiti to bathroom stalls to places like Ground Zero, where it's encouraged, to the shacks at the Shack Up Inn, where it's specifically not-- Is it some sort of cry for attention? Or perhaps, on a deeper level, a fear of mortality? So many people seem to have the need to be seen, recognized, remembered, even if it's only by anonymous strangers. They need to leave a bit of themselves for eternity, even though their graffiti'd scribbles represent nothing worth being remembered for. Though as I write this, it occurs to me that perhaps it's not all that different from babbling to the anonymous interwebs in some blog...

Braced by breakfast and the double shot of sugar from Coke and cobbler, I mapped a route around the Delta that headed east and then south on 49, east on 8, south on 7, then west on 82 to loop back towards the Mississippi River, north a ways along 1, and then back over to Clarksdale, then queued up the soundtrack for my wanderings-- John Lee Hooker, Robert Johnson, Son House, and the White Stripes Live in Mississippi. The last is significant because it was their final show as a band and was, ironically in light of Jack's deep love of Delta blues, the first and only one they ever played in Mississippi, at a venue between Clarksdale and Memphis. John Lee's Boogie Chillun was the band's walk-on music to begin the show, and after a moody, brooding version of Death Letter, Jack very touchingly thanked Son House for letting him finally come home. He ended that last show by saying God bless you to both House and Robert Johnson, and so I felt it was fitting and necessary to include this album in the day's listening.

Stopped at a convenience store outside of Tutwiler for a package of dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds and couldn't help but compare the real dilapidation of empty store fronts next door to the faux effects at Ground Zero. The faces of a handful of older gentlemen lounging outside matched the buildings, but the freshly mopped floor of the bathroom inside the convenience store was spotless and had just enough of a bleach aroma to smell clean as a sunny day.

I feel alien in places like this, with my fast rental car and my rock'n'roll attire, having slept comfortably the night before in a restored version of the sort of sharecropper's shacks that still line many of the roads down here. What am I documenting when I snap photos around here? I've felt the same thing driving through certain neighborhoods of Baltimore back home. Am I romanticizing a place and people I don't fully understand? My family was pretty poor when I was a kid and I'm far from well off now, so I have some idea of what it's like. But this seems to be a level of poverty I've never experienced anywhere near firsthand. Or is life around here really not as hard-scrabble as I imagine based on appearances? What's the reality? Without living it the way these people do, I'll likely never know, and that leaves me uncomfortable about pulling out the camera in these spots where I find a sort of desperate beauty and picturesqueness.

Heading down South 49W towards the site of the notorious Parchman Farm, you pass a sign that reads "Penitentiary area. Emergency stopping only next 2 miles." And yet there's a Blues Trail marker directly across the road from the prison, which is now the Mississippi State Penitentiary. Of course I pulled over to snap a photo of the sign, then turned my head to look across the street and found a handful of inmates, in their distinctive green and white striped pants, lounging near the gate and watching the crazy tourist who wasn't supposed to stop. One of the more notable inmates of Parchman was Son House, who spent two years there supposedly for killing a man in self-defense, though there is apparently some debate over the accuracy of that story.

Between stops, the Shark and I rolled past the ubiquitous, endless cotton fields of the Delta, which is not as monotonous as you might think. Fallow fields of empty dirt rows alternated with harvested fields bordered with huge rectangular bales of compressed cotton, along which the roads were scattered with loose, dusty white puffs. Occasionally you pass an unharvested field in full bloom and the white of the cotton against the brown of the plant stems creates a silvery shimmer that, on this day, mirrored the grey of the cloudy sky above.

Unfortunately, I got so caught up in the joy of moving fast on un-trafficked backroads that I missed the turn to the church where Mississippi John Hurt is buried outside of Avalon. Wanted to also find Robert Johnson's gravesite (the official one, according to the Mississippi Music Tourist Sites map I was using as a reference), but drove around Greenwood without finding the right road.

Looked for something to eat while in Greenwood, too, but there appeared to be nothing except the usual fast food and chain restaurants. Until I got to the edge of town and caught sight of a little shack with smoke pouring out of the side of the building and a bunch of cars out front. Turned out to be the Rib Shack, of which Johnny Edwards is head chief (according to his business card). I ordered a pulled pork sandwich with cole slaw and a side of baked beans. Would have sat right there in the car to eat it, but felt I was providing a bit too much entertainment for the locals. One gentleman asked if I was from around there. When I said no, he confirmed that he didn't think so, 'cause he didn't think he'd seen a Camaro around town. When my food was ready, I headed down the road and found an empty public park, where I sat and had a very windy picnic of gloriously succulent pork. If you ever find yourself in Greenwood, MS, be sure to look around for Johnny's shack.

One pilgrimage site I did manage to find was the gravesite of Charley Patton, in a sad excuse for a cemetery next to Hicks Cotton Gin outside of Holly Ridge. Just a scrubby field scattered with graves, many with nothing but a small, plain white cross, some unmarked at all, and a few collapsed to the point that you'd fall in if you weren't watching where you were walking. Most touching of all, for a reason I can't define, were the plain concrete slabs that had name and dates of birth and death scratched in by hand, like the way people scratch their names into freshly poured concrete on a sidewalk. There was something very caring about those headstones, despite the bleak simplicity of them.

Wandered about for a bit, but the place was so disorganized that I couldn't find what I'd come for right off. The wind began to push me back toward the car, but then a good ol' boy wandered over from the gin and asked if I was "looking for Charley". The way he asked-- not "was I looking for Charley Patton", but "looking for Charley"-- was so disarming I couldn't help but smile. He pointed me in the right direction and walked with me a bit, asking where I was from, then headed back over to work while I trudged the rest of the way through the dusty grass to the spot. Stood there looking at the headstone and accompanying empty bourbon bottle and tried to imagine the slight, ornery man with the growling voice and flamboyant playing style. Patton was one of the first precursors to today's modern rock stars, though few of those rock stars probably realize it. I couldn't help but wonder how Charley might've felt if he'd had any clue that people like me would make pilgrimages to his grave in the heart of the Delta, eighty years and more after his death.

Ended the day back at Ground Zero for some passable electrified blues. Decent stuff, but not as moving as Johnson's or House's acoustic blues or as mesmerizing as Hooker's groove or Patton's growl. And certainly not as gut-wrenching as any version of the blues from the White Stripes, but decent enough for an evening's diversion. Fell asleep worn out from hours of driving, listening again to the wind blowing around the edges of the windows of the shack.

Full set of photos from the trip, here.

Why don't you just take the night, wrap it all around me

2011-10-10T20:53:00.000-04:00

I've written before about my fascination with the effect music can have on us. I've read one book on the topic so far that unfortunately fell short of a satisfying explanation, and am currently in the midst of two others (Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia and Robert Jourdain's Music, The Brain, And Ecstasy) in the hopes that at least one of them will provide more insight. I want to understand this-- How can certain combinations of chords, melody, rhythm and, specifically for me, voice and words, sweep us to such intense heights of emotion? How can a mere song inspire an addictive craving to hear it over and over and over again? If anyone out there knows... please, explain it to me.

The latest song to have this effect on me is one that I first heard about a few weeks ago, when it was announced that Q Magazine was releasing a special issue including a bonus cd in tribute to U2's Achtung Baby. Amongst the artists covering tracks from the original album was Jack White. I immediately pulled up a video of U2's original to get an idea of what he'd be working with.

Took one listen for me to fall in love with the song. I've never been an outright fan of U2, but this and other tunes like With Or Without You stir every romantic yearning I've ever had. The blend of words, Bono's voice, and the music effectively brings me to tears.

But tonight... Tonight Jack's cover version was leaked onto the internet and moved me in a way I think nothing I've ever heard before has. So many elements of it are typical of his style-- The interplay of acoustic and electric guitar, the high pitched vocals, the drama... but, at the same time, it's so very different from anything he's done before. In this one song he's taken every one of those familiar elements to a higher level than I've heard from him before. The man is known for passionate performances, most famously on the White Stripes cover of Jolene and the Raconteurs' Blue Veins, but this one contains a sustained tension and passion that tops anything I've heard from him yet. As incredible as his own songwriting is, he's got a brilliantly uncanny ability to take other people's words and music and transform them into something so much more powerful than the original artist created. I've been left with my eyes wide, my jaw dropped and my heart pounding, and I can't stop listening to it.

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my heart
Love is blindness

In a parked car
In a crowded street
You see your love
Made complete
Thread is ripping
The knot is slipping
Love is blindness

Love is clockworks
And cold steel
Fingers too numb to feel
Squeeze the handle
Blow out the candle
Love is blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love
Blindness

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby...a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Love is drowning
In a deep well
All the secrets
And no one to tell
Take the money
Honey
Blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love
Blindness

From ology.com, a review of the song that uses words like "devastating" and "stunning" that I didn't have the presence of mind to summon up: Listen To Jack White Cover U2's "Love Is Blindness"

Jack White's Ego, live and in person

2011-09-19T21:49:00.011-04:00

Whatever assumptions you've made about this post based on the title, just go ahead and discard 'em now. This will be a bit of a ramble, so please bear with me...

I saw Jack White last week. For those of you who don't know, the Raconteurs have reformed for a scant half-dozen shows this fall. I bought tickets for two shows immediately when they went on sale, then agonized and changed my mind and agonized some more before dropping a silly amount of money on eBay for a ticket to a third-- at Jack's 'house', Third Man Records. There was just no passing up the opportunity to see this band, one that I wasn't sure I'd ever see, at that location. The place is too special.

So last Wednesday I hopped a plane to Nashville and, upon arrival, headed straight downtown to line up outside TMR with a bunch of fellow fans. My timing turned out to be perfect, as I was close enough to the front of the line to end up at the edge of the stage in the same spot I had for each of the Dead Weather shows I saw last year-- right next to Jack's pedal board. So close, in fact, that I had paranoid visions of knocking a cable loose and creating technical difficulties for him. This didn't come to pass, fortunately, and paranoia ended up eclipsed by bliss.

Here's where you need to begin bearing with me as I ramble-- Of the famed trio of bands in which Jack's been involved, I have to say that the White Stripes are far and away my favorite. That's due in large part to the immensity of their catalog compared to the other two, but also to the mesmerizing interaction between Jack and Meg. But my chance to see the Stripes live was lost before I ever had it and has to be fulfilled through a blessed bounty of recorded performances. The third of the tripartite, the Dead Weather, was my introduction to Jack live, with four shows spread over the spring and summer of last year. Each show was an incredible kick of adrenaline, but that rush was somewhat tempered by the fact that Jack was not the frontperson of the band. So that left the Racs as the band that I've felt a compelling urge to experience, in order to see him up front, at a mic, with a guitar, for the duration of a show. Imagine my thrill when this fall's shows were announced.

But there's another thing about the Raconteurs. It struck me at some point last year, while I was immersing myself in and digesting Jack's catalog, that this triad of bands is very loosely reflective of Sigmund Freud's concept of the Id, Ego, and Superego...

The White Stripes may have been portrayed with a child-like element, but there was nothing childish about the way Jack approached the band. Articles and interviews during the ten years they performed are full of references to the "box" he constrained himself within when writing their music, to his and Meg's intense work ethic, even to their apparent lack of typical rock star partying. It was a rarity to read a cuss word in any of Jack's interviews during that time (though he'd loosened up quite a bit in that regard by their final year of touring, as evidenced in the Under Great White Northern Lights documentary). He was a gentlemanly "brother" to Meg, his demure "sister". Despite the inner complexities depicted in Jack's lyrics, they were characterized as just about the most clean-living, well-mannered, moral rock band conceivable. They were, in many ways, Jack's Superego, "persuading [his] ego to turn to moralistic goals rather than simply realistic ones, and to strive for perfection".

Id, on the other hand, "operates on the Pleasure Principle, which is the idea that every wishful impulse should be satisfied immediately, regardless of the consequences". Listening to even a handful of their songs makes it quite obvious that this was the driving element of the Dead Weather's music. Whether it was Alison Mosshart's influence or something that she and Jack brought out in each other, I've no idea. But he took on a sometimes almost frighteningly dark persona in that band, which manifested itself not only in the music but also, towards the end of last year's tour, in his behavior on stage.

Which leaves us with the Raconteurs and Jack's Ego. Freud's use of that word was very different from the definition most people apply to it. In his concept of the psyche, "Ego controls higher mental processes such as reasoning and problem-solving, which it uses to solve the Id-Superego dilemma, creatively finding ways to safely satisfy the Id's basic urges within the constraints of the Superego". The Raconteurs strike me as Jack's balancing act between the Superego of the White Stripes and the Id of the Dead Weather. While Freud's concept is much more complex, when taken on a simplistic level, it's not a stretch to see this band as the one in which the tensions of the other two are resolved and Jack becomes grounded and, dare I say it, even relaxed. The interaction with Brendan Benson, Jack Lawrence, and Patrick Keeler, combined with the quiet skill of Brendan's songwriting contribution, seems to create a musical equilibrium Jack's not had in either of the other bands. This is what was apparent to me at the two shows I attended last week.

The tone of the TMR show began with the opening act, Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three, four of the most authentic roots musicians and charmingly goofy showmen you could ever hope to see. They had us singing and smiling by the end of the first song, which was the perfect state in which to experience the Raconteurs when they hit the stage and began to blow us away (which I unfortunately can't share with you, as video and photography are not allowed in the Third Man venue). The Racs have been described as four friends who got together to make music, and it was so obvious all night long that that's still what they are. And to be making music on Jack's own stage had to leave them feeling as giddy as it did all of us in the audience. While the setlist was short because the show was being recorded (to be pressed to vinyl for some as-yet-unspecified future release), it was augmented during the reel changes by Jack and Brendan telling stories of when they first met. The smiles up on that stage were almost non-stop, and the band's performance was both loose and intensely electric.

Three days later, I followed the Racs to Michigan for the inaugural MI-Fest. I'm not a fan of festivals. There are just too many people making it that much more difficult to get to the front of the stage. But this was originally announced as the only show the Raconteurs were going to play, so I jumped to get a ticket and make arrangements to fly to Michigan. I won't go into the chaos created by the promoters leading up to the event because, for my intents, everything worked out just fine. The location was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous, the people I hung out with throughout the day were great fun, and, yet again, I ended up in almost exactly my favored spot at the front of the stage-- granted the stage was over six feet from the ground and the pit between it and the barrier was at least ten feet, but I still had as good a view as I could have hoped for. And the band was worth every one of the eight hours (ten, for some folks) my compatriots and I spent waiting for them. What this show lacked in the intimacy provided at Third Man was made up for by the extended setlist that included songs I'd sorely missed hearing on Wednesday night. But you don't have to take my word for it. There were a lot of phones and cameras in the audience that night, for which I will be forever grateful (one person, in particular, filmed some wonderfully high quality footage). My own personal favorite songs of the night--

Top Yourself--

Level--

Broken Boy Soldier. Note the dangling guitar string, which apparently broke just as Jack began the song--

Steady As She Goes--

Blue Veins. Listen for the note Jack holds at the end of "don't mean nothin'..." I've not heard him do anything like that in any show or live recording I've listened to, and it made my hair stand on end--

And, finally, Carolina Drama. It's not complete and you need to keep the sound low due to distortion. But, man, it sure looks good--

These two shows fulfilled every expectation I had for this band. They were energetic and powerful and, most of all, full of an extraordinary joyfulness. Just writing about them has put a huge grin on my face. And the best part is that I've got a ticket to see the Racs again in Atlanta in November, their final show until who knows when. At that point, I'll have completed a trio of shows for the band that is, in so many ways, the most glorious of Jack's triad. His Ego's a beautiful thing.

More reviews --

Live Review: The Raconteurs at Nashville’s Third Man Records, Consequence of Sound

The Inaugural MI Fest, krewechief's Live Music Blog

Raconteurs End Three-Year Hiatus at MI Fest, Spin Magazine

I used to have some friends, but they wished that I were dead

2011-08-25T22:01:00.005-04:00

From a mural at the old train station in Tutwiler, Mississippi

What is it about the blues? I'm learning that once you get into them, you can't easily get out. They do more than just move you, they suck you in to the point that casual listening becomes pretty much an impossibility. But to figure out what it is about them, it's helpful first of all to know what they are, and that's apparently an even more difficult question to answer. Somehow, the music doesn't seem as easily defined as some other genres, which is part of what makes its impact a mysterious thing. I've read a handful of books about the blues at this point and a couple of them go far beyond the basic "12 bars, AAB rhyme scheme" definition to actually attempt to determine what's behind the most commonly accepted ideals of this music. Those attempts head in some unexpected directions.

In In Search of the Blues, Marybeth Hamilton goes looking for what she calls "the authentic origins of the blues" and comes back with some interesting conclusions. Describing her thoughts upon looking at a photograph she'd taken during her trip through the Mississippi Delta, she says "Every landscape is a work of the mind, shaped by the memories and obsessions of its observers." Replace the word 'landscape' with 'song' and that one sentence pretty much sums up the gist of her book, as she goes on to discuss how the blues was not shaped so much by the musicians who played it as it was by the white people who sold it then, later, studied it and, later still, revived it. From the record label talent scouts of the 20s and 30s, to Alan Lomax in the 40s, aficionados such as James McKlune in the 50s, John Fahey and Brit rockers like the Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton in the 60s, and even, I would add, all the way up through the early 2000s and Jack White's determination with the White Stripes to "trick teenaged girls into singing Son House"-- It has been people like these who've shaped what the term "blues music" brings to mind.

While the true roots of the blues are generally considered vague and undetermined, its earliest popular incarnation was embodied by full band-accompanied performers singing well-crafted and sophisticated numbers. Women such as Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Mamie Smith were considered the queens of blues music. Band leader W.C. Handy claims to have discovered the blues, but his interpretations of it bear no more resemblance to the genre's current definition than what was crooned by the queens. And even within the commonly recognized genre, there's variety. The early Mississippi Delta/country blues of Charley Patton, Son House, and Robert Johnson migrated north to become the electrified Chicago blues of Muddy Waters and B.B. King, which were eventually usurped by the white boy blues of musicians like Stevie Ray Vaughan and Charlie Musselwhite. It goes on and on. Jazzmen such as Jelly Roll Morton even traced a strong connection to the blues, tangling the skein even further. What it all really boils down to, if you look at it objectively, is that defining what the blues is and what its effects are becomes a highly subjective and personal thing.

My own preferences in blues music were originally inspired by and continue to be influenced by Jack White. A quick look through the blues tunes he's covered reveals an extensive knowledge of the genre-- He's run a gamut through the Mississippi Sheiks, Charlie Jordan, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Tampa Red, Tommy Johnson, Blind Willie McTell, Blind Willie Johnson... But it's obvious that he's got a special reverence for the old Mississippi Delta guys such as Johnson, Patton, and, most of all, Son House. What is it about that particular style of blues that he so loves? From what he's said in interviews and how he's crafted his own music, it would seem to be something along the lines of how Hamilton described the singing of these musicians in In Search of the Blues-- '... it was "rough, spontaneous, crude and unfinished," dominated by "stark, unrelieved emotion"...' Even the most polished of Jack's tunes contain elements of that rough spontaneity and stark emotion. And it's even more apparent when he performs live that he's channeling exactly what the blues mean to him. Since his own music has moved me so intensely, it's not surprising that I'm also moved by what inspires him. As a result, my own fast-growing collection of blues records runs straight through the heart of the Delta.

