The owner of a cafe I frequent for brunch recently asked me why I always eat there alone. I wasn't sure how to answer. He's a nice enough guy and I enjoy his restaurant, so I didn't want to be rude and just say "None of your business". But his curiosity got me thinking yet again about something that was on my mind a lot throughout 2018.
I'm not sure I know anymore what the word "friend" means, or whether I actually have any friends. Facebook has distorted the word with their whole "friend" list thing, whereby people collect "friends" like they collect stamps or records or butterflies and end up with whole lists of people that they can't possibly all even talk to. If you don't talk, if all you ever do are occasionally "like" each other's posts, how can you be friends? And even if you do talk through commenting and chatting, are you actually more than just acquaintances with most of those people? Communication over the internet in general, really, makes the determination of friendship quite ambiguous. I've had people that I really didn't know at all pour their guts out to me in surprising detail in private chats and then tell me "You're a good friend" when, really, what they meant was just that I'm a good listener. Is letting a relative stranger use you as a virtual shoulder to lean on actually friendship, or is it just a form of free, non-professional therapy? There's definitely something about the sharing we do over the internet that can deceive us into thinking we've made a real connection and formed a bond of friendship after only a handful of "deep" conversations, but how many of those conversations do you need to have before you know each other well enough to really become friends?
Even meeting people and spending time with them can be misleading. I've sometimes used the words "pal" and "buddy" to describe people that I would see repeatedly at events I traveled to because, even though we enjoyed so many mutual interests and seemed to really like spending time together, even though we shared an emotional response to the things we experienced, did that actually make us friends, or just acquaintances who'd had a helluva memorable time together? I thought for a while that many of these people might be friends, but in a lot of cases I wasn't sure. Even if I thought of them as more than just an acquaintance, how did they think of me? After the way this past year went, I really have no idea.
At what point do we transition from acquaintance to pal to friend? What does it take to have an actual, real friend, or to be an actual, real friend? Is it up to other people to say and do the things that establish that deeper connection, or is it up to me to reach out and say 'Hey, you, you're my friend!" and hope that person reciprocates?
No. Idea. And it doesn't help when so many of the people that I'd like to be friends with are far away on the other end of an internet connection, way too far to go to brunch with. So I dine alone.
And all this would probably be TMI for the guy who owns the cafe.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
January 1, 2019
January 2, 2018
I GOT A FEELIN MY MIND'S IN THE PIE
I got the news this afternoon that my friend Steven died unexpectedly yesterday morning. Stevie-O, as he allowed me to call him, was what's generally considered a "character", so I feel like I need to write about him. I'm sure other friends of his knew a lot of other sides of him, but these are the experiences and characteristics that I know and feel the need to put out there as a memorial--
Steven was piratical and bombastical and a great big teddy bear of a guy (and I don't mean the gay version of "teddy bear", though that might apply, too). I first knew him through his fairly out-there, snake-chasing posts on the Third Man Records Vault and one of the Jack White message boards, where he used the screen-name Avard, which I later learned was his father's name (Or maybe his grandfather's, I can't exactly remember now). His avatar looked like a young African-American guy in a red wig...
...so imagine my surprise when I met Steve in person, in line in Chattanooga in 2012 for Jack White's first public solo show for Blunderbuss, and found myself confronted by this large and loud and boisterous, bald and goateed guy who looked like he could be either a biker or a sailor. Not what I was expecting. When I got home from that show and received in the mail a poster from Jack's first private solo show, prior to the one in Chattanooga, a poster featuring a huge black vulture, which Steve bought the day after the Chattanooga show on his way home through Nashville and sent to me just because he'd decided we were going to be pals, I was so touched and it was the beginning of an exchange of gifts, both large and small, back and forth, that culminated less than two months ago when I sent him a copy of Kid Congo Powers' Live at Third Man Records single that I'd asked Kid to sign for Steve when I was in Detroit for Devil's Night in October.