One thing that does surprise me, though, is that I've yet to find evidence that Jack's ever paid homage to one of the most hard-core Delta musicians of all-- Skip James. So my intro to Skip came via a detour from Jack to a record label run by Jimmy Danger, who once played in the band Henry & June with one of Jack's buddies (this digression isn't as aimless as it seems, as Jack has also covered H & J's Goin' Back to Memphis, which is a fantastic modern day blues tune). Danger Limited Records' Black Jesus 7" series was launched with a cover of Skip's Hard Time Killin' Floor Blues that blew me away. So much so that I contacted Jimmy to ask him about the song. Turns out Skip is one of his favorite bluesmen and his description intrigued the hell out of me--

There are many things that set him apart from his contemporaries. The main thing was his choice of tuning. He played primarily in an open D minor tuning. He was the only one at the time to adopt that style and there haven't been many to do it since. He was the master at it. The other often overlooked difference was his piano playing. He was just as good at piano as he was the guitar. His guitar songs are soo haunting. I think it is half the tone of his guitar and half the way he sang. His voice would be the third thing to make him so different. He sang in a high falsetto. If you buy anything by him make sure to pick up the 1931 Grafton Wisconsin sessions. It will change the way you hear the blues.

Well, I've yet to find a good copy of those Grafton sessions, but I did stumble upon another gem, one that hit me even harder once I learned the history behind it. The Biograph release of Hard Time Killin' Floor Blues was recorded in 1964, 20 or so years after the last time Skip had picked up a guitar, and after he'd been hospitalized for a horrendous case of cancer. He was rediscovered that year in a Mississippi hospital by a group of Washington, D.C. blues fans including John Fahey, who brought him to D.C. where he ended up again in the hospital. After more treatments, they eventually took him all the way to the Newport Jazz Festival, at which Skip's performance stood in stark contrast to that of previously rediscovered Mississippi John Hurt. But in between, they took time to record the set of tunes on the Hard Time Killin' Floor Blues collection. Two of those songs were specifically about Skip's time in that D.C. hospital, and they're two of the most heartbreaking songs I've ever heard---

Layin' sick, honey, on my bed
I'm layin' sick, honey, and on my bed
I'm layin' sick, honey, and on my bed
I used to have a few friends but they wished that I were dead
In awful pain and deep in misery
Awful pain and deep in misery
Awful pain and deep in misery
I ain't got nobody to come and see about me
And every dog, baby, got a day
And every dog, baby, got a day
Every dog, baby, got a day
But I said, "Please, ma'am, don't you treat me this-a way"
The doctor came, lookin' very sad
The doctor came, lookin' very sad
The doctor came, lookin' very sad
He diagnosed my case and said it was awful bad
He walked away, mumblin' very low
He said, "He may get some better but he'll never get well no more"
I've got a long trip and I'm just too weak to ride
I've got a long trip and I'm just too weak to ride
I got a long trip and I'm just too weak to ride
Now it's a thousand people standin' at my bedside
I hollered, "Lord, oh Lord, Lord, Lordy, Lord
Oh Lordy, Lord, Lord, Lord
I been so badly misused and treated just like a dog"
I ain't gonna cry no more
I ain't gonna cry no more
I ain't gonna cry no more
Cause down this road every traveler got to go
I been on the ocean, I been across the sea
Been on the ocean, I been across the sea
Been on the ocean, I been across the sea
I ain't found nobody would feel my sympathy
You take a stone, you can bruise my bone
You take a stone and you can bruise my bone
You take a stone and you can bruise my bone
But you sure gonna miss me when I'm dead and gone

In the hospital, now
In Washington D.C.
Ain't got nobody
To see about me

But I was a good man
But I was a poor man
You can understand

All the doctors
And nurses, too
They came and they asked me
'Who in the world are you?'

I says, I'm a good man
But I'm a poor man
You can understand

The doctors and nurses
They shakin' their head
Said, 'Take this poor man
And put him to bed'

Because he's a good man
We know he's a poor man
We can understand

I didn't go hungry
I had plenty to eat
I had good treatment
And a place to sleep

Because I was a good man
They knew I was a poor man
They could understand

I met a little damsel
She promised me
That she would love me
And always be sweet

She found out I was a poor man
And I thought I was a good man
She couldn't understand, no

Now, when she left me
She got in the door
She waved me, good-bye
I haven't seen her no more

She found out I was a good man
She knew I was a poor man
She couldn't understand

The doctors and nurses
They shakin' my hand
Say, 'You can go home now, Skip
You's a sound, well man'

Because you's a good man
You's a poor man
We can understand

I's thankin' my doctor
And I was shakin' his hand
I'm gone play these, 'Hospital Blues'
'Till you's a wealthy man'

You took me as a good man
You knew I was a poor man
You could understand

You know I was a good man
But I'm a poor man
You can understand

That, right there. That's what it is about the blues. Get it? Now see if you can get out.

On the bat's back I do fly after summer merrily...

2011-07-19T09:50:00.001-04:00

Seems there's another hiatus going on around here. No slump this time, though, rather the opposite. Just haven't been indoors or at the computer enough (except at work) to compose anything. If you have been, then heed the words of Ariel and get the hell up and out...

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

- Shakespeare, The Tempest

1 Mississippi, 2 Mississipi

2011-05-15T22:07:00.001-04:00

Mississippi's been on my mind lately. The mighty river's flooding and I've been listening to Delta blues. The first situation's so stunning and what people in that part of the country are dealing with is so heart-breaking that I can't begin to figure out what to say about it. Farmland and homes inundated and lost. Not for the first time, of course-- The Great Flood of 1927 was just as horrendous, but when you see the seemingly passive devastation of water every-freaking-where, it's hard to imagine how anyone can clean up and rebuild from that.

Flood photos from The Big Picture, more at www.boston.com

As for the music, it's so much easier to think about, so pardon me for shifting gears in that direction. Two of my latest favorite bluesmen just happen to have been nicknamed for the state that's bordered by the river-- Mississippi Fred McDowell and Mississippi John Hurt.

Mississippi Fred played slide guitar in a way that sends chills down my spine and sang with a voice every bit as evocative as any of the better known blues players. Unknown outside of the hill country just north of the Mississippi Delta until Alan Lomax recorded him around 1960, McDowell made up for lost time by recording over a dozen records within a dozen years before cancer took him. A case of better late than never, but still makes you wonder what could've been if he'd been discovered sooner.

Mississippi John's blues had a folkier sound to them but were no less intense in their way, if you pay attention. In songs such as Stackolee and Nobody's Dirty Business, there's a subtly powerful contrast between the violence of the lyrics and the delicacy of Hurt's voice and acoustic finger-picking.

The current condition of much of the U.S. south is the stuff of which the blues are made. Though it's hard not to think that, thanks to artists like Mississippi Fred and John, we've got enough already.

Baltimore May Day Roll bike ride

2011-05-01T19:52:00.003-04:00

As my friend Lyle pointed out, today was May Day. While she's correct that the majority of U.S. citizens probably aren't even aware of this holiday, 40 or so folks did celebrate the day with a tour of 19th-20th century industrial Baltimore-- the annual May Day Roll.

We started out appropriately enough at the Baltimore Bicycle Works, "Baltimore's only worker owned and operated bike shop" which is located right around the corner from Jack Yates' ghost bike. The ride was sponsored by the BBW, and led by the Baltimore Brew's Mark Reutter, who provided the historical commentary.

We headed from there up Falls Road in the direction of Hampden, but turned off at the old Mount Vernon Mill Company.

A few twists and turns through the old houses of the 1800s milltown brought us to the home of Elisha Tyson, an industrialist and abolitionist who was apparently responsible for the freeing of several hundred slaves in pre-Civil War Maryland.

A swift spin down and into town brought us to Red Emma's bookstore & coffeehouse, whose collective business model helped to inspire the BBW.

From there we meandered further east towards Fells Point, stopping along the way in the alley of Dallas Street to admire both the row homes built by Frederick Douglass after his escape from slavery and a bit of true Bawl'mer.

One of the five homes built by Douglass. The marble inset reads 'Douglass House'.

This is Baltimore.

Next up was what's left of the controversial St. Stanislaus Church. The church has been empty and up for sale for years, and the proposed condos for which the parish hall was demolished have yet to be built (though they're apparently now promised for this coming summer).

The highlight of both last and this year's ride was being able to ride through the decrepit Crown Cork and Seal Company. Today's most fascinating trivia tidbit: The modern day bottle cap was invented in Baltimore. Stop and think about that the next time you jerk the cap off a cold one and toss it in the trash.

The last stop was lunch in Greektown at Ikaros. No photos there, for which I'm sorry. I definitely should've taken a shot of the gorgeous platter of pastichio, potatoes, green beans, dolmades, and spanikopita that was placed before me. Of all the many cool sights on the ride, it was truly one of the prettiest.

Folks headed off in separate directions after lunch, leaving only a handful of us to spin back up across town to BBW through scattered rain drops. Normally, I'd bemoan the lack of sunshine on a day like this, but the ride was so interesting and fun that I didn't miss it. The greyness of the sky actually contributed an appropriately gritty atmosphere for a tour of industrial B'more.

Full set of photos here, and a re-cap of the ride at Baltimore Brew.

Well, it's Easter morning now, and there's no one around...

2011-04-24T16:58:00.004-04:00

There's a mountain near where I live. It's a small one-- only 12 or 13 hundred feet or so at the summit-- a monadnock created by the slow erosion of the land around it. Most folks think of it as a single peak, but it's actually a curved string of peaked ridges. Most people also don't seem to be aware that it's private land, despite the explanatory signs posted at the entrance and parking areas, nor of the fact that they owe a debt of gratitude to the graciousness and foresight of an early-twentieth century industrial magnate. That man, the magnate, bought the mountain and much of the land surrounding it back in the 1920's or so. He built a couple of mansions on it for himself and his family. Before he died, he established a trust to maintain the land for the "recreational and educational use of the public". The foundation that's supported by the trust has done just that-- building a trail system and overlooks, and monitoring the environment of the mountain and the wildlife that exists within it. It's an extremely beautiful place.

What I thought was my first time on the mountain was a bit over 20 years ago. I was still in my high school punk rock phase, with buzz-cut hair, Converse sneakers, and ripped blue jeans, and had just moved out of my parents' house in Virginia into my own apartment in Maryland. I spent much of my spare time in the car, driving around exploring my new territory, discovering not only the lay of the land but also an abiding love for the semi-rural back-roads I found at the edges of the suburbs. One day, one of those back-road drives brought me to the mountain. Being in an exploratory mood, I parked at one of the overlooks near the summit and wandered onto one of the trails. As I went along, it began to feel somehow familiar. Flashbacks from buried memories began popping into my mind's eye until recognition finally dawned-- I had been there before. At some point in my childhood, I remembered that my parents had brought my Girl Scout troop to that same mountain for a hike along that same trail. Childhood in general and Girl Scouts in particular had not been a thrill for me, so I'd not held on to the memory. But I got a kick out of the synchronicity anyway.

And I fell in love with the mountain. The beauty of the woods, the pastoral views from the summit and overlooks, and the solitude-- Combined with the new-found freedom of living on my own, the things I discovered on the mountain opened a new chapter for me and it wasn't long before the Converse sneakers were replaced by hiking boots.

Unfortunately, the population of the D.C. suburbs exploded not long after. As the suburbs expanded and began to encroach upon the area around the mountain, a whole lot of other people began to fall in love with the place, too. The picnic areas and trails began to be overrun. It got to the point that you could sit at the summit and hear radios and loud voices in the parking lot at the base of the cliff. So I stopped going there. Began driving further out and finding other places that hadn't yet been discovered by the masses. Though it didn't take long for those places, as well.

At this point, I'm constantly on the lookout for out-of-the-way wildlife management areas, tucked-away nooks in state parks, or any old abandoned road I can explore in solitude. But one day I wandered back to the mountain via an old road that comes in from the back, all the way around the other side from the main road that heads up towards the overlooks. One of the longer hiking trails swings down and crosses over the old road and there was, at that time, just enough space for a car or two to park along the side. Amazingly, the spot was empty. So I figured, what the hell? I'd visit the mountain for old time's sake. To my surprise, I only passed a few other folks on the trail. I've learned since then that it's a matter of timing-- early morning, late in the day, crappy weather-- and of sticking to the newer trails on the backside of the ridge, away from the main summit.

So, on this Easter morning, while the majority of people were either hunting for salvation in church or for colored eggs in the backyard, I was out in the woods at the mountain, by myself, hunting for a skull. I swear, there are times when I feel like the kid in The Sixth Sense-- He saw dead people everywhere, I see dead animals everywhere. Along the side of the road, out in the woods, if there's an animal carcass around, chances are I'll see it. The one I was checking on today was one I'd seen late-fall/early-winter of last year. I'd wandered off the trail looking for a spot to sit and take a break, only to find a recently deceased white tail deer lying a dozen feet from the fallen tree I sat down on. A buck with four-point antlers. I won't deny it, I coveted the idea of that skull and antlers. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Funny thing is, much as I love skulls and bones, I'm almost phobic-ly squeamish about decaying flesh. So I made plans to come back for this one, after nature'd taken its course and stripped it bare and clean.

Wandered back a few months later to check on it, but it was still half-covered with skin and tendon. Well ravaged, though. The hind legs were still attached to the torso, but the front legs had been strewn several feet away, and the lower mandible was lying behind the carcass. The skull, antlers still attached, had been dragged down to the edge of a nearby small stream. Still not clean enough to pick up and bring home, though.

With all the snow and rain the area had through the end of winter and beginning of spring, I figured the thing had to be bare by now. So I headed out this morning along the blessedly empty trail, back to the fallen tree by the little stream. Found the carcass almost in the same state I'd last seen it, now almost entirely clean, except for... the head. The thing was gone, antlers and all. I crossed the stream and tromped around through the trees, scoping the ground for any glimpse of white bone. Nothing. Where the hell could it have gone? The largest omnivorous and carnivorous wildlife in this area consists primarily of raccoons and foxes and neither of those seem big enough to drag a skull with antlers through undergrowth. There've been rumors of coyotes coming in closer to the D.C. suburbs, but I've not heard of any being seen near the mountain. And the foundation that maintains the area has posted signs warning visitors to stay on the trails (signs I ignore, obviously) because of a black bear and cubs in the area, but those signs have been up for a few years now and the bears have likely moved on. It crossed my mind to wonder if some other explorer like myself had also found the thing and beaten me to it. I ended up baffled but resigned.

It got me thinking, though, as such things always do. The sight of the white rib cage and spinal column surrounded by little white wildflowers was striking. Some might consider the image morbid, but to me it was a beautiful contrast between decay and growth, a gorgeous reminder of the cycle of nature that we forget about in day-to-day living. All around me in the woods were indications of that cycle-- The sun shining through new leaves, casting a green glow on tree trunks that were bare, dreary grey and brown just two months ago. Along the trail, little baby ferns were unfurling next to violets. Puddles created by all the recent rain were full of tadpoles. But winter wasn't over long enough ago for me to forget that it'll all turn back to grey and brown in another handful of months, as the cycle continues and the tender growth now bursting forth dies off.

This is the most profound sort of thing I've learned from the mountain-- that life is a series of cycles, but that in the end we all come to the same state as that headless deer. It's a good thing to remember when we feel that life is a constant battle. The problem is often that we don't pick our battles wisely. So many of the things we fight for and against are really just us banging our heads against a wall. And no matter who we're fighting against, both we and they will die and come to that state. What difference do so many of those trivial battles make against the knowledge that we all will end up in the ground, our decaying remains becoming food for new life?

Unless, of course, we decide to have those remains turned into a vinyl record instead.

Random babblings: Abandoned but found

2011-04-02T18:07:00.001-04:00

So I learned over the course of this past winter that my old place along the river up in West Va is now off-limits. The land was apparently acquired by a local rafting outfitter-- On the plus side, they cleaned up the burned-out trailer and garbage along the riverbank. On the negative, though, they also put up a passel of 'no trespassing' signs all over the place, including at the beginning of the dirt road that heads upstream. But never fear, I've found a new spot. Same river, different state. And closer to home, to boot. And just as solitary, despite it being adjacent to one of the most popular parks in the area.

Ma Nature was in a mercurial mood this spring day. A gloomy, chilly overcast in the morning suddenly began alternating with teasing patches of blue sky as the wind blew banks of clouds from west to east. One such patch was overhead as I drove down the road and through the tunnel under the railroad tracks, splashing through puddles left by a just-passed rain shower. There's enough graffiti in the tunnel that it's a surprise the old farm farther down the road hasn't been taken over by the marauding vandals. Apparently the locked gate and all of the CSX and NPS property signs are enough to keep them out. Either that, or it's just too far a walk for them beyond that gate. Their loss, my gain.

The old farm gate, not the newer Park Service one at the beginning of the road

My guess is that the old homestead is used for Boy Scout campouts-- There are a couple of porta-johns up near the empty, locked house, and the first time I wandered back and found the place there was actually a portable sink nearby. One of the old barns, a shed-style structure open on both ends, has been maintained by the NPS for storage of picnic tables and such. On a day like today, the shed makes a perfect spot to sit and smoke and ruminate. It looks out on the old house on one side, and an almost-collapsed livestock barn and empty cornfields on the other.

What is it that draws me to spots like this? It's more than just the solitude, certainly. That's something that can be found fairly easily-- along a trail in the woods, in a kayak in the middle of the river, in my car flying down a country road, hell, at home in my apartment if I'm desperate enough. But there's something to these abandoned places that were once lived in, an inexplicable something that I find comforting despite the eeriness of their emptiness. It has to do with the history of them, I think, and the time period in which they were inhabited. It's an easily romanticized time, that era that ended six or more decades ago, a time that was in many ways more full of hardship than now, but is always cast with a nostalgic glow of authenticity and simplicity that so often seems lacking these days. It was a time when one of the most important things people strove for was survival-- not just day-to-day, but of the spirit. Something that I have a hard time finding in the crowded hustle of today's society.

One of the first times I visited this place, I was stopped on the way in by a young park ranger who first informed me that "this is Park Service property", which didn't fool me for a minute, and then warned that the nearby woods were full of hunters. Which also didn't faze me, seeing as how hunting is illegal on Park Service property, but random wandering isn't. I played dumb and stayed at the car, though, pretending that I had just been looking for a quiet place to sit and read and didn't realize that there was anything worthwhile back there. Today, though, I was caught all the way back at the farm when a pair of rangers drove back to check the place out. Dark clouds had rolled in again and I was just heading back to the road when they pulled up next to me and the older of them very courteously explained that they were looking for "sheds" and had noticed the turkey feather on the dashboard of my car back out by the gate. He asked if I was looking for feathers and I realized that "sheds" was a reference to feathers and probably, in their lingo, a sign of poachers. I grinned at him and said that, no, I was just looking for a place with no other people around. He smiled back and apologized for interrupting me in that pursuit, then they drove on down to the barns. He must've taken me at my word, because when they passed again on their way out, as the rain began falling, they waved and kept going. Which was fine. A lonesome walk in the rain ain't ever a bad thing.

Random babblings: On keys, seeking, doors, and music

2011-02-13T22:44:00.001-05:00

There are moments in our lives when we come across things that open doors for us. The frame of it can be anything-- a book, a song, a place, a person --but what provides the key? So often we walk by doors that seem interesting, yet they remain locked because we aren't drawn to explore what's on the other side. It seems we have to be at the right place intellectually and/or emotionally for the door to swing open and that first step to be taken over the threshold.

I can easily think of the times when this has happened to me and every one of them relates to a significant interest in my life --

Reading Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment in high school was the first big one. Class discussions of Nietzsche's idea of man vs. superman led to an exploration of existentialism that opened out into the entire field of philosophy.

A similar opening occurred upon hearing 46+2 by Tool, as I stepped straight from that song into Carl Jung's writings about the psyche and, specifically, the shadow.

It didn't take long after moving to Maryland in my early 20's to begin finding all of the U.S. Civil War battlefields that are practically in my backyard. The beauty of these preserved places drew me to the door, but the fascination of learning about the battles and the experiences of the people who lived (or died) during them was what pulled me through. It's continuously amazing to me just how much can be learned from such a short period in history.

One thing I've never written about is the vision quest that led to my discovery of Buddhism. The path through that door was a convoluted one but its eventual impact has probably made a bigger difference in my life than any other.

So what is it that puts the key into our hand? In Animals in Translation, Temple Grandin talks about the four primal emotions that drive animals: Rage, prey chase drive, fear, and curiosity/interest/anticipation. Obviously, these can easily be applied to human behavior and it's that last, curiosity/interest/anticipation, that opens these pivotal doors and pushes us through--

"...this part of the brain [is called] the SEEKING circuit. Animals and humans share a powerful and primal urge to seek out what they need in life. We depend on this emotion to stay alive, because curiosity and active interest in the environment help animals and people find good things, like food, shelter, and a mate, and it helps us stay away from bad things, like predators."

When projected beyond our most basic needs, such seeking keeps us not only alive but also sane by triggering our reception to those things that will stimulate us and make us grow intellectually and emotionally. Without it, we become stagnant and stunted, stumbling down an ever darkening hallway of locked doors.

I babbled recently about being stuck in that hallway and casting about for a key. Which is funny, really, because at the same time that I've felt stuck in so many ways, I've also been busy exploring an extraordinarily stimulating set of doors opened around this time last year by my discovery of Jack White. Anyone following this blog who's not a fan of Jack is probably becoming tired of seeing his name, but it's not going to end any time soon because the further I go the more I get. First was a compulsion to explore his music, then it was the blues music that inspires him, and now, suddenly, it's a desire to understand music in general. Why now? I've been exposed to a wide variety of music since I was old enough to hear-- No one in my family sang or played an instrument, but my parents constantly had music playing on the radio or stereo. You name a musical artist in the 60's-70's, from Burl Ives to the Beatles, and I listened to them at some point. Branching off into my own exploration of music took me down some unfortunate roads (Kiss and hair-metal), and perhaps that's why music was always an important soundtrack to my life, but not quite an inspiration. But Jack's passion for music is infectious and watching him play has apparently stimulated that SEEKING circuit in my brain.

The latest door opened yesterday when I picked up a copy of This Is Your Brain On Music, The Science of a Human Obsession, by Daniel Levitin. The combination of the words 'music' and 'obsession' in the title made me grab the book off of the shelf. The idea of understanding not only what music is but also why it's so addictive (a favorite theme of mine) is exactly where my head is at these days, and Levitin's book started out on just the right note: a comparison of how "the work of both artists and scientists is ultimately the pursuit of truth" leading into concise explanations of musical concepts such as pitch, timbre, melody, and harmony had me squirming in my chair in excitement. When he used the way children sing the alphabet song to explain rhythm, I almost laughed out loud because it was so simple and perfect. And yet so much of what this book is about is not simple, and that makes it intriguing.

Today's music lesson is on the element of harmony. As described by Levitin--

"Harmony has to do with relationships between the pitches of different tones, and with tonal contexts that these pitches set up that ultimately lead to expectations for what will come next in a musical piece-- expectations that a skillful composer can either meet or violate for artistic and expressive purposes."

As a band, the Raconteurs are a terrific example of this concept. Anyone who followed the White Stripes might have had trouble imagining Jack working in harmony with other musicians. Meg was as much muse as partner for him, a springboard that launched his ideas and allowed him the freedom to explore them in a different direction every night on stage. But sitting down with a song-writing partner? Adding not only that second singer/guitarist/songwriter, but also an experienced drummer and bass player to the equation? In many ways, working with these other musicians could have been as difficult a set of constraints for Jack as the red and white box he created for the music of the Stripes.

Typically, the results confounded the sort of expectations that Levitin described. The Racs created moments of gorgeous harmony in songs such as Together and These Stones Will Shout. Other songs like Intimate Secretary were a combination of both meeting and violating harmonic expectation, when Jack's voice or Patrick Keeler's crashing cymbals would be used as a jarring contrast to the mellowness of Brendan Benson's singing. Then they'd throw in an entire song that would be dissonant to the rest of the album, as with Broken Boy Soldier or Five On the Five. But one song sums up for me the dynamic that defined this band, that balance of harmony and dissonance that electrified them. From the glorious blending to the quirky separation of Jack and Brendan's voices and guitars, the only thing wrong with this song is that it's just too short.

Official video of the studio version of Level--

Live version recorded on set--

I've come to feel that discovering Jack has been like walking up to a huge mansion and being handed a ring of keys to every door inside it. It's led into one room after another, each containing new sounds, new genres, new understandings, new experiences... and for that I couldn't possibly thank him enough.

Three bands, three songs, one strange bird

2011-02-07T17:39:00.004-05:00

In a blurb in the December 2010 issue of Vanity Fair, Jack White was asked whether he prefers playing guitar or drums. He replied, "The guitar is a strange bird for me. I never really had a desire to be a guitar player-- it just fell on me. The drums would be an actual passion of my life." Fans the world over probably sat frowning and scratching their heads over that one. The man plays as if the guitar is both a natural extension of himself and at the same time some alien creature that he's dead set on beating into submission.

In each of his three bands (the three that most people know about, I mean), there's been one song that became a showcase for his bizarrely contradictory relationship with the guitar. One song played at pretty much every show, during which he seemed to turn himself inside out and wrench forth a part of his soul. All three are impressive enough in their studio versions, but became something definitive when performed live.

In the White Stripes, that song was Death Letter. The choice is fairly obvious-- originally performed by Son House, this is what the Stripes were all about. Jack has stated that everything about the band, from their child-like demeanor to the color scheme, all of the "gimmicks", were intended as a distraction from the fact that they were two white kids from Detroit playing the blues. In some of the best performances of this song, Jack would segue into House's Grinnin' In Your Face or Blind Willie Johnson's Motherless Children at the end of his solo, but this version from the 2005 Glastonbury Festival contains no extras. It doesn't need them.

Much has been made of the scene in the film It Might Get Loud in which Jack smears blood all over his guitar during the solo of the Raconteurs song, Blue Veins. It's certainly amazing to think he'd be so possessed as to keep shredding after slicing open a finger. My own personal favorite performance of this song is one in which he's so overcome that he stops playing and stands transfixed at the mic for an entire, electric minute. But the performance that most people would direct you to, the one so intense that Jack demolishes his guitar, a monitor, three mics, and then stalks off the stage a jittery mess, is the one from the 2008 Bonnaroo Festival.

Though he went back to the drums for the Dead Weather, any fan will tell you that the highlight of that band's shows was the moment each night when he stepped out from behind the kit to play guitar on Will There Be Enough Water. The song is sparse lyrically but gives Jack multiple opportunities to open up on the guitar. Even on one occasion when he was seemingly trashed to the point of needing to lean against a speaker stack for support, he was still able to rip incredible sounds from his guitar. But just about the best performance of this song I've found is one that I was fortunate enough to witness, at the 9:30 Club in DC in 2010. (Recorded in two parts, be sure to watch both.)

With the Stripes finally officially ended, and his band-mates from both the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather off playing with their original outfits, there's a lot of speculation currently amongst fans about what Jack will do this year. The one thing that every single one of us seems to agree on is that we desperately hope he'll continue his weird relationship with the guitar, that thing he's apparently never had a passion for yet plays so damned passionately.

Edit 9/29/2011: Here's another take on this theme-- The Many Shades of Jack White from Gilles LeBlanc at ROCKthusiast.

A White weekend: The Meg version

2011-02-05T20:20:00.001-05:00

I wasn't going to write any further about the end of the White Stripes. I've read so many wonderful articles and blogs about it, it seems like every music writer out there has already had a crack at saying anything I might say better than I possibly could. But this weekend is the first anniversary of my "White weekend", when I was stuck at home during the 2010 east coast blizzard and spent five days watching It Might Get Loud and trolling YouTube, discovered the fantastic White Stripes message board called The Little Room, and became hopelessly addicted to Jack White's music. So the occasion seems to call for expounding just a bit about the most special of his three known bands.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to see this band in their element. Back when I first heard of the White Stripes, a bit after the release of Icky Thump, they were taking Canada by storm and titillating the whole world by playing surprise shows at bowling alleys, back-country bars, on fishing boats, even, most famously, on a municipal bus. I listened to the album, heard the stories from that tour, and thought that this was a band I should be into. For whatever reason, though, I didn't latch onto them at the time. By the time I realized my mistake last year and dove headfirst into their albums, it was too late. They were already over, though no one knew it at the time.

This is not as gutting for me as it is for those people who were in the right place at the right time and avoided my error. For those fans who were attached to this band for years, who were actually fortunate enough to experience them live, last week's announcement must have seemed like a bomb had dropped. I can't fully know what that felt like, though I definitely recognize the sadness of it and feel regret at being so very late to what was such an incredible party.

Fortunately, I still have much to look forward to from one half of the band. It sounds cliché to say it, but Jack's a force of nature. He'll always make music, it's apparently as essential to him as oxygen. Whether he'll revive the Raconteurs or the Dead Weather, create a new band, finally make that long-asked-about solo album, or just contribute searing guitar riffs on the recordings of other musicians he produces at Third Man Records, he's sure to continue providing the world with excitement and stimulation for years to come.

But what about Meg? It seems that many people overlook her contribution to the White Stripes. There are endless debates at message boards and in YouTube video comments about her abilities as a drummer. And, even if it was subconsciously, Jack must have realized how having a cute bare-footed girl with pigtails behind the drums would attract attention and make people stop to listen to his music. But just like the debate over her and Jack's marital status vs sibling-hood, any question of Meg's contribution to the band is entirely academic. She was essential because she did something undefinable that inspired Jack to tremendous heights. Jack's said that he wrote the majority, if not all, of the songs in the Stripes catalog on his own, on piano or acoustic guitar, and then brought them into the studio where they became White Stripes "covers" of his initial words and music. What would any of those songs have been without Meg? It was her "childlike, caveman" drumming that inspired him to begin with, she brought some spark to the equation that alchemized his writing and created magic. As Jack put it:

“Meg is the best part of this band. It never would have worked with anybody else, because it would have been too complicated. When she started to play drums with me, just on a lark, it felt liberating and refreshing. There was something in it that opened me up. It was my doorway to playing the blues, without anyone over my shoulder going, 'Oh, white-boy blues, white-boy bar band.' I could really get down to something.”

And he was fiercely protective of her as his partner and band-mate. In one of the many blogs written about the Stripes in the last few days, one writer mentioned that Jack would "turn vicious when people would slag Meg, because they just didn’t get it." In a thread at the Little Room forum, someone mentioned the belief that Jack wrote the song Truth Doesn't Make a Noise about Meg, which is something I've also felt--

My baby's got a heart of stone
can't you people just leave her alone
she never did nothing to hurt you
so just leave her alone

The motion of her tiny hands
and the quiver of her bones below
are the signs of a girl alone
and tell you everything
you need to know

I can't explain it
I feel it often
every time I see her face
but the way you treat her
fills me with rage and I
want to tear apart the place

You try to tell her what to do
and all she does is stare at you
her stare is louder than your voice
because truth doesn't make a noise

For all Meg's silence, the moments when she did use her voice made a difference.

Aside from fan favorites such as In the Cold, Cold Night, her accompanying vocals on songs like This Protector and Little Ghost add a subtle touch that couldn't be achieved with Jack's voice alone. And Rag and Bone is probably the best example of a song that just did not work without Meg's participation-- There were three versions of the song recorded for the album. One was never pressed and has apparently never been heard. The version on the vinyl release of the album is Jack singing altered lyrics alone. While the words and delivery are still clever, the tune falls flat. It's the addition of Meg on the cd version that provides the sass necessary to bring Jack's part to life and elevate this song to one of the best on the album.

But while her effect in the studio might still have been all but invisible to people not paying attention, it was blatantly apparent on stage. I envy anyone fortunate enough to have seen this live. I've watched it countless times in recorded performances and the writer of a tribute article in the Chicago Tribune described it perfectly:

"In concert, the interaction between Jack White’s vocals and guitar and the way Meg White answered him on drums was as snappy, witty and cutting as the dialogue in a Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall movie. Play out the scene a little further, and anything from a kiss to a gun could be produced.

Meg White took a lot of heat for not being a particularly accomplished drummer, at least technically. But she was the perfect drummer for the White Stripes, listening to and playing off Jack White better than any other human being on the planet could have. The body language, the glances between the two, were a theater all their own. That’s why the element I will miss most about the band is not the recordings, great as many of them are, but the live performances. The 'tension' that Jack White spoke of was real, and it could be revealed in a smile, a smirk, a flick of Jack’s hip or the way Meg came crashing down on a cymbal with just a little extra force to punctuate one of Jack’s lyrics."

The chances of Jack ever finding anyone else who creates the same seemingly psychic, magnetically endearing interaction with him are slim. I would assume that Meg's going to continue living her life as discreetly as she has since the Stripes first went on hiatus back in 2007. She obviously never felt the compulsion to perform that Jack does and is probably very happy to be out of the spotlight. But for 10 magical years, she gave it her all and was a true partner in a band that made so many people so very happy. How could anyone not love her for that?

My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight.

2011-02-03T00:44:00.004-05:00

I may or may not write more about this later, still processing how I feel about it. In the grand scheme of things, it's not monumental. It's not even a surprise. But the emotional impact this band has had on the people who connected with their music is a special, special thing. This announcement is gracefully worded, yet so utterly sad in its finality...

The White Stripes would like to announce that today, February 2nd, 2011,
their band has officially ended and will make no further new recordings or perform live.

The reason is not due to artistic differences or lack of wanting to continue, nor any health issues as both Meg and Jack are feeling fine and in good health.

It is for a myriad of reasons, but mostly to preserve What is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way.

Meg and Jack want to thank every one of their fans and admirers for the incredible support they have given throughout the 13 plus years of the White Stripes’ intense and incredible career.

Third Man Records will continue to put out unreleased live and studio recordings from The White Stripes in their Vault Subscription record club, as well as through regular channels.

Both Meg and Jack hope this decision isn’t met with sorrow by their fans but that it is seen as a positive move done out of respect for the art and music that the band has created. It is also done with the utmost respect to those fans who’ve shared in those creations, with their feelings considered greatly.

With that in mind the band have this to say:

“The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful.”

Sincerely,
Meg and Jack White
The White Stripes

A fellow Stripes fan summed it up best on her Facebook profile by quoting the way Jack ended so many of the band's shows:

"My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight."

From shiverin' to Shakin' All Over

2011-01-27T15:20:00.007-05:00

It's taken me several days to sit down and write about this. I've talked about it so much elsewhere that I guess I forgot to babble about it over here, but some great video popped up on the intarwebs and reminded me that I needed to document the occasion. So here goes...

It was appallingly cold last Friday when I headed up to NY to see Wanda Jackson, Jack White, and the Third Man House Band play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Take-your-breath-away cold. And yet a bunch of us die-hard fans came from various places around the country to stand outside for hours waiting to get into this show just so that we could get prime spots up at the front of the stage. I've written before about the addictive effect of music and there we were, proving what junkies we all are. It was so very worth it, though, and not only for the fantastic show we finally experienced. The camaraderie we shared as our feet became increasingly numb (the one part that couldn't be warmed by our group huddles) made the long wait in the cold bearable.

Angelina Seha. Photo by Megan Vitovic

One of my compatriots, apparently taken just as she arrived roughly an hour before I did. Note the gleeful anticipation on that angelic face, it's such a perfect representation of what we were all feeling, and continued to feel despite the cold that seeped into the marrow of our bones as the minutes slowly ticked by. (Did I mention it was cold...?)

About halfway through the wait, we got a little pick-me-up-- A red van pulled up and I noticed Wanda Jackson sitting in the backseat. No one else seemed to notice, so I nudged folks to get their attention as Wanda climbed out of the van and maneuvered through the snow and the crowd to head into the venue. Everyone else went back to huddling for warmth, not seeming to realize that if Wanda had just arrived, the rest of the band had to be close behind. Sure enough, within a few minutes, another van pulled up and, again, no one else seemed to notice. So after more nudging, everyone turned around to watch the entire 11-person Third Man Band, plus attendants, pile out of the van as if it were an over-sized, rock'n'roll clown car. And, of course, that meant...

Jack White. Photo by Peter Burdi

One of our bunch squealed and another practically hyper-ventilated. More importantly, it made us forget the cold for at least a couple of minutes.

But freezing to the point of numbness out front paid off inside, as we all ended up in various spots in the first or second row. One element that's gotten little mention in reviews is that the opening act was the Dex Romweber Duo. For our little group, the combination of Dex and Sara with Wanda and Jack was just too mind-blowing and we were as revved up for the openers as the headliners. Dex let us know right away that they'd be playing only a 30 minute set and that was a shame, seeing as how he and Sara tore it up as usual. Too many of their great tunes had to be left out, though they included favorites such as Mexicali Baby, People, Places, and Things, and the always fantastic show closer, Grey Skies. As an added treat, they had a local friend join them on standup bass for a few tunes. And, as it turned out, they probably could have played another 10-15 minutes.

Because then the wait began. The hours standing outside suddenly seemed like nothing compared to the 45 minutes we spent fidgeting to the surprisingly low-key, sleep-inducing music that was piped in between sets. We were antsy, we'd come for raucous rockabilly. Could Wanda and Jack rip us out of the comatose state we were quickly descending into? Hah. Silly question...

It was obvious at a few points that Wanda and the Third Man Band have not had much time to gel, but in many ways that added to the charm of the show. As Jack always puts it, it created a scenario for interesting things to happen. From Wanda needing lyric sheets on a few songs (a trick she nicked from Elvis) to backup singers The Cupcakes looking at Jack blankly when he asked them for a D during the band introductions, things were a touch rocky. But he just keeps going and she's so disarming that it made the show fun rather than clumsy. The overriding feeling was one of joyous energy, as Jack danced around the stage with a grin on his face and Wanda held the crowd in the palm of her hand.

Bit of distortion in this video, keep the volume on the low side--

Much has been made in recent articles about Wanda's new Jack-produced album, The Party Ain't Over, of the fact that she opened the door back in the 50's for practically every female rock'n'roll singer after her. Beginning as a country vocalist, she was one of the first to put on a risque dress instead of a cowboy hat, and to growl out tunes about mean, mean men and wild times in Nagasaki. But it's obvious watching her now that she never lost her dignity or her class along the way, a lesson that too many of the female artists she paved the way for unfortunately never learned. With any luck, they'll pick up the new album and catch one of the shows on her current tour before it's too late.

The one and only disappointment of the night (and an incredibly minor one, at that) was that Jack had some serious equipment issues. He started out with with his Gretsch Roundup, but something happened a couple of tunes in that required them switching out not only the guitar but also one of his amps in the middle of a song. Wanda didn't skip a beat with all of that going on behind her, and it didn't seem to affect Jack at all 'cause he was all smiles even though the song was brought to a premature end. And when the audience shouted for them to finish it, Wanda & co. complied by launching into the final verse. But, aside from a couple of tunes on Claudette (one of his acoustic ladies), he ended up playing the rest of the set on his black Billy Bo which has an aunchy, hard rock tone that, to my ears, didn't provide the sweet rockabilly twang that most of the songs that night required. This is a minor nit-pick, though, because Jack will leave your jaw dropped to the floor no matter what he plays...

Priceless moments: First was when they began Fujiyama Mama and Wanda stopped Jack to make him count it down again more slowly. The second was watching him singing along to that song as he played. Totally made me forget my frostbitten toes. It's unfortunate that no one seems to have captured that on video.

Another was the clatter, bash, boom accompanying each chorus of Busted (again, careful of the sound distortion)...

And their cover of Heartbreak Hotel proves that the Queen of Rock'n'Roll could compete with the King any day of the week...

And, finally, the show ain't complete till Jack breaks a string...

Such a way to end the night. With our ears ringing and our cheeks aching from grinning, we piled out of the venue and into the Cuban bar next door to re-live the details of the night and cement them in our memories. Frostbite or no, I think we'd all do it again in a heartbeat. Until next time, y'all!

Many, many thanks to the people who recorded this show and posted videos to help sustain these wonderful memories. And for anyone who's interested, there are also some excellent photos here and here.

Vandals chop down famous Nevada shoe tree

2011-01-04T22:16:00.000-05:00

Read about this in the news today:

U.S. Highway 50, billed as the “Loneliest Road in America,” lost one of its landmarks last week because of vandals.

The 70-foot cottonwood tree known as the “Shoe Tree” one mile east of Middlegate was cut down sometime late Thursday night or early Friday morning.

I passed the Shoe Tree during my cross-country road trip several years ago. It was by far one of the coolest things I saw on that trip. Such a shame that someone apparently didn't feel the same way and chose to destroy it rather than let it be.

Just don't know what to do with myself...

2011-01-02T10:06:00.002-05:00

A buddy recently mentioned that she misses my blog. While that was gratifying to hear, I couldn't help but cringe a bit. I haven't written much lately because it feels that my focus has narrowed to the point that only two things revolve through my head anymore and I feel like the blog is full of them. One of those things gives me quite a high, providing excitement and joy in equal measure. The other has been dragging me down, somehow making me both restless and lethargic at the same time. Lately, though, the restlessness has been increasing and there is where hope lies.

In casting about for solutions, I've been looking carefully at the lives of friends and acquaintances. What I see is inspiring, though at the same time occasionally incites a frustrated envy--

One friend who's worked from home for the last several years recently had a change of position that required her to begin the daily slog into an office downtown. Rather than finding this to be a drudge, though, she's become re-energized by re-entry into the world and the change has radiated through her to affect other aspects of her life.

Another friend who not too long ago shared my lethargy expressed that state beautifully...

Where did it go?

Can someone help me find my motivation?
I left it here somewhere.
My ambition, my desire, my inclination?
I just had it in my hand,
And put it down here,
It's not where I stand,
It's not next to my beer.
I want to complete a project I start,
I want to complete a thought,
I want to do these things with all my heart,
But cannot.
Where oh where can my motivation be,
Oh where oh where can it be?
I can't see or know, or remember where I last saw it.
I can't dream or imagine or think where I hauled it.
If you see my drive, my thirst, my appetite,
Please send it right back over!
Tell it I miss it,
Tell it I'll be better,
Tell it I'm nothing with out it!

-- Tisha Christenson-Dillon

Last summer, she began forcing herself off the 'net and outside into her garden. More recently, she found a job putting to use a natural talent and seems not only motivated but wonderfully happy. Other friends have moved to new states, even new countries, to begin new chapters of their lives and the energy involved in such moves leaves me staggered. Where do they find it? Mine's apparently hiding with my motivation.

A fellow blogger over at The Gardener's Cottage wrote yesterday about her New Year's resolution to have more fun. Considering what she's shared with me about the challenges she's faced the last few years, it sounds like the best prescription any doctor could give to her. But it made me realize that my own problem has possibly been too much fun-- My single lifestyle allows me the freedom to spend my time off as I please, but have I been making productive use of that time? The things I do for fun are beginning to feel stale and suddenly seem to have a narcotizing effect rather than an energizing one.

The one activity that still seems to do me some good is getting out into the woods. This winter's been abundantly cold and grey and that's apparently kept a lot of people off the trails. Solitude on its own can be as much a trap as a pleasure, but throw in a good endorphin rush and it clears the mind while recharging the spirit. And Nature provides its own examples of motivation-- Yesterday's hike through a nearby conservation park brought me to a well-maintained beaver dam. The destruction wreaked on trees in the area indicated that the dam's builders haven't yet settled down into a hibernatory state and have been living up to the cliché of "busy as a beaver".

On top of all this, I recently decided I'd had enough of the Comcast monopoly and gave up cable television. I had no idea this would be such a challenge. I didn't think that I watched much television, but apparently I had grown used to having it on in the background and being able to sit down and watch for a few minutes in between other activities. It was filler. Without it, I find I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost in a panic, trying to think of things I can occupy myself with at those moments when the intarwebs have run dry and I feel like being still. Sure, I could read a book, but I find I need something that engages me visually as well as mentally.

To that end, I'm in search of a new hobby or project, even two or three. Thing is, there are potentially too many options. I've begun making lists to consider the myriad options, but can't seem to settle on anything--

- I could take up something like knitting that would engage both hands and eyes, but what the heck would I do with the product of my labors? I can only wear so many sweaters, and my family's moved to Florida so I could hardly send them scarves.

- Several years ago I got into making walking sticks. Started out one day by picking up an interestingly shaped branch, taking it home and sanding it down, varnishing it, and wrapping it with colored thread to create a handhold. Ended up making several for myself and people I knew who appreciated such things, adding such decorative elements as feathers and beads. One for a friend was even personalized with a small pouch of totem items. But I ran out of people to give them to and, as with knitting, I can't just end up with an apartment full of these things. If I began again, perhaps I could figure out some way to sell them...?

- Photography's been a hobby for a long time, but I've never really gotten serious about it. Should this be the year that I sink money into a decent SLR instead of just running around with my little point'n'shoot? Should I learn Photoshop and actually try do something with my photos? Sell 'em, enter 'em in contests...?

- Writing, like photography, is something I've long considered trying to do more with. But the (in)frequency of posts here at the blog shows just how disciplined I've been about that. Would it be worth making the effort to become more focused, find things to write about, do it more frequently? Perhaps, but part of the impetus behind this whole idea is to get out from behind the computer monitor and away from the desk.

- Music's been one of my drugs of choice for as long as I can remember, but the closest I come to practicing it myself is bellowing along with the stereo in the car. Perhaps it's time to find out whether I've actually got any musical sensibilities of my own. I've considered a few times the idea of taking voice lessons, but have lately been wondering how difficult it might be to learn to play guitar.

- And there are, of course, dozens of classes I could take for personal enrichment: Psychology, literature, philosophy... Hell, maybe I could even find a physics class for the mathematics-challenged. Again, though, the number of choices has me paralyzed.

I need help, folks. Give me some input, ideas, advice, a kick in the ass. I'm on the verge of a crisis, in a muddle and will take any help I can get to climb out of it. Don't leave me in this state.

As for that other thing that gives me such a joyous high, it also provides many apropos accompaniments to my babblings...

If I die, please don't bury my soul...

2010-11-14T20:40:00.005-05:00

Synchronicity never fails to blow me away. Through my exploration of Dex Romweber's music, I just yesterday found a new favorite song-- Last Kind Word Blues, which Dex and his sister Sara recorded with Jack White for release through Third Man Records in 2009. I had picked up the 7" single when I was at TMR in September and listened to it as soon as I got home, but didn't rip and burn it onto a cd for the car until this weekend. Much as I enjoy listening to vinyl at home, in the car is where music really sinks into my head. So, anyway, after a couple of listens, this song had its hooks into me.

"If I die, please don't bury my soul... just leave me out and let the buzzards come and eat me whole" That line was the second of the hooks. The first is the crazy contrast of the vocals. Who on earth would expect Dex's bourbon-soaked croon to work with Jack's manic wail? But it does work, to electrifying effect. Throw in some filthy guitar work and smooth piano and you've got one of the quirkiest blues covers going.

According to the TMR website, the original artist is one Geechie Wiley. I googled the song last night just to find the lyrics, but didn't go any further than that. So today, I'm sitting at lunch, reading Delta Blues: The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionized American Music, and I turn the page and find a chapter headed "let the buzzards eat me whole" (there's that synchronicity). Sure enough, it contained what little biography there is for Geechie. One of the few female blues artists of note, she apparently only recorded six songs and left not much more of herself behind. Damned shame, that, as it sounds as if she had the potential to be on a par with any of the known blues men.

Fortunately, she left a bit of her soul with us before she went.

Another jackpot

2010-11-08T22:58:00.002-05:00

Found this little beauty out in the woods yesterday. Same place where I wandered a few weeks ago, but in a different area, away from the junk piles and remnants of old human habitations. This was deeper in the woods along a little-used, partially overgrown trail, sitting on a moss-covered log as if someone had left it there just for me...

Raccoon. It's missing it's right incisor and one of the front teeth on that side keeps slipping out, but aside from that it's in perfect condition.

Am I greedy for snatching it up and slipping it in my pocket, rather than leaving it there the way the person before me did? I'm not much of a collector, but this is definitely the sort of thing I covet.

Dex after midnight

2010-11-06T14:10:00.003-04:00

Had a very cool time last night/this morning in Baltimore. Drove up to see the Dex Romweber Duo at Area 405 (the video above is from a 2009 show, not last night/morning), which is an art gallery/space/whatever set in a block of otherwise entirely empty buildings in one of the seediest neighborhoods in town. The show was organized (I use that word quite loosely) as a "festival" with 6-8 bands. I should have grabbed a poster as I left for informational purposes, as I'd never heard of any of the others playing. It was way under-promoted-- I'd found out about it through the DRD site, there was no mention of it on the Area 405 website, and I spoke to another person there who said they'd only heard about it that day. Dex's tour manager had told me they'd be going on around 10:30, then that changed to 11:30, and then when I got there, things had been delayed to the extent that no one knew when Dex and Sara would be on. At the most crowded point, there were probably 100 or so people hanging around in the two rooms set up for the alternating acts. Could have been more, but I've never been good at estimating crowds.

By the time DRD was finally on at 2:00am (!), there were two, maybe three, dozen of us die-hards still around, including the bartenders and other staff. The folks who had left just have no clue at all of what they missed. Dex and Sara were at the same time more polished and yet more raw than any other band there that night. How that man gets the sounds he does out of a guitar and amp that look like they're about to fall apart is beyond me. No pedals, no gizmos, nothing but fingers and strings. And Sara is just spot-on. I love to watch her, she's not a powerhouse drummer like, say, Poni from The Ettes, she's much more subtle. And, like Dex, she has the ability to create a surprising variety of sound out of the most minimal of kits. The most unusual, and charming, thing that happened was when Sara took a break and Dex played a few solo numbers. At one point, can't recall which song it preceded, he commented on the size of the crowd, then hopped down off the stage and ran around giving us hugs. Obviously done in a joking manner, but still very endearing

He's an interesting guy, Dex. I was watching him during the earlier acts-- In his black pants, white shirt and black jacket, wandering around or sitting off by himself, he was just on another plane from the rest of the blue-jeans/flannel/leather crowd there. In his own world, almost. At one point when the line-up was getting all jumbled up, he was pacing around with his guitar strapped on, watching the band that was on while his fingers just sort of mindlessly worked the frets. It amazes me that he's not a star, and yet doesn't surprise me at all. I'm just damned glad I found out about him.

Bring out your junk and we'll give it a home

2010-10-24T21:54:00.004-04:00

Back when I first heard the album Icky Thump a few years ago, Rag and Bone was one of the songs that hinted to me that there was something about The White Stripes that I should be paying attention to. For whatever reason, the album as a whole didn't reach out and shake me up at the time, but earlier this year the switch finally flipped and the lightbulb came on. Months after diving into Jack's extensive catalog of music, this tune's still one of my favorites, a raucous gem of subtly clever humor. Behind that charmingly lively repartee lies a metaphor for the way in which Jack and Meg created the magic of the Stripes-- by taking what they perceived as cast-off musical styles and making something beautiful out of them. In a twist on the old rag-and-bone men of England, they took everything from blues to garage/punk to Scottish reels and more, and produced an amazing amalgamation that still leaves fans staggered even though it's been years since the band's last performance together.

This song came to mind today because I spent the afternoon wandering old trash piles out in the woods and reflecting on the different tack that nature takes with our discarded junk. Many of the parks and wildlife management areas in Maryland consist of land that was once settled and farmed. Seeing as how farms are spread out and separated by fields, there were no communal public garbage dumps in those days, so each farmhouse had its own dumping place tucked off in a corner of the property. As this land was sold off to the DNR and M-NCPPC, no one went out to clean up, which means you never know what you might find as you come around the bend of a trail in some seemingly untouched natural area.

So I headed out to one of these places today, one that used to have a dirt and gravel mud-pit for parking, but that now has a paved lot with designated spaces and that gets a lot more use as a result. With more people tromping the trails, there's more recent garbage. I tsk'd a few times at the sight of a plastic water bottle here, a Red Bull or Coors can there. Funny, then, how a hundred or more mossy old bottles and rusty pails and tubs strewn through the undergrowth can be such a source of delight. It's the sense of discovery, I guess, and the wondering about the lives of the people who left this detritus so many years ago. The first dumping ground along the trail seems to be the oldest, consisting mostly of brown bottles and clear glass jugs and jars of various shapes and sizes. In one spot, in between the roots of a beech tree, I found the necks of three root beer-colored bottles seemingly growing out of the earth. And here and there I'd kick up the symbol of a feminine spirit, in the form of thicker white glass cosmetics jars.

Farther back in the woods, past the caved-in remains of what seems to have been a coal kiln, is an apparently more recent trash heap, at which there are fewer bottles and an abundance of faded Colt 45 cans, along with rusted water heaters and bed frames, and moldering pieces of what used to be clothing. It's obvious that a few more decades will leave this pile looking more like the other, as the old appliances decay, the cans settle into the dirt and leaves, and the undergrowth takes over.

Up the hill and around the bend, I came face to face with a beautiful box turtle crawling through the pine needles in what's left of the foundation of a house. The turtle looked fresh and new, with gorgeous golden markings against the deep brown background of its shell, the light yellowy-orange skin of its neck and legs, and the fierce, darker orange of its eyes. All that's left of the house are scattered chunks of brick and cinder-block, and two vine-covered cement steps.

While someone like Jack White or the old English rag-and-bone men might take abandoned stuff and turn it into something new, nature indifferently treats these items as the inanimate objects that they are. Instead of being given a continued life, they're taken over by the cycle of life around them, by the earth, trees, vines and shoots that break through, cover, and consume them. They're dissolved and absorbed, and the world goes on. It's an interesting and humbling lesson.

A couple of things I rescued. The bottom of the brown bottle is embossed with a design patent number and "La Choy Food Products Archbold Ohio". The jar has a Grecian key pattern about its middle and the single word, "Woodbury", on its base. I've no plans to create anything out of either of them, they're lovely and interesting as they are.

Broken and low

2010-10-17T00:01:00.003-04:00

Saw an interesting film this evening up at the old Shepherdstown Opera House-- Get Low, with the always witty Bill Murray, and Robert Duvall at his curmudgeonly best playing a backwoods hermit named Felix Bush. After 40 years of isolation, Felix determines that it's time to "get low" and sets out to arrange his own funeral, but with a twist. Assisted by the town funeral home director (Murray), he plans a pre-death shindig to which he invites everyone within four counties who has a story, real or gossip-fueled, to tell about him. As it turns out, though, the story to be told is his own-- the explanation for his self-exile. There are some laugh out loud moments (with Murray and Duvall, how could there not be), yet in the end the film left me shaken. I managed to hold back the tears until I got into the car, but they flowed freely as I drove out of Shep'town and into the moonlit backroads of West Va.

The thing that got to me was that I saw myself in Felix, though my story has none of the drama of his. And, obviously, I'm nowhere near as isolated in location-- I live in the midst of the suburbs, go to work in a major metropolitan city, and get out every chance I can to do my favorite things in my favorite places. Yet, in many ways, I'm as imprisoned as Felix. Life has become a perpetual loop of solitude and routine.

Since reaching adulthood, I've spent more years alone than I have in relationships, and friendships have been just as sparse. Much as I've tried to dismantle it in recent years, there's some sort of wall between me and the rest of society that I just can't overcome. I feel like I'm in the world, but not a part of it. Everyone-- family, friends, and acquaintances alike-- is held at arm's length for some reason I can't make out.

What I don't understand about this is that I'm not a complete misfit. Introverted, yes, but I do have the ability to connect with people. I just can't seem to deepen and sustain those connections. I can connect with faraway people via the internet in the blink of an eye but, like every physical friendship I've ever had, those connections end up fading as my interests change and I migrate to other areas of the web. Even now, I'm in a transitional phase in which I can feel certain connections seeming to dissolve as I develop new ones relating to newer obsessions. I've lived in the same area my entire life, but when it comes to people I'm decidedly nomadic. Why?

Most of the time this doesn't bother me. I've written before about how often I'm more content by myself. But then something like this movie will come along and hit me in the gut and get me wondering-- what the hell is wrong with me? Why is it so hard to find people within close proximity with whom I can connect, and why can't I make it last when I do? Am I broken in some way? In moments like this, I'm just so fucking tired of being alone.

Coupled with this is a frustrating inability to decide what the hell to do with my life. The routine is to go to work at a job that I'm thankful to have but that's shrinking my brain, come home and explore the web, then spend days off out and about doing familiar things in familiar places because they bring me comfort from the increasing stagnation. Of course it's entirely possible to break out of this-- Go back to school, challenge myself in a new line of work, move to a new area... if I could just make up my damned mind as to what, where, and how. I've lots of interests but no single overriding passion to compel me in a new direction. And, at my age, dramatic life changes are challenging enough even when you have a plan and course of action. The result is that I remain flummoxed and stuck in this prison of my own making. So I turn to the internet and whine, whine, whine...

I've no idea what this song has to do with any of the drivel I've babbled here, aside from the fact that I set it on repeat and listened to it over and over and over on the drive home through the dark from West Va. Somehow, it seemed to fit the mood--

The untangible beauty of music

2010-10-03T20:29:00.008-04:00

Image found on Tumblr. If anyone knows the source, please let me know so I can credit it.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

-- William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Jack White took to the 'web a few days ago to express some griefs. As should be expected, the previously unreleased, secret Dead Weather song hidden inside his recently distributed, Blue Blood Blues Triple Decker Record was leaked onto the internet in just over a week. I'm actually surprised it took that long, considering that copies of the Triple Decker were on eBay the same day that the first 100 units were sold at Third Man Records in Nashville. This was an exciting release with a two-fold thrill for fans and collectors alike. And there, right there, lies the crux of the Triple Decker-- The unreleased song and its accompanying b-side are on a 7" single nestled between two 12" colored vinyl platters that contain the Blue Blood Blues single and its b-side. I've already posted this video once, but in order for this whole thing to make sense, you really need to have Jack's explanation:

To reiterate-- In order to get to the extra song, you have to crack open the outer layers of the colored vinyl single. And let me stress that there are only 300 copies of the Triple Decker available! It's pretty damned brilliant. Jack knows how collectors of his music covet his colored vinyl albums. His limited edition tri-color singles end up selling for hundreds of dollars on eBay. And here he's combined colored vinyl with a never-heard-before song, and in the process created a conundrum for the lucky/rich/obsessively determined few who manage to obtain a Triple Decker-- To break the seal, or not to break the seal?

For the true collectors, there's no question. Breaking that seal destroys the value of the Triple Decker. They'll either live without hearing that unreleased track or wait until someone else cracks open a T.D., rips the tune, and posts it on the internet. Which brings us back to Jack's complaint.

He made it clear in his post over at The Vault that his issue was not with the leak of the song in and of itself, though he has at other times expressed disapproval of such musical theft. No, his concern in this case was the attitude of the websites that posted the song. He was frustrated that they assumed they had the right to take one portion of his creation and make it available to the public outside of the context in which he'd presented it. This is an understandable complaint for an artist to have. Artists from Botticelli to Mozart would probably roll over in their graves at the way their works have been snipped and trimmed and co-opted for various purposes. Jack's preferred context for his art is vinyl. He's talked a lot about the romance of vinyl as a tangible media--

Download culture isn't a very romantic experience for the fan regarding art, it cheapens it and makes it fast forwardable, and disposable, and a lot of times ignorable...

That's a shame for a lot of art and music that isn't getting the chance that it would if people just left the needle on the record till the end of the side or what have you.

I'm not telling people not to listen to MP3s, we sell them for all of our records and I wouldn't say to them don't share with their friends or whatever, but if you're asking me my opinion on what I prefer, or what I think is the best way to enjoy music, I would take a tangible, moving piece of machinery to listen to, as it expands the imagination. The physical attachment and the experience is more reverential to the art form.
-- (From bbb.co.uk/newsbeat)

It was obvious in his recent post that he felt the beauty of his latest creation had been compromised by these people who focused only on that one individual part of it-- The unreleased song. That they'd taken it out of its physical form and turned it into something intangible, without his knowledge or consent, made it in his mind into just what he described above: Something fast-forwardable and disposable.

He's since removed the post in which he expressed this grievance. He does that a lot, apparently, posts explanations, disclaimers, rants, and then takes them down, sometimes replacing them with inscrutable photos or seeming riddles. But I was lucky enough to have read this post before it disappeared, as well as his replies in the ensuing conversation that took place in the comments section. I think that I grasped his point clearly enough that I can definitely empathize with his frustration.

But, at the same time, I question Jack's insistence on the tangible as such an important component in appreciating his music. I can't help but wonder-- In focusing so completely on the tangible, does he sometimes forget the beauty of the visceral? I'm one of those people who was less concerned with the unique physical properties of the Triple Decker. Like those folks at the websites he mentioned, what immediately captured my attention was the words "unreleased song". Once I got over the initial excitement of watching him crack open that amazing disc and pull out that hidden single in the video above, I became increasingly annoyed at his statement that "you can't hear it unless ..."

Some people with whom I've had this conversation insist that limiting the availability of the song is what makes it special. Others go so far as to brand those of us who believe we should have access to this song with having a "sense of entitlement." There are valid points either way. There was a time, before museums, photography, and the internet, when only a minuscule segment of the population had the thrill of experiencing the beauty of the Mona Lisa. But times are different now. Art and music can and have been made more immediately available to the masses. How does limiting it make it more special?

To me, what is special in a piece of music is the emotional response it stirs. Whether it puts a smile on your face or brings tears to your eyes, the fact that it touches you makes it beautiful. That sort of beauty has no physical presence. It's completely intangible, but no less appreciable than anything that you hold in your hand. A "moving" piece of machinery may certainly expand the imagination, but so can a "moving" lyric. Or voice. Or guitar solo. Can anyone out there not think of a time when they've closed their eyes in order to more fully enter a piece of music, to let it get inside of them? To completely experience the rapture of it?

So I would argue against Jack's apparent belief that publishing music on the 'web cheapens it (at least not when it's done with the artist's consent, of course). In my own case, a weekend on the internet contributed immensely to the reverence I have for his art. I will certainly admit that his views have inspired me to get a turntable and begin collecting vinyl records for the first time since I was a teenager, and I'm having a ball with it. But after I've gone through the ritual of putting the record on the turntable and precisely placing the needle at the edge, once the vinyl's begun moving around, you'll find me lying back with my eyes closed so that I can listen with full attention.

And that once-unreleased, now almost impossible to legally own Dead Weather song is still out there on the 'net. I could easily find it and share it here, introduce the handful of people who stumble across this post to its haunting vocals and hypnotic guitar, but I won't. Despite the fact that I'm peeved that I can't just buy the damned thing, this ain't that kinda blog.

Back to Tennessee: Day 5

2010-09-11T06:48:00.014-04:00

What's that old cliché...? Something about how all good things must end...? It's so sadly true. Today was a day of goodbyes-- to my traveling companions (especially my buddy Lyle), to Lucifer the Pony, to Nashville and Memphis and the land in between. The only thing I'd be carrying home with me would be my memories and a growing love of the blues.

But perhaps I should just switch gears right now before I become too maudlin over all this...

After four days of cloudy &/or rainy skies, I stepped onto the balcony outside my hotel room to find the last day of our trip had dawned with breaking clouds and hints of sun. Cruel irony, or Tennessee wanting to send me home with a smile? Didn't matter. Either way, I wasn't ready to leave. But the morning called for two separate trips to the airport to drop off my traveling companions, so departure was staring me in the face.

After dropping off the friend who met us Thursday night, Lyle and I swung back around to some of the spots we'd visited in Nashville for shots of Lucifer the Pony under the suddenly gorgeous blue sky (a few of which were included in yesterday's post). Then, when we couldn't think of anywhere else to go or anything else to do in the limited time we had, Lyle very graciously suggested that I just drop her off early at the airport so that I could go ahead and get on the road back to Memphis, where I had to return Lucifer and catch my own flight.

Having that extra time allowed me to pull out the map and figure out a route of back-roads to take instead of just getting back onto Interstate 40. There were several roads I could've taken out of Nashville in order to end up on rural lanes but, just for shits'n'giggles, I chose the one that would take me down through Franklin, where Jack White supposedly lives. Yeah, brand me a fan-girl if you want, but I don't know his address so I wasn't looking to stalk the man. I had heard that Franklin is a historic town, so that was also a draw. Anyone who's followed my blog for a while has probably noticed how much time I spend in such places in MD and WV as Shepherdstown, Frederick, Hancock, and Cumberland. What I didn't expect was how rich Franklin seems to be. There was one big gated house after another along the road down, a couple of strip shopping centers, a marker for an old Civil War cemetery, and then bam!, a "historic" downtown full of Starbuck's, fancy boutiques, and SUV's. The place immediately reminded me of Middleburg, VA, except that the roads in and out of Middleburg are lined with horse farms and I saw nothing of the sort in the vicinity of Franklin. I cruised through briefly, looking to see if there was anywhere besides Starbuck's to stop for a snack, but the yuppie factor began to turn my stomach so I pointed Lucifer back out of town and we went on our way. For a moment I winced at the idea of Jack in the midst of such an environment, but then I remembered his house full of taxidermied animals and felt better.

What should actually make me wince is thoughts of that sort. I've written before about my issues with "yuppies", but those issues really don't make much sense. Jack White's weirder tendencies are one of the things I find appealing about him, yet I look down my nose at more "normal" folks such as those strolling the streets of Franklin just because they strike me as superficial. Is this a result of the treatment I received in high school, when I was one of only three punk rockers in the entire town and was endlessly harassed by school mates and even by people on the street? Shouldn't I have grown beyond it by now? What is it that makes me so judgmental of people who are probably perfectly nice, but with whom I find it difficult to relate?

Another instance that again brought these thoughts to mind occurred at a convenience store at the intersection of routes 100 & 412-- I pulled in to snap a photo of a wildflower field across the way, then decided to take advantage of the facilities in the store. When I turned the car around to pull it into a parking space, I realized that everyone pumping gas or passing through the parking lot was staring at Lucifer and me. What must I have looked like, a lone woman stepping out of a jet black Mustang, wearing a t-shirt depicting a flaming baby carriage? I walked in and was immediately addressed by a good ol' boy sitting near the window, who asked if I was looking for the bathroom. When I answered in the affirmative, he informed me that it was broken and had been for several days. I made a comment to the effect that that must make things difficult for the folks who work there. His buddy across the table laughed and said, "Nah, we just go around back". I started to ask what they did if they had to do more than take a leak, but then thought twice about it and instead wandered over to the snack aisle, feeling every eye on me as I went. Heading back out to the parking lot, there was more staring from the area of the gas pumps. So I decided to give them the show they seemed to be waiting for and goosed the gas pedal as I pulled out of the lot, making Lucifer roar as she sped down the road.

Just what was so intriguing to these otherwise perfectly friendly folks? Was it the car? Something about my appearance? Or just the fact that I wasn't one of them, that I was somehow different? We're all the same underneath our surface differences, but it can't be denied that it's those differences that make things interesting. Yes, it's good to remember that we're all composed of the same sort of genetic code, all were born of a mother, all have the same basic needs in life. This is necessary to retain respect for our fellow human beings. On the surface, though, it's our different interests, habits, beliefs, and styles of dress that prevent the world from being one big homogeneous, boring blur. The issue comes in how we treat others because of those differences. Where is the line drawn between mild scorn at someone's yuppie tendencies or outlandish appearance, and scathing hatred over the color of their skin or religious beliefs? At what point does fixation on those differences prevent us from remembering what relates us?

Despite the lapse in Franklin, I've carried things away from this trip that may very well nudge me to be more accepting than I currently am. This theme of looking beyond otherness has been so much on my mind the last several days, and it's something that I think I will now always relate to blues music. One of the moments that most struck me in reading Land Where the Blues Began is Alan Lomax's description of being hauled in to a police station in Tunica County, Mississippi, after being found in a country grocery store recording a performance by Son House and a handful of other black musicians. When asked the names of the men he was with, he began by naming "Mister Son House..." Lomax wrote:

... I knew I'd made a mistake before the words were out of my mouth. The sheriff's red face turned beet color. His eyes narrowed to pinpoints.

That a white man in the Delta region in the 1940's could have run the risk of being jailed, perhaps even roughed up, for referring to a black man as "Mister" is hard to conceive in this day. That the black man in question is now revered by white people as one of the founders of blues music just makes the situation even more astounding. But it serves as a potent reminder that there's no telling what people have to offer, that judging by surface differences can cause us to overlook qualities that we might actually admire and enjoy.

Speaking of Mister House, perhaps it's time to once again shift the gears of this post, this time back to the music that inspired this trip. As mentioned, House is considered by many to be the "father of the Delta blues" and his music was apparently a wake-up call for a young Jack White. In It Might Get Loud, Jack talks about House's Grinnin' In Your Face being his favorite song-

I can fully understand Jack's appreciation of this song and have come to share it. I ended up singing it several times along with Son as Lucifer ate up the miles along route 412.

As Jack describes, it's the simplicity of the performance that gives it it's power-- Nothing but that moving voice and the straightforward message that it delivers. And, despite the difference of Jack's distorted and amplified playing, it's very easy to hear House's influence in his music, especially much of his singing.

Ironically, Jack doesn't consider himself a singer. In an interview earlier this year, he stated that he doesn't feel he can carry a tune, doesn't have a good vibrato, and that he's more concerned with finding the character of a song and voicing that. In his view, this distinction makes him more of a vocalist than a singer. At the time I read this article, I'd recently picked up the second White Stripes album, De Stijl, which is full of beautifully tender vocals, so my knee-jerk reaction was to disagree with his self-assessment.

A few months and a whole lotta bootleg live shows later, however, I think can understand his distinction. In live situations, he does seem to lose a certain amount of control over his singing compared to studio performances. But he's so obviously moved by the music he plays and that comes through in his delivery to affect the audience. The performance in this video is the finest example I've found yet of this. Son House's Death Letter was a staple of White Stripes shows over the years, and Jack often combined it with a segue into Grinnin' In Your Face. In this instance, his pitch and enunciation are all over the place during Death Letter, but the moment he slings his guitar around behind his back and stands at the front of the stage with nothing but a microphone, belting out Grinnin', his voice suddenly takes on a depth and power that are riveting--

I finally got back onto the interstate near the town of Jackson and realized I was cutting it close to return the Pony and make my flight. So I floored it and barreled down 40 in a manner that would have had Lyle punching the ceiling of the car over in the passenger seat. Had to stop long enough for one last batch of photos, though, which got me to the gate just 10 minutes before my flight. I can't help but think that I may've been subconsciously trying to miss it and stick around for just one more day...

Full album of photos here.

Back to Tennessee, Day 4

2010-09-10T08:50:00.010-04:00

We began our one full day in Nashville under rainy skies. The day was set to be another busy one, with plans to include a tour of United Record Pressing, lunch at Arnold's Country Kitchen, and a visit to Third Man Records. The evening was yet to be decided, but with the Americana Music Festival still going on, how could it not include music?

First stop was URP, which is down a couple of blocks and around the corner from the historic city cemetery I found on my last trip to Nashville. Like anyone else of my generation, I grew up on vinyl records and then moved on to cassette tapes, then to cds, and now listen to a fair amount of digitally conveyed music in mp3 form. The compactness of today's formats provides a convenience that vinyl just ain't got. Can't lug a turntable on the subway, after all, and there's little I love more than flying along a curvy country road with the car stereo blaring my favorite tunes. But you really can't be a true fan of Jack White without becoming at least a little curious about vinyl's place in today's music, so I recently went out and bought a record player and a few platters. And, being that I've been on this journey of exploration since getting into Jack, there was no way I could pass up the opportunity to learn how records are made while in Nashville.

The tour began with a reminder of yesterday's topical issue, when we were ushered into the upstairs "Motown Suite", a fully equipped apartment created in the 60's for visiting black musicians and record execs who found themselves barred from Nashville hotels. It's a pretty sweet suite, maintained in its original 60's style--

Photo not mine, I snagged it from the URP website

Back downstairs, we got into the nitty-gritty of album production as we were led through every single step of the process. URP is one of only a handful of pressing plants left in the U.S., as a large percentage of pressing these days is apparently done in the Czech Republic. But URP is not only conveniently located to Third Man, it also fits perfectly into Jack White's ethos-- that of quality work done with traditional methods, much by hand. And they really do everything, not only creating the record master from its lacquer and then pressing it to vinyl, but also printing the record labels in-house. They even have a machine shop in the building where they can build any part necessary to repair the specialized pressing machines. And I was very surprised to see that once the records are pressed, they're sleeved completely by hand. I had fully expected to see yet another decades-old, monstrous machine doing this bit. Instead, there was one woman swiftly and efficiently inspecting each album before whisking it first into its sleeve and then its jacket. She can apparently do hundreds a day. Amazing stuff, and seeing the process honestly did give me a burgeoning appreciation for vinyl.

Watch The Dead Weather watching the production of one of their singles:

Leaving URP in a pouring rainstorm, we headed directly to Arnold's Country Kitchen and queued up in a line that stretched out the front door. I said it before and I'll say it again, the food here is. so. damned. good. This time I had room not only for meat'n'two (side dishes, that is) accompanied by corn bread, but also for dessert: a Chess pie that had me practically moaning in pleasure. Fortunately for my table-mates and all the folks crowded in around us, I was able to restrain myself. But take my word for it, a trip to Nashville is just not complete without a meal at Arnold's.

Lucifer the Pony at Arnold's. Photo taken the following day, when the parking lot was empty and the sky wasn't pissing down rain.

After lunch, we swung around the block to visit Jack's place-- Third Man Records in Nashville is the physical embodiment of a record label that apparently began in his Detroit living room almost a decade ago. But, as seems to be typical of Jack, the idea mushroomed once he began working on it. The place includes the offices of the label, a performance/recording space that doubles as a photography/video recording studio, a dark room for developing said photos, a distribution center, and a jaw-dropping little shop up front that's filled with White Stripes memorabilia and assorted taxidermied water fowl. Having shopped in the shop and attended a show in the performance space around back, I don't know how the hell he fit all of that into the building. It just does not seem big enough. There must be trick walls or subterranean chambers or something. Jack's Magic Hall of Mirrors and Music.

In the shop, I picked up an album of the Dex Romweber Duo's "Third Man Live" performance from earlier this year along with both Raconteurs albums, then stepped outside to smoke a Djarum while my traveling companions completed their purchases. It was a peaceful moment, standing on Jack's front stoop, watching what was left of the rain dripping from the eaves and listening to the tones of a wind chime hanging on the porch of the methadone clinic next door. I could've easily hung out there all day, just soaking up the atmosphere from those black bricks.

Lucifer the Pony at TMR. Photo again taken the next day, without the rain.

I've wondered a few times what the folks at the clinic and nearby homeless mission think of the goings on at TMR, what with all the fanatics who begin lining up in the wee hours of the morning whenever a new record is released or a show or some other special promotion takes place. The recent performance by Conan O'Brien had folks showing up 24 hours in advance and lining up around two sides of a city block. At one point while I was lounging against the wall next to the door, a guy walking across the street yelled over, "Hey, what is that place?" I called back, "It's a record label". He said, "Ohhh, a record company", and continued on his way as if that explained everything. If the guy's around this coming Friday, he's in for a treat-- Jack's latest trick is sure to draw one of TMR's biggest crowds yet when its limited number is offered for sale:

The man is a mad freaking genius and, in a perverse way, I envy the hell out of the homeless folks who get to hang out near his crazy laboratory.

From one mad genius to another-- We followed up our visit to Jack's colorful world by wandering through an exhibit of Dale Chihuly's work at the Frist Center for the Visual Arts. I've been a fan of his work for a few years after being enchanted by the ceiling of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. Like the music created by TMR and URP, Chihuly's art requires hands-on, traditional techniques that are fascinating to watch. Intricately simple, delicate and bold, composed of the most incredible colors, the finished pieces are only slightly more amazing than the creative process itself.

The day ended with another visit to Mercy Lounge, then hanging out in Lyle's hotel room listening to Captain Beefheart and Two Star Tabernacle (featuring a very young Jack White, stealing the show already). Three trips to this city and I feel that I've still barely seen any of it. Perhaps one day I'll be able to go back and get outside of that few-block radius to experience more of what Nashville has to offer. For now, though, it would seem that all roads lead to TMR. And that's sure as hell not a bad thing.

Full album of photos here.

Back to Tennessee, Day 3

2010-09-09T15:37:00.006-04:00

Today was a full day, so this is going to be a full blog. Started fairly early, grabbing a quick breakfast in the hotel lobby then wandering across the street to sit in Confederate Park on the Memphis bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. Only in a place like Memphis could you find such contrary memorials as a statue commemorating Jefferson Davis as a "true patriot" and the National Civil Rights Museum, built in and around the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated-- One dedicated to a cause that oppressed people, the other to a cause that freed them but that still has a ways to go in ensuring full equality.

After breakfast, Lyle and I headed to Sun Studio, the famed recording studio where Sam Philips had a hand in launching the careers of musicians such as Howlin' Wolf, Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Philips, like John and Alan Lomax, recognized something in the blues-inspired music of Southern black culture and felt compelled to shove it in the face of the masses. Without him, that skinny little white boy with a curled up smile might never have recorded Arthur Crudup's That's All Right in such an engaging style, changing the world of music forever.

In the days leading up to this trip, I'd begun reading Alan Lomax's Land Where the Blues Began. Jack White said that when you begin to explore rock'n'roll, "you're on a freight train headed straight for the blues". Lomax's book takes that train even further, digging into the sources of the blues, going all the way back to Africa and up through the music of the levee camps and prisons of the Delta in the early part of the 20th century. It's striking that the blues are a music born of rage and pain of the sort that very few white people have ever experienced, yet it was men like Lomax, Philips, and Elvis who integrated this music by filtering it through the more popular white styles of the day.

This idea of integration of races and music was a recurring theme through this trip. Land Where the Blues Began is also a powerful sociological and historical tract, describing first hand encounters with race relations in the Delta area. As a U.S. Civil War "buff", the treatment of blacks over the course of this country's history is no surprise to me. I've read the autobiography of Frederick Douglass and other books on the subject, but Lomax's book and our visit later in the afternoon to the Civil Rights Museum brought the situation home. And it was astounding to stand next to Martin Luther King, Jr's motel room in the preserved section of the Lorraine Motel, looking out the window at the spot on the balcony where he was shot, only blocks from the blues joints of Beale Street. It's very interesting to be in a place like Memphis, where music inspired by black culture is celebrated on Beale and elsewhere, yet where the people have been so reviled, oppressed, and exploited. Lyle and I talked briefly, as we stood transfixed before some of the exhibits in the museum, about how easily all of that horror could happen again. If the wrong person were to gain enough influence, it would be all too easy to imagine such outrageous violence directed towards the present day population of Muslims in this country. It gave me a chill to think of it, standing there watching footage of people being attacked by police dogs and bowled over by water cannons in Birmingham, Alabama, less than 50 years ago.

After the sobering experience of the museum, we again hit the road, this time heading all the way to Nashville. Interstate 40 was crawling with as many cops as it was when I drove it back in April, but they were fortunately all heading the opposite direction on the other side of the highway. We got to Nashville in time to pick up a third compatriot, doll ourselves up, and head over to Mercy Lounge to meet yet another friend (who took all of the photos below) for a highly anticipated show that was part of the Americana Music Festival-- Wanda Jackson and the Dex Romweber Duo. Wanda, who is no longer the hot mama portrayed in that linked video but who still puts on a rocking show, was presented earlier in the evening with a 2010 Americana Lifetime Achievement Award by none other than Jack White, who recently produced her upcoming album, The Party Ain't Over. And Dex Romweber has been a tremendous influence on Jack's music, specifically within the context of The White Stripes. So you can understand my anticipation of this show. With both artists having such a strong connection to Jack, and with the venue being a block away from Third Man Records, who knows? Perhaps he'd even be there.

The show was opened by alternative country singer, Dale Watson, who I was surprised to enjoy as much as I did. Great voice, great look, and a great guitar covered in quarters.

Photo by Jeremy Richerson

He was followed by Wanda, who was sprightly and sassy and I hope to hell I have as much vitality when I reach her age. The woman's voice seems, if anything, even stronger than it was in her early rockabilly days. Lyle noticed that there were several very young folks at the front of the audience near us who sang along with every song in Wanda's set. I couldn't help but wonder if they'd gotten into her music because of her connection with Jack. He talked in a recent article about how there are no "tastemakers" in the music biz in this country anymore, such as DJ's who promoted local acts on the air. He ironically makes it sound as if he doesn't realize how he himself is filling that role with what he's doing at Third Man.

Photo by Jeremy Richerson

And he was indeed there that night. I caught a split-second glimpse of him over by the sound board during Wanda's set, grinning as he leaned over to talk to someone. When he stood back up, though, he disappeared behind a support beam at the side of the stage and I saw no more. Still very cool to know he was there, having a good time and enjoying two fellow artists with whom he's been so involved.

The evening was capped off by Dex and his sister, Sara. I was very surprised at how much of the crowd disappeared before the Duo hit the stage. They put on one hell of a show. I could hear immediately what elements of Dex's music had been absorbed by Jack into the Stripes-- much of the guitar style, the sparseness of only guitar and drums, the rawness, the passionate, abandoned delivery. It's all there, and as he did with the blues, Jack's now led me in another direction and I will be listening to a lot of Dex Romweber in the near future. Dex's music is incredibly overlooked, though I couldn't help but feel that perhaps that's the way he likes it.


Photo by Jeremy Richerson

Photo by Jeremy Richerson

Full album of photos here.

Back to Tennessee, Day 2

2010-09-08T14:18:00.008-04:00

Began the day in Mississippi by rolling up the legs of my jeans and walking barefoot through the wet grass from my Cadillac Shack (pictured below) to Lyle's Tinth Shack.

Our plan was to visit the Delta Blues Museum in downtown Clarksdale and eat tamales at Hick's, then head back up to Memphis to check into our hotel there and hopefully collect Lyle's wayfaring luggage. Accordingly, we piled into the Pony, which Lyle christened "Lucifer" after the pony in Bob Dylan's song as covered by The Dead Weather (we certainly had no plans to shoot our Pony).

I had a pony, her name was Lucifer

She broke her leg and she needed shooting

I swear it hurt me more than it hurted her

Sometimes I wonder what's going on with Miss X

She got such a sweet disposition

I never know what the poor girl's gonna do to me next

Everybody say you're usin' voodoo, your feet walk by themselves

Everybody say you're usin' voodoo, I seen your feet walk by themselves

Oh, baby, that god you're prayin' to

Is gonna give ya back what you're wishin' on someone else

Come over here pony, I wanna climb up one time on you

Well, you're so nasty and you're so bad

But I love you, yes I do

Clarksdale's a fairly bleak place, with a history as rich as the local Delta soil but way too many empty store fronts to make it a truly going concern. Even Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club has apparently failed to make it the successful destination that it could, and perhaps should, be. It's still a necessary visit for anyone looking to understand the blues. The Delta Blues Museum is basically one room in the old train depot, filled with photos, instruments, costumes, and information about the musicians that put this place on the map. The largest exhibit focuses on Muddy Waters and includes a portion of the shack where he was living when discovered by John and Alan Lomax.

We wandered from there to Cat Head, Inc, then over to the town cemetery which is unlike any other I've visited. I've seen a lot of cemeteries in my time, but never one quite so stark. It's obviously maintained, but only at a bare minimum. The crabgrass is mowed, but the dry mowings are left piled at the base of the headstones. And there are no other plantings aside from decades-old trees. Many family plots are completely bare dirt, not even graced with crabgrass. A favorite motif was apparently what I call the "bathtub" style of grave marker, in which the area above the casket is marked with a marble rim that would have been filled with flowering plants and greenery. The sight of so many of these markers in one place indicates that the Clarksdale cemetery must have been beautiful at one time, very different from the poor place it is now.

Lyle and I decided that we weren't yet getting a good feel for the blues, so we climbed into Lucifer and headed for Tutwiler, which is where W.C. Handy supposedly heard the first true blues but which is now more known for the nearby prison (and traditional quilts made by local women). This is no surprise. A bunch of small homes and an empty downtown in the middle of vast, flat cotton fields, Tutwiler appears even more rundown and decrepit than Clarksdale.

At the time, I think we were too busy looking and talking and taking photos to be able to sink into the moment and feel what was around us. Thinking back as I write this, though, it's clear that we were surrounded by the atmosphere that birthed the blues. It's easy now to imagine W.C. Handy in that lonesome train station all those years ago, waking up to the sound of that unidentified musician with his knife sliding on the frets of his guitar and his song of "goin' where the Southern meets the Dog".

Back up in Memphis, Lyle was finally reunited with her luggage. We cleaned up a bit and drove down to Beale Street, where we ate ribs and more tamales, then wandered down the block and listened to local street musicians including Big Jerry, from whom Lyle had to buy a cd before he broke her heart (go to that link and buy some of his music, he's good).

Afterward, I re-lived the experiences of my April trip by dragging Lyle past Minglewood Hall (where I first experienced The Dead Weather), C.K.'s 24-hour coffeehouse, and the cemetery behind the Piggly-Wiggly. Settling into bed in the Sleep Inn later on, I found myself missing the less homogeneous but much more comfortable Cadillac Shack out in the middle of those dark cotton fields in the Delta.

Full album of photos here.

Back to Tennessee, Day 1

2010-09-07T13:26:00.006-04:00

So I went back to Tennessee. The trip(s) in April/May were just too good, I'd been thinking about the place ever since, especially as I've kept in touch with some of the people I met there the first time around. And, because my infatuation with Jack White has not only continued, it's expanded to encompass the blues music that inspires him and that I first began exploring on my earlier trip. Memphis and the Delta area of Mississippi are the cradle of the blues and I wanted to go to the source, get a feeling for the place this music came from. I've been reading about the blues, but words-- dates and names and anecdotes and such-- can only convey so much. So I picked a week, talked it up to a compatriot (my buddy, Lyle, who got me into the Dead Weather performance at Third Man Records back in May), and planned an itinerary. To allow the most time possible to see and do, I decided to fly in this time and rent a car there-- A Ford Mustang, of course. What else would I drive on a road trip if finances allowed? Lyle and I put together a thoroughly blues-oriented expedition that would begin in Memphis, swing down for a side-trip to Clarksdale, Mississippi, back up to Memphis, then over to Nashville.

I got to Memphis with no problems, but Lyle was not so lucky. The first of her two flights ended up diverted by Hurricane Hermine, leaving her first stuck on the tarmac in Austin, Texas, then finally arriving in Houston and having to scramble for a connection to Memphis. As she was going through all of that, I had the task of wrangling our Pony. I almost came to blows with another woman when the rental company gave it to both of us as the same time. But I got it, a sleek black beauty with beige interior and a 6-cd changer on which I planned to rotate Jack, Son House, Blind Willie McTell, and Robert Johnson, with a little bit of Black Keys thrown in.

Once the Pony was saddled up, I headed in to Memphis to find a way to occupy the hours until I had to head back to the airport to pick up Lyle. I ended up on Beale Street, where I perused the aisles of A. Schwab's, once an honest-to-goodness five-and-dime, now a combination five$-and-dime$ and museum. The bins contained everything from open leg underwear (that's what the sign said, I swear it), to cowboy hats, Memphis souvenir mugs, and voodoo candles. They also had a pretty fantastic selection of blues cds, so I picked up a couple of compilations, adding Leadbelly, Blind Willie Johnson, Charley Patton and others to the week's musical assortment.

A few doors up from Schwab's was Tater Red's rock'n'roll clothing/etc. I walked in and immediately recognized the White Stripes' Effect and Cause coming over the sound system. I grinned big and picked out a kitschy little voodoo doll to hang from the rearview mirror of the Pony as a mascot. Landed next in Blues City Cafe for the first of what would be many sweet iced teas consumed over the course of the week.

It felt so good to be back in Memphis, even on touristified Beale Street, but I kept also getting twinges of guilt for enjoying myself while Lyle was stuck somewhere on an airplane. After a while, I headed back to the airport and her flight finally arrived, but sans luggage. She was promised that it would make it into town the following day and be delivered to the hotel we'd booked in Memphis for the next night, so we hit the road for Clarksdale. Our destination was the Shack Up Inn, a place I'd read about and been intrigued by in It Still Moves. Before getting there, though, we made a stop at the Blue & White Cafe, where Lyle had her first taste of fried catfish and I had a B.L.T. made with fried green tomatoes. And my second sweet tea of the day. Having been born & raised in Virginia, sweet tea is one element of Southern culture that I embrace with gusto.

Arriving in Clarksdale, we got turned around while hunting for the Shack Up Inn in the dark and instead ended up at the famed "crossroads". I use quotations because there is some debate as to whether the intersection of routes 49 & 61 is indeed the place where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for miraculous guitar-playing skill (Lyle insists it actually occurred in Rosedale, but we didn't have time to drive that far), and because the atmosphere of the place gives anything but an impression of dark magic. The spot is marked with a cheesy pair of crossed blue guitars and is surrounded by a Church's Fried Chicken, a donut shop, and a beer & wine store. Though perhaps that's fitting. The blues originated in African-American culture, which since the days of slavery has apparently been nothing if not resilient and adaptable. Blues is based in a feeling, one that can exist regardless of the setting or atmosphere in which it's experienced. And who knows, perhaps Robert Johnson wished that there had been a beer'n'such shop there while he waited alone in the night for the devil to appear.

We finally found the Shack Up and collected our keys from the lobby mailbox. We had no idea what to expect and arriving in the pitch dark left us clueless until we actually walked in the door of Lyle's Tinth Shack. The place is great. The shacks are beautifully restored, retaining a wonderfully rustic feel while being completely clean, cozy, and convenient. Lyle, stoic Brit that she is, settled in with a bottle of wine while I steered the Pony back around to my Cadillac Shack. The day came to a close on the front porch, where I sat in the dark smoking and listening to a soft rain fall on the metal roof of the nearby converted cotton gin.

It's a laughing matter

2010-08-30T11:59:00.006-04:00

I used to hate the dentist. Childhood experiences with a short, goblin-voiced, hairy-handed pediatric dentist who once drilled my sister's tongue left me scarred. To the point that, once I was past my mid-teens, I adamantly refused to visit the dentist for a number of years. By the time I reached adulthood and realized that perhaps I had developed a few oral issues, the dread was deep-rooted (no pun intended). My first few treatments did nothing to dispel it-- one appointment even included me bursting into tears as the dentist applied a topical anesthetic and then only moments later raised the fearsome Novocaine needle suddenly into my line of sight. He was not pleased.

But then I found a dentist who used nitrous oxide before administering Novocaine. Oh, glory be and hallelujah! I was saved. Unfortunately, this same dentist chose to discuss the financial aspects of my treatments while I was under the gas. An enamel crown applied to my very last molar, where no one will ever see it but the dentist, and that will cost me $600 because my insurance won't cover it? Suuuuure, go right ahead! Let's put a another one on the other side while we're at it, make it a matched set!

My current dentist is not only calm, gentle, and gives me precise explanations of what he's going to do and what it's likely to feel like, he saves treatment discussions for when I'm totally coherent. Visiting him is a pleasure, no matter what barbaric tortures are in store for my delicate mouth.

The nitrous kicked in quickly today. Within only a handful of deep breaths, I felt that familiar rushing feeling, and then the weird woobly ringing began in my ears, like some strange sound effect from an early 70's sci-fi movie. Once that subsided, I went into out-of-body mode. The thing about nitrous is that you don't think you're high while you're on it. It just gives you the ultimate sense of detachment. The Novocaine takes care of the pain, but there is still sensation. I'm fully conscious of all the sounds, tastes, and pressures of what the dentist is doing in my mouth, completely aware that I'd be writhing in agony if not for the drugs, and at the same time, passively curious about what's going on. If the dr were to tell me that he was going to insert a metal hook up through my nostril and pull out my brain loop by loop, my response would probably be not only "Wow, how cool", but also "Can I help?".

When he was done today, I actually caught myself thinking that it was over way too quickly. As he reached to pull the nitrous mask off my face, for a brief moment I wanted to clutch at it and fight him for it. To a very small degree, I think I understand how people become addicted to such mood-altering substances, and why they'll ruin themselves to get the high that they crave.

The drive home was quite a trip, too. As both the nitrous and the Novocaine began to wear off, that lovely stroke victim feeling began to set in, in which you feel that you have absolutely no control of tongue, jaw, or lips, and that all three are drooping somewhere between your chin and shoulder. And then those prickly sensations begin to set in, little jabs in the tongue letting you know that it's coming back to life, even though you're still convinced it's nothing but a slab of meat between your teeth and you couldn't move it if your life depended on it.

To help shake the last few cobwebs out of my brain, I cranked up The White Stripes' Icky Thump. An excellent choice. There's nothing more appropriate than listening to a few Jack White dentist's drill guitar solos on the way home from having three cavities filled...

The best moment, though, was driving past a sign outside of a Methodist church that was meant to be reassuring but that had a very different effect on me: Don't give up! Moses was once a basket-case. There must've still been some residual nitrous flowing through my system, because that set me off and I chortled and guffawed (as well as I could through numb lips) the rest of the way home.

Random babblings: Tasting the water

2010-08-27T22:10:00.006-04:00

A week or so ago, I began a thread at a message board about the recent devastating floods in Pakistan (nothing gets my attention like a flood, it seems). The first person to respond was of a sort that I've found at every message board I've frequented-- Of a philosophical bent, focusing on abstract elements of situations of this sort, rather than the human element. Seemingly more intellectual than empathetic. So instead of a conversation about what the people in Pakistan are dealing with and how they can be helped, the thread veered immediately into a discussion on the place of evil in the world. The idea that got the ball rolling was this: "Evil and misfortune exists in order to bring about opportunities for us to express compassion......otherwise, life would be meaningless." Other folks immediately threw down the bullshit flag and the debate was on.

I allowed that this person had made a valid point. I've read this idea over and over in my exploration of philosophy and religion. But I think I responded too quickly because I don't really agree with that. There's certainly the possibility that this is the case, that we need the contrast of misfortune in order to fully appreciate good and beautiful things in our lives and to spur altruism and compassion. But do they really exist for this purpose? That smacks of a grand design, and that's something I'm definitely not sure I believe in. Later on in the same thread, I went back and pointed out that perhaps this idea is just a coping mechanism for people who can't accept that there isn't always a reason for why things happen. As I put it then, nature and the world are indifferent to all of our theories about them, yet still we feel compelled to quantify them for our own comfort. We assign concepts such as 'good' and 'evil' to occurrences like sunshine and floods, as if these things happen for us, and not merely around us.

And then a couple of days later, NPR posted an article about a new "Gradations of Evil" scale created by Columbia University professor, Michael Stone, and my thoughts shifted to human, as opposed to natural, evil. As a forensic psychologist, I suppose it makes sense that Stone would focus on murderers but, really, that makes the title of his scale misleading, implying as it does that evil only takes extreme forms. Of course those are the most obvious, and the majority of us would probably immediately summon up the likes of Adolf Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer if asked to name an epitome of evil. But is its extent really encapsulated only within the spectrum of violence and cruelty?

I can't recall now where I read it (within a book by the Dalai Lama, perhaps, or Brad Warner...?) or even if I'm remembering it correctly, but the idea is stuck in my head: something about "evil" being defined as a lack of awareness, an obliviousness, or even a callousness, to how our actions affect others. That would be pretty all-encompassing, making Stone's scale frighteningly inadequate. Anything from a careless insult or a disrespectful lie all the way through the most psychotic torture would fall within the scope of such a definition.

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them...
- Jack Keruoac

But surely there is a difference between simple self-centeredness and the outrageous compulsions of a psychopath. Can we accept that it's a matter of degree? The question to consider may be-- just how far removed are we, really, from psychosis? Is there a level of socio-pathology to the simplest act of manipulation or dishonesty? Or are these merely acts grounded in ignorance?

In Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty, Roy Baumeister begins with an anecdote about a woman rushing to get a snack in an airport before boarding her flight. She grabs a package of chips and a drink and sits down next to a man reading a newspaper. As she reaches into the package, pulls out a chip, then eats it, she notices that the man is suddenly staring at her menacingly. To her shock, he reaches down and helps himself to one of her chips. Her first impulse is one of fear, but instead she remains seated and continues to eat her chips and drink her soda. As she does, the man continues to wordlessly reach into the bag and help himself to chips as well, staring at her the entire time. Her nervousness accumulates, she becomes more and more sure that he's some weird psycho. Finally, her flight is called to board and, heart pounding, she gets up and walks toward the gate. As she reaches into her purse to pull out her ticket, her hand closes on the bag of chips she had bought and then forgot that she'd put away. She'd been helping herself to his food. So who was the psycho? As Baumeister puts it, sometimes evil is in the eye of the beholder.

A more zealous example can be seen in the recent case of an Iranian woman accused of adultery. Puritan New Englander's in the early days of the United States would have slapped a big red A on her chest and ostracized her. The judicial court in Iran has instead sentenced her to death by stoning, which consists of her being buried from the shoulders down and pelted with rocks. Imagine how long this would take and how it would feel, imagine waiting for death in such a position. And yet the Iranian court has determined that her unproven act of infidelity is evil enough to warrant such an execution. Who is the criminal in this case?

How far along the evil scale could any of us go? How many of us have ever really considered such a question? I proposed the idea once on another message board somewhere-- If you found yourself in a situation in which there would be no reprisals, none, at all... could you kill another human being? The answers didn't surprise me. A certain number of people responded with emphatic no's, under no circumstances could or would they take the life of another person. And then there were those who said a gung ho yes!, but with an obliviously conditional "if" that included the defense of self, loved ones, or country. I don't recall that a single person replied that they might possibly kill out of a condition such as rage or even, like Raskolnikov in Dostoevky's Crime and Punishment, out of a bizarre curiosity to know whether they could.

I find it hard to believe that I'm alone in that latter category. No, beyond that, I refuse to believe that a large percentage of us don't have that possibility lurking in our nature. The vast majority of people seem to not want to look at that part of themselves, to dig that deeply. But wouldn't this explain the popularity of a television show like Dexter? There's certainly a level of unconscious projection going on in our admiration of a character who looks and acts just like any one of us, but who then lives out the fantasies we don't even know we have... or won't admit that we have.

And what about a film like Seven? If ever there was a perfect exploration of this subject, that would be it. The triad of characters in that film sums up much of what I've babbled about here-- Where on Stone's Gradations of Evil scale would Mills and Doe each fall? Mills, who wants so badly to be good but whose passions control him, and Doe, whose seeming passivity belies intense hatred. Somerset is then balanced against them both to represent those among us who recognize the existence of this part of our natures. By doing so, by accepting that this shadow is part of who we are, he alone is able to control it. (Spoiler alert for that link, for those of you who haven't seen the film)

What does it take to uncover that part of us? Does it require a level of insanity to step over that line? And wouldn't it be wise to know whether it's there, so that we can take steps to moderate it? After all, is it the impulse that's evil, or the acting upon it? Is it our passions, both conscious and unconscious, or our control of them that separates us from the examples on Stone's scale? Do the gradations end where he specified, or do they continue on until we have to squint to see them?

As is so often the case, I've got questions here but no answers...

I drank some dirty water
Shook evil hands
I've done some bad things
They get easier to do

Then I wrote a nasty letter
And I sent it to the Lord
I said don't you dare come
And bother me no more

I had a good friend
I could only destroy
And lovers I loved less
Than anybody could afford

Yes, but this old rocking horse
Just nods his head
And he's gonna rock back and forth
The way that he always did

Baby, don't you bother
Tasting the water
And baby, don't you bother
Coming closer to me

Can you see my eyes?
They're half the size
And I'm not able
To look at you

What's behind the (screen) name, part II

2010-08-16T09:50:00.002-04:00

After explaining the second half of my name, guess I might as well cover the first also...

Kali (Sanskrit: काली, Bengali: কালী, both Kālī), also known as Kalika (Bengali: কালিকা, Kālikā), is the Hindu goddess associated with eternal energy. The name Kali comes from Kāla which means black, time, death, lord of death, Shiva. Kali means "the black one". Since Shiva is called Kāla - the eternal time, Kālī, his consort, also means "the Time" or "Death" (as in time has come). Hence, Kali is considered the goddess of time and change. Although sometimes presented as dark and violent, her earliest incarnation as a figure of annihilation still has some influence. Various Shakta Hindu cosmologies, as well as Shakta Tantric beliefs, worship her as the ultimate reality or Brahman. She is also revered as Bhavatarini (literally "redeemer of the universe"). Comparatively recent devotional movements largely conceive Kali as a benevolent mother goddess.

Kali is represented as the consort of Lord Shiva, on whose body she is often seen standing. She is associated with many other Hindu goddesses like Durga, Bhadrakali, Sati, Rudrani, Parvati and Chamunda. She is the foremost among the Dasa Mahavidyas, ten fierce Tantric goddesses.
Kālī is the feminine of kāla ("black, dark coloured").^[2] Kāla primarily means "black," but also means "time." Kālī means "the black one" and also "time" or "beyond time." Kali is strongly associated with Shiva, and Shaivas derive her feminine name from the masculine Kāla (an epithet of Shiva). The early Sanskrit dictionary, the Shabdakalpadrum, states: कालः शिवः । तस्य पत्नीति - काली । kālaḥ śivaḥ । tasya patnīti kālī - "Shiva is Kala, thus his wife is Kali."

Kali's association with blackness stands in contrast to her consort, Shiva, whose body is covered by the white ashes of the cremation ground (Sanskrit: śmaśāna) in which he meditates, and with which Kali is also associated, as śmaśāna-kālī.

In the Mahanirvana-tantra, Kali is one of the epithets for the primordial sakti, and in one passage Shiva praises her:

At the dissolution of things, it is Kala [Time] Who will devour all, and by reason of this He is called Mahakala [an epithet of Lord Shiva], and since Thou devourest Mahakala Himself, it is Thou who art the Supreme Primordial Kalika. Because Thou devourest Kala, Thou art Kali, the original form of all things, and because Thou art the Origin of and devourest all things Thou art called the Adya [primordial Kali]. Resuming after Dissolution Thine own form, dark and formless, Thou alone remainest as One ineffable and inconceivable. Though having a form, yet art Thou formless; though Thyself without beginning, multiform by the power of Maya, Thou art the Beginning of all, Creatrix, Protectress, and Destructress that Thou art.

The figure of Kali conveys death, destruction, and the consuming aspects of reality. As such, she is also a "forbidden thing", or even death itself. In the Pancatattva ritual, the sadhaka boldly seeks to confront Kali, and thereby assimilates and transforms her into a vehicle of salvation. This is clear in the work of the Karpuradi-stotra, a short praise to Kali describing the Pancatattva ritual unto her, performed on cremation grounds. (Samahana-sadhana)

He, O Mahakali who in the cremation-ground, naked, and with dishevelled hair, intently meditates upon Thee and recites Thy mantra, and with each recitation makes offering to Thee of a thousand Akanda flowers with seed, becomes without any effort a Lord of the earth. 0 Kali, whoever on Tuesday at midnight, having uttered Thy mantra, makes offering even but once with devotion to Thee of a hair of his Sakti [his female companion] in the cremation-ground, becomes a great poet, a Lord of the earth, and ever goes mounted upon an elephant.

The Karpuradi-stotra clearly indicates that Kali is more than a terrible, vicious, slayer of demons who serves Durga or Shiva. Here, she is identified as the supreme mistress of the universe, associated with the five elements. In union with Lord Shiva, who is said to be her spouse, she creates and destroys worlds. Her appearance also takes a different turn, befitting her role as ruler of the world and object of meditation.^[10] In contrast to her terrible aspects, she takes on hints of a more benign dimension. She is described as young and beautiful, has a gentle smile, and makes gestures with her two right hands to dispel any fear and offer boons. The more positive features exposed offer the distillation of divine wrath into a goddess of salvation, who rids the sadhaka of fear. Here, Kali appears as a symbol of triumph over death.^{All text in this and the previous post was lifted from Wikipedia.}

What's behind the (screen) name

2010-08-16T07:29:00.002-04:00

A gentleman over at Tumblr just posted something highly relevant. Every now and again I'm asked for an explanation of my intarwebs name. I kind of hate to dispel the mystery, but for anyone who's ever wondered yet not asked, here's part of it. But before you go thinking that this is how I grandiosely see myself, allow me to clarify-- These goddesses are symbolic references for me. They are examples, not identifiers.

In Hinduism, Durga (Sanskrit: दुर्गा, meaning “the inaccessible” or “the invincible”; Bengali: দুর্গা, durga) orMaa Durga (Bengali: মা দুর্গা, ma durga, meaning “Mother Durga”) “one who can redeem in situations of utmost distress”. Durga is a form of Devi, the supremely radiant goddess, depicted as having ten arms, riding a lion or atiger, carrying weapons and a lotus flower, maintaining a meditative smile, and practicing mudras, or symbolic hand gestures.

An embodiment of creative feminine force (Shakti), Durga exists in a state of svātantrya (independence from the universe and anything/anybody else, i.e., self-sufficiency) and fierce compassion. Kali is considered by Hindus to be an aspect of Durga. Durga is also the mother of Ganesha and Kartikeya. She is thus considered the fiercer, demon-fighting form of Shiva’s wife, goddess Parvati. Durga manifests fearlessness and patience, and never loses her sense of humor, even during spiritual battles of epic proportion.

The word Shakti means divine feminine force, and Durga is the warrior aspect of the Divine Mother. Other incarnations include Annapurna and Karunamayi (karuna= kindness). Durga’s darker aspect Kali is represented as the consort of the god Shiva, on whose body she is often seen standing.

As a goddess, Durga’s feminine power contains the energies of the gods. Each of her weapons was gifted to her by various gods: Rudra’s trident, Vishnu’s discus, Indra’s thunderbolt, Brahma’s kamandalu, Kuber’s Ratnahar, etc.

According to a narrative in the Devi Mahatmya story of the Markandeya Purana text, Durga was created as a warrior goddess to fight an asura (an inhumane force/demon) named Mahishasur. He had unleashed a reign of terror on earth, heaven and the nether worlds, and he could not be defeated by any man or god, anywhere. The gods went to Brahma, who had given Mahishasura the power to be the invincible conqueror of the universe. Brahma could do nothing. They made Brahma their leader and went to Vaikuntha — the place where Vishnu lay on Ananta Naag. They found bothVishnu and Shiva, and Brahma eloquently related the reign of terror Mahishasur had unleashed on the three worlds. Hearing this Vishnu, Shiva and all of the gods became very angry and beams of fierce light emerged from their bodies. The blinding sea of light met at the Ashram of a priest named Katyan. The goddess Durga took the name Katyani from the priest and emerged from the sea of light. She introduced herself in the language of the Rig-Veda, saying she was the form of the supreme Brahman who had created all the gods. Now she had come to fight the demon to save the gods. They did not create her; it was her lila that she emerged from their combined energy. The gods were blessed with her compassion.

It is said that upon initially encountering Durga, Mahishasura underestimated her, thinking: “How can a woman kill me, Mahishasur — the one who has defeated the trinity of gods?” However, Durga roared with laughter, which caused an earthquake which made Mahishasur aware of her powers.

And the terrible Mahishasur rampaged against her, changing forms many times. First he was a buffalo demon, and she defeated him with her sword. Then he changed forms and became an elephant that tied up the goddess’s tiger and began to pull it towards him. The goddess cut off his trunk with her sword. The demon Mahishasur continued his terrorizing, taking the form of a lion, and then the form of a man, but both of them were gracefully slain by Durga.

Then Mahishasur began attacking once more, starting to take the form of a buffalo again. The patient goddess became very angry, and as she sipped divine wine from a cup she smiled and proclaimed to Mahishasur in a colorful tone — “Roar with delight while you still can, O illiterate demon, because when I will kill you after drinking this, the gods themselves will roar with delight”. When Mahashaur had half emerged into his buffalo form, he was paralyzed by the extreme light emitting from the goddess’s body. The goddess then resounded with laughter before cutting Mahishasur’s head down with her sword.

All text in this and the following post was lifted from Wikipedia.

Precursor to autumn

2010-08-14T22:20:00.004-04:00

After a record-breaking string of 90+ degree days (including many that were 100+) accompanied by a drought that brought local rivers to depths of less than two feet, capped off by one day of thunderstorms of biblical proportions, the mid-Atlantic region got a break this weekend. Today was supposed to be mostly sunny with periods of clouds, and temps in the 80's. Instead, we had consistently cloudy skies with a cool breeze. Normally that sort of sky turns me lethargic, but the cooler air was inviting so I stopped myself from thinking of things like easy chairs and coffee shops and books, and instead directed my body to mindlessly go through the process of getting bike and gear ready to go.

Considering that today was Saturday I expected the rail-trail and towpath at Hancock to be packed, but the lowering clouds apparently had the sort of effect on everyone else that they normally have on me. There were few other cyclists to dodge, which was a pleasant surprise that helped me to quickly get into a smooth rhythm.

Now, while I love a good equinox as much as the next person, I'm convinced that the seasons don't follow the earth's rotational phases as much as they do the human-defined calendar. Autumn is September, October, and November, which means today was the beginning of the end of summer. The air was the sort of temperature that you don't even feel against your skin. And the trail was gorgeous under the dim light of the cloudy sky. Without the glare of a blazing sun or the haze of humidity, the surrounding trees were softer yet at the same time more distinct. Added to this was the rustle of leaves under my tires, though these leaves were drought-deadened and knocked to the ground by the recent storms, rather than autumn-turned. The effect was the same, though, summoning that feeling of transition, one season ending as another begins, both exciting and melancholy at the same time. That simple, wonderful feeling I've gotten at this time of year, every year since I was a kid.

Though could someone please explain to me why I always end up riding through mud the very next day after I've cleaned my bike?

The Dead Weather: A storm a-ragin' at the 9:30 Club

2010-07-14T02:01:00.020-04:00

I didn't write in much detail about my first experiences with The Dead Weather earlier this year in Memphis and Nashville. The DW shows I've attended this year have also been my first experience with Jack White and seeing the man live on stage is, shall we say, more than slightly intense. Jack is a powerhouse performer, whether behind the drum kit, out front with a guitar, or even pacing the stage with nothing in hand but a microphone. The concentrated energy just radiates from him and infects the entire audience. Something about how that energy affected me tonight compels me to want to share the experience this time, which is entirely contrary to how I felt before. Third (!) time's the charm, I guess.

Thanks to the generosity of a fellow fan, I was spared from having to camp out in line all afternoon in order to get a good spot in front of the stage. The weather forecast all week had predicted a 60% chance of thunderstorms from afternoon through evening, which would have been miserable. Instead, the clouds broke somewhat and the day became brutally hot. I would've suffered it, not gladly but willingly, if a very cool dude from the White Stripes message board hadn't posted an offer to let someone be his 'plus one' if he managed to win the early entry lottery that's open to ten fan club members, plus guest, per show. This is the second time I've had an amazing DW experience as someone's 'plus one' and, for such a seemingly little thing, it goes a long way toward restoring my oft-bruised faith in humanity.

So instead of broiling under the humid sun, I was able to relax, get to the venue a few minutes before the doors opened, and then stroll in ahead of the crowd to claim my particularly chosen spot at the front, the same spot I had for the two previous shows in Tennessee, and the spot I will aim for again come August when the DW plays Baltimore-- on the right, just between Alison and LJ, with a mostly unobstructed view of Jack's drumkit. If you happen to attend a DW show that I'm at and decide to snatch that spot from me, just know that you do so at your peril. Not long after my early entry patron and I got settled up front and the rest of the crowd began making its way in, a young kid of 12 or so popped up behind us and announced that this was his second concert ever and his first time seeing Jack White. His dad had apparently forgotten one of their tickets and was waiting out front for Mom to deliver it, but sent the boy in ahead so he could get a good spot. Of course, we immediately squeezed him up to the rail and kept an eye on him throughout the evening. It turned out to be a ball hanging out with him before and during the show, seeing his excitement and discussing music in general and the DW in particular with someone whose perspective is so fresh and unjaded.

Harlem, the opening act, were three very cute young boys who acted very casually about their set but played fairly tightly and with great energy. They provided a fun warm up and had us all raring to go for the DW. And D.C. was more than ready-- the show sold out almost immediately when tickets went on sale two months before, and many people apparently remembered that the band had kicked off their 2009 tour on almost exactly the same day in the same venue. Everyone was expecting a hell of a show.

The band seemed to sense this as soon as they hit the stage. They tore through 60 Feet Tall, and both Alison and Jack broke into big grins over the crowd response at the end of the song. From there it was right into Hang You From the Heavens, with Jack twirling his drumsticks between cymbal smashes and the audience singing word for word along with Alison. Despite Jack's insistence in recent interviews that the band's begun playing without a setlist, they pretty much followed standard formula tonight, following HYFtH with (some of this is sure to be out of order, it all becomes a blur on the drive home)--

You Just Can't Win
So Far From Your Weapon
I Cut Like a Buffalo
No Horse
The Difference Between Us
I'm Mad
Gasoline
Rocking Horse
Rolling In On a Burning Tire
Gasoline
Hustle & Cuss
Die By the Drop
Will There Be Enough Water?

Encore
Blue Blood Blues
I Can't Hear You
Treat Me Like Your Mother

Much as I adore 2009 performances of the song, I was not terribly looking forward to You Just Can't Win. For some reason I can't begin to determine, Jack's vocals during their spring 2010 shows became unaccountably... histrionic. His voice was fine, but his delivery was terribly over-dramatized. Perhaps it was having a bit of a break before this tour, perhaps it was the obvious excitement of the audience, I don't know what it was, but he was spot on tonight, singing emotionally yet with a much more relaxed manner. And having a hell of a time, apparently-- smiling repeatedly, chatting to the crowd a few times between songs (which, unfortunately, I couldn't understand a word of due to the mic at his drumkit being way too damned low in the mix).

The absolute highlight of the show was, as is often the case, Will There Be Enough Water?. The slowest moment of any Dead Weather show, it's also the most intense (there's that word again) as Jack comes from out behind the drums to strap on his guitar and share a mic with Alison as they croon the spare lyrics of the song. The solo that he launched into tonight between the second and third verse was mind-blowing. The potential for this was the reason for my determination to get the spot I had on the rail. With his pedal board directly in front of me, I had a long handful of minutes to watch the man up close. So close, in fact, that it became difficult to figure out what to look at-- the expressions on his face as he lost himself in the music, his fret hand picking out chords, the other hand switching continuously from strumming to finger-picking to bending notes with the whammy bar, or his feet in those oh-so-cool white winkle-pickers tapping the various pedals on his board. And on top of all of that going on, I found myself being repeatedly drawn into eye-contact with the honkin' huge, gleaming silver, head of the Creature of the Black Lagoon belt buckle at his waist. The damned thing was staring right at me, winking as the stage lights hit it. No wonder my mind was blown.

This is very close to the view I had. The person who filmed these was about four people to my left, also on the rail.

In all seriousness, though, as fantastic as it is to listen to Jack play, it really is amazing to watch him. Especially for someone like me who's never had any interest in playing a guitar myself, to hear the sounds he creates and, at the same time, to see, ok, here he's finger-picking, here he's hitting the whammy, that's where he hits the pedal... It's just incredibly fascinating. I've always been drawn to guitar-driven music, but he's the first musician who's made me want to understand it.

Yes, this review is heavily Jack-centric. I make no apologies for that, he's the reason I was at the show. Alison, in the few moments that I watched her, was her usual dynamic self, belting out each song and mesmerizing the crowd with her gaze, including the kid at my side who's probably getting a hell of an early, somewhat subconscious, sex-ed through this band. I can think of worse women than Alison to inspire teenaged wet-dreams. At least he won't grow up expecting his women to be submissive. And, as before in Tennessee, I didn't give LJ or Dean the attention they deserved. I heard them both clearly and appreciated the hell out of their contribution to the show but, no, I didn't watch them. I'll try to make it up to them later on in Baltimore.

During the drive home, the skies finally delivered on the predicted storms. Heat lightning glimmered through the clouds as I headed out of the city, before letting loose a deluge of rain on the highway. I was soaked on the short run from the car into the house and sat down dripping wet to write this, while thunder rumbled outside the window. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to document an aural storm while feeling the effects of a physical one. Let the weather/Weather rage.

Random babblings: A chance encounter

2010-06-26T21:26:00.003-04:00

Today was one of those muggy, hazy, hot and humid days that we get strings of in the mid-Atlantic area. Had to get out for a ride anyway. The tree-lined C & O Canal towpath, running parallel to the Potomac River for 184 miles, is the perfect spot in this sort of weather, tree-lined and shaded, though it is beset with large populations of gnats and mosquitoes. And large numbers of people on summer days like today. Ok, so it's close to perfect, but not quite.

Anyway, I got out for a ride today on the C & O. There's a particular spot where the towpath runs past a parking area and boat launch. At the far end of the parking area, an old road disappears around a bend into a wooded parcel of land created by the Potomac swinging away from the canal in a large horseshoe curve. Of course, I followed it to see where it went. Perhaps a mile or so back, the road suddenly ran up a steep stretch that I decided was too steep for such a hot day, so I got off the bike and began walking. A couple dozen feet from the top, a doe suddenly stepped over top of the hill from the other side. We both stopped in our tracks to stare. Then, the tiniest little fawn I have ever seen came bouncing into sight, all skittery-legged and gawky. The doe's attention was on me and she paced slowly back and forth, stomping and snorting to get a reaction from me, while the fawn tried to match her movements and keep her close. I just leaned against my bike and watched, enjoying the sight of them and the sun shining through the leaves of the trees above them. After a few minutes of this, the doe suddenly decided she'd had enough and was off into the woods in two bounds, leaving the fawn to follow as best it could after a moment's startled hesitation. By the time I walked the rest of the way up the hill, they had disappeared through the trees.

This sort of thing just does not happen when there are other people around.

I am officially old and curmudgeonly

2010-06-25T07:04:00.004-04:00

So last night, about 10:30 or so, I'm getting ready to go to bed. As I was pulling back the covers, I suddenly heard a woman screaming, agonizingly, as if she were being beaten. I listened for a moment, then threw some clothes on and went to open the front door to see if I could figure out where it was coming from. On the sidewalk in front of the small park across the street was a crowd of teenagers carrying on, a bunch of girls judging by the sound of their voices. I decided I wasn't in the mood for teenaged crap, so I yelled over to them to shut up. One of them turned around and yelled back, "You want to fight, old lady?" I just stood there for a moment, honestly flabbergasted. I had no idea how to reply to that.

I should have said, "Sure, I love to fight teenage girls, it's my favorite thing! Lemme go get my switchblade and my num-chucks and I'll be right over!"

Uh-huh.

Then she yelled it again and I yelled back something about calling the cops and her friends flipped out and dragged her off down the street. I went back inside, but didn't go to bed because I began getting paranoid that the mouthy one was going to talk her friends into coming back and throwing a rock through my window or something. Finally hit the sack a bit after midnight, and spent the next five hours tossing restlessly.

Guess it's time to go buy a rocking chair and a shot gun for the front porch.

Can you tell me what I'm supposed to do?

2010-06-19T21:37:00.027-04:00

Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little…. - Tom Stoppard

It happens every now and again, at least to me if not to you. Words form and flow out through mouth, pen, or keyboard, but just don't come out the way they were intended to. They take on a life of their own, as it were, conveying a different tone or meaning than they had in the brain. You can practically hear them laughing at you as they cause themselves to be misinterpreted. They nudge the world in the wrong direction. And then, of course, comes the response to these rogue phrases, which can leave you (or at least, me) sitting flummoxed by the disdain thrown back at you.

Happened to me once again just yesterday. I'm sure it won't be the last time, but you would think I'd learn. One thing I have definitely figured out, though, is to take a look at my reaction to these situations-- This time around, it was a mix of embarrassment that I had expressed myself so poorly, frustration that people couldn't see through my ill-chosen words to the real intent behind them, and hurt over some of the harsh things said in reply. Such a combination of emotions makes it difficult to not lapse back into the sullen misanthropic state that I've spent the last few years struggling to climb out of.

So why do these occurrences affect me so deeply? There is a part of me that's fully aware that I'm not alone in making verbal mistakes, that the people who really care about me won't be swayed by my misstep, and that the entire situation will pass from memory sooner or later. But there's another part that I've realized resides in my shadow side-- A small, insecure bit of me that wants to be accepted and appreciated, that's terrified of ostracism. I say that this is a part of my shadow because I've always prided myself on not needing the approval of others, on recognizing my own merits and having the assurance to stand alone if need be. But in exploring the anger that I've carried around for most of my life, I discovered just what I was sublimating in my unconscious-- My social nature, that primitive part of all of us that needs to feel it belongs to a tribe of some sort. I've had to admit that, as content as I can be alone, it does feel good to connect with people with whom I share common interests and values. But once such a connection is made, difficulties in communication prick at this shadowy segment of my self and send it into a panicky, aggravated tailspin. Do I try to explain myself, re-word my statement, clarify my intent? Or will the attempt just dig me deeper into the mire? Do I refrain and wait for my faux pas to become a distant memory? Or will my silence also be misinterpreted? Why are situations that are usually really quite trivial also so damned baffling?

Well, somebody walked up to me,

but I didn't know what to do.

And then somebody said hello to me,

but I didn't know what to do.

Because I think that my words could get twisted,

so I bend my back over, take a gulp, be funny,

'cause I know there's nothing I can do.

Then my mother tried to pick me up

when I was sittin' down on the ground.

Something forced my little eyes to come open,

but I couldn't make out the sound.

It doesn't matter 'cause my eyes are lying

and they don't have emotion,

don't wanna be social, can't take it when they hate me,

but I know there's nothing I can do.

When my thoughts start to feel like mine,

they're taken from me, it seems to happen every time.

And the feelings that are fine for you,

there's somebody there

who doesn't think they are true,

So think of something new,

there's nothing left to do.

And then my idols walk next to me,

I look up at them, they fade away.

It's a destruction of a mystery,

the more I listen to what they say.

So does that mean that there's no more doin',

and there's no more thinkin',

and there's no more feeling,

'cause there's no right opinion...

So can you tell me what I'm supposed to do?

Nashville and Dead Weather, in more ways than one

2010-05-09T13:14:00.007-04:00

Now that other things are out of my system, it's necessary to talk about another element that made The Dead Weather's live album preview performance so exceptional. In the midst of figuring out how to get off from work and how to arrange the timing of my flights there and back, I was made aware of an additional potential complication-- the catastrophic flooding of Nashville and much of Tennessee.

Photo borrowed from upressing.com

The weather was absolutely gorgeous when I was in Nashville on Thursday of my road trip. By Saturday night, when I was simultaneously in the Third Man Records Vault chat room and on Expedia, Nashvillians in the chat were telling me to think twice about coming. The highways were being shut down, and there were already news reports of one or two people being swept away and killed in the flood waters.

Photo from a May 3rd blog post at Bear Creek Ledger.

It sounded scary as hell. How on earth could it have happened so quickly? There was talk that the band wouldn't be able to make it into town from Louisiana, but no official word from their website. So I charged ahead and made my plans. The show was two nights away, things had to get better by then, hadn't they?

It's obvious by now that both the band and I, and over a hundred other fans, all made it. Not everyone was so lucky-- One Vault member's wife was still stuck in Texas as of Monday, after American Airlines canceled all of their flights to Nashville on Saturday night. But knowing what we'd all gone through to get there made the bonding easier. While no one in attendance that I know of was severely affected, some of us had flown in not knowing what we'd be dealing with, and some had come despite having no power in their homes. It created a shared experience.

And, in the midst of all the excitement, my heart went out to The Dead Weather and the staff at Third Man Records. Jack White and his people live in and around Nashville and there was no telling how they might have been impacted by the disaster. They seemed to be thinking only of us fans and putting on an incredibly electric show for us. Knowing this added an emotional impact to the performance that made it doubly special beyond it's exclusivity. I read one message board comment the next day that mentioned how quickly Jack left after the show was over, as if implying that he should've stuck around to sign autographs or something. And yet this is what was going on in the town where he apparently lives:

Franklin TN Flood 05-02-10 May 2010 from Jonathan Melton on Vimeo.

Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't bolt directly from the stage to his car.

So forgive me for proselytizing, but this event has moved me. Between the fact that it's Jack's chosen base of operations and that I was able to connect with a bunch of lovely people there, I've been touched by this part of the country and am eager to see it get through this.

More importantly, Nashville is a beautiful city that figures prominently in Americana through both its history and music. Much like New Orleans, it's been through hell and deserves our support. The Grand Ole Opry House is closed indefinitely for repairs, though the heart of the Opry, the treasured section of stage salvaged from the previously destroyed historic Ryman Auditorium, was fortunately not severely damaged. Many people lost everything they had because they never expected to need flood insurance. And a friend in the Vault chat room told me last night of how his little girl's softball games are being re-scheduled to other fields because the local one is still under multiple feet of water. Just because you don't see this in the news does not mean it's gone away. The people of Nashville will be living with it for a long while, though their heart and determination are sure to get them through it. That's something to respect.

Photo borrowed from Nashvillest.com

My own photo, taken from the opposite side of the river from the one above, standing next to a restaurant that was trying to pump water back out into the street. Seemed a losing battle, what with the river at the same level as that street.

Ways to help, if you can and want to:

- So Nashville is Flooded... How Can I Help? is probably the best source out there, with an extensive list of options for donations and volunteering.

- Nashville Flood Tees, also available at Render Apparel

- And, if you're curious, here's what Jack's doing: Jack White lending profit, hand to flood relief.

Carry this burden now until the moment of your last breath

2010-05-07T22:27:00.009-04:00

Old Mary, full of grease,

Your heart stops within you.

Scary are the fruits of your tomb,

And harsh are the terms of your sentence.

Old Mary, sister of mine,
Mother to the world,

Carry this burden now until the moment of your last breath.

Now until the moment of your last breath...

So, I went back to Nashville. Got home from my Dead Weather DC-to-Memphis road trip Friday night. As I was catching up on teh intarwebs, a fellow blogger/Jack-fan messaged me to say that she was one of 20 people who'd won entry into The Dead Weather's pre-release, invite-only, live performance of their new album, Sea of Cowards, that was to take place at Third Man Records on Monday night. Did I fancy a trip back to Nashville as her plus-one? Considering that I was still high from the road-trip, the Memphis show, and visiting Third Man on Thursday, I'll leave you to imagine my response.

Yet I had to immediately catch my breath, as this would be more complex than just hopping a plane. I was due back at work for a partial day on Saturday and full-time as of Monday. How to get a few more days off for yet another show? Here's the kicker--

I'd already been planning to ask for another day. On the way home from Tennessee, I'd received a call from my father informing me of a death in the family. My parents and sister were going to drive up from Florida to Virginia for the funeral, could I get time off from work to join them? Knowing my employer's dictum that family comes first, I knew that would be no problem. Of course I would join them at the funeral on Tuesday.

And yet, now I had my own priority staring me in the face. Musical obsessions are a difficult thing to explain to most people. Star Wars fanatics or Trekkies might get it, as they'll move hell or high water to make it to their costumed conventions. A more apt comparison, though, might be to the junkies who prowl the methadone clinic next door to Third Man Records. Music has such an emotional impact that it can get into your system like a drug, and your chosen musician can become the supplier that you'd figuratively crawl through broken glass to get to in order to satisfy your cravings. And Jack White's a pusher extraordinaire, coming up with increasingly enticing methods to deliver the raw purity of his musical vision.

So what was I to do? This was the sort of offer that just does not come along every day. The answer jumped right into my already worn-out and over-stimulated brain-- Use the funeral as an excuse. The logistics would be tricky, getting to Nashville for Monday night's show and then back home by Tuesday morning to meet my family. What was trickier, though, was the conversation with my boss the next morning.

Was it worth trying to explain why I really needed both Monday and Tuesday off? No. Much simpler was to re-write the death to be that of a more immediate family member, say, an uncle instead of a great-uncle. And if that uncle were being buried in Florida instead of Virginia, then that would necessitate two days off so that I could fly down to be with my family. It would work. But did I have the balls for the fabrication?

I've done some bad things... They get easier to do

I've told some doozies in my time, back when I was a kid. But I'd more or less developed some integrity by the time I became an adult, especially after discovering Buddhism. Now, I've never actually referred to myself as "a Buddhist" because I haven't felt ready for a total commitment to the practice, but I have tried over the last few years to follow the Buddhist precepts as well as I can. My moodiness and impatience have made this quite a challenge, but it's a way of life that makes so much sense to me that it's worth the struggle. A lapse of the sort that I committed this past weekend is a violent one, in that I can see the two sides of my self at war-- The moral side that wants to live with right thought, right action, and right speech; and the other, perverse side that wants something badly and thinks of nothing but how to get it. In this instance, craving won hands down and didn't give a flying fuck that morality was left bruised on the mat.

So I told my fabrication, and was given much sympathy along with a green light for the time off I'd requested. The butterflies that had taken over my stomach through last week's road trip began fluttering back, along with a few nasty, dark-winged moths and other creepy crawlies that were obviously not mere excitement.

When I got in the car the next day to head to the airport, The White Stripes' Get Behind Me Satan was still in the cd player from the road trip. The song that came up this time was not as nifty a coincidence as on the day I left for Memphis. This time I was hit in the face with "Red Rain" and Jack's refrain of If there is a lie, then there is a liar too / And if there is a sin, then there is a sinner too...

The irony doesn't end there. Jack White's a born'n'bred Catholic who reportedly almost attended seminary school to become a priest, though he's apparently since developed a less rigid spirituality. While it's possible that he'd likely have become a hard smoking, hard drinking priest of the Scotch/Irish variety, I get the impression that he's also intensely moral and committed to his own code of truth. And I'd lied in order to fly to this man's base of operations and watch him make music.

By the time I met my compatriots in Nashville the moths from my gut were practically crawling up my throat, but the junkie in me squashed them down. It was too exciting to meet these people, and the event we'd come to attend was just too intensely amazing. After the first song, Jack greeted the audience with a hearty "Welcome to my house". I feel a pang thinking of it now-- Did I deserve to be there?

I'm a prick when I sin, and I know I can't win

There is no sin in Buddhism, only the discipline of the Eightfold Path and the much misunderstood concept of karma. Most folks think of karma as the old cliché of "what comes around, goes around." It's actually more direct than that. Our intentions and resulting acts set chain reactions in motion and can reinforce habitual behaviors. Sometimes shit just happens, but most often our choices create the atmosphere in which we live. One of the best explanations of this comes from, of all places, The Huffington Post:

...the analogy of a game of billiards can be a useful way to describe the process of karma --- the table is set up, you hit the ball, it in turn hits other balls, moves the configuration on the table around, and then sets you up for your next shot. After that, maybe another person takes a turn and moves the balls around and then it's your turn again. Just as in the analogy of a billiard game, our thoughts and actions ripple outward, collide with others' thoughts and actions and generate consequences. These consequences create the setting in which we initiate our next set of thoughts and actions.

When our choices are consistently unskillful due to self-centered motivations, we're just setting ourselves up for a fall. Yet we can always make a more skillful karmic decision to act from positive intentions, and stop ourselves from making negative choices into habit. I'd like to think that the drive to meet and connect with people I'd only previously known on-line was a benevolent enough intent to counteract the raging desire to just see Jack again. But for all I know, that's just the junkie validating its behavior.

The question at this point is where things go from here. I could confess to the boss, but I won't. Craving gave me the guts for commission of this lapse, but I know that I'm not brave enough for the consequences of admission. My best hope is that confession to the anonymous intarwebs will serve as a springboard out of the sea of cowards and back onto a truer path.

Edited 2/17/2011: I've just re-read this and decided that the final paragraph is bogus. I don't know what I was trying to say there. It reads more like a lame attempt at clever justification than a conclusion. And so it's struck out.