After Chattanooga was Jack's show at Webster Hall in New York, after which Steven told me that if he weren't gay I was exactly the sort of woman he'd want to marry, after he watched me coming around the corner up the street from the venue, sprinting as fast as my legs could go, hauling ass to make it by door-time because I had tickets for both of us and two more friends and I hadn't been able to get the day off from work and had to take the train up from DC mid-day and then catch two subway trains and then run four blocks from the subway and he was waiting for me so that he could grab me and drag me inside to the front of the line. This was the show broadcast live for AmEx Unstaged, directed by Gary Oldman. We'd gotten a teaser for this show in the form of a video of Jack and Gary that included a few moments of the two of them rolling around on the floor wrestling. Day of the show, Steve and our two other friends had camped out in line all day to ensure we'd be on the rail when I got there with the tickets and, according to Steve, when Gary Oldman walked by that morning, Steve asked him what it was like to wrestle with Jack, to which Gary apparently replied "I bet you'd like to wrestle him". Same show at which Steve swears he caught a drop of Jack's sweat in his mouth. You can see him, bald-headed and goateed, throughout the show, right smack in front of Jack (as well as the wrestling match that begins the video)--
Steve loved the raisin pie at Yoder's Amish Restaurant down in Sarasota, Florida, and one day when he was waxing rhapsodic about it to me, he altered a line in one of his favorite Jack White songs, Take Me With You When You Go, to "I got a feelin' my mind's in the pie", which became a repeated refrain when he wanted pie or Jack or just fucking felt like saying it.
And then there was the time I got up at midnight and drove all the way from Maryland to his house in Connecticut to pick him up so that we could drive to Boston for one of Jack's shows, at which we both fell in love with Cary Ann Hearst, of the opening act Shovels and Rope, when she belted out a song so intensely that she ended up with two long streaks of runny mascara all the way down her cheek. Oh, and some girl threw a bra at Jack on stage, to which he replied "Thanks, Ma!" and Steve and I joked about that again just a few months ago. I was so exhausted on the drive back to his place that night that he talked non-stop to try to keep me awake, telling me stories about things like the time Patti Smith did a reading (or something) at the Wadsworth Museum (where Steve was chief preparator right up until his death, dammit did I really just type that?) and he'd ended up out on the loading dock eating sandwiches with her.
And then we got up the next day and drove to New York for both of Jack's soon-to-be-infamous shows at Radio City Music Hall. Breakfast that morning before heading to New York was fabulous, as Stevie-O took me to the local Polish market where we stocked up on chicken meatballs with dill sauce, sauerkraut, sausages, rye bread, and other treats, and went back for a feast sitting at his 50s-era formica kitchen table with the Raconteurs Live in Glasgow blasting from the stereo in his living room. I was miserable at the show in New York that night, though, not because it was the show that Jack cut short after only an hour, but because our seats were halfway back and there were so many tall people in front of me, and so many people running back and forth along the row and up and down the aisle next to us that I couldn't see the goddamned stage. Steven's seat was right behind mine and he could tell how distraught I was because I wasn't dancing or clapping or singing along the way he knew I normally did, and at one point during the show he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a big hug. I almost started crying right then and there in the aisle at Radio City Music Hall, but I didn't. I am crying now, remembering it. It was sometimes hard to know what to make of Steve, with his bombast and ALL CAPS written communications and the constant stream of Radio City Music Hall Rockettes show e-mail announcements he would forward to me and how he'd rant about the things he couldn't buy or do because of the limitations of his health and his finances, but that hug at that particular show really kind of told me all I needed to know about him.
And, yeah, it seems like pretty much all of my memories of Steve revolve around Jack White and, well, they do. He loved Jack the way I do. He was into all sorts of kinds of music and was constantly telling stories of shows he'd been to and musicians he'd met (I once asked him to list all of the bands he'd never seen live because that would be easier than listing the ones he had seen), but it was our shared addiction to Jack's music (during the Blunderbuss tour, it was Steve who coined the term "getting JACKED UP" for going to one of Jack's shows) that brought us together. Unfortunately, the last time I saw him in person and got one of his big hugs was just over three years ago, because, as mentioned above, his multiple health issues and financial difficulties made him unable to just up and follow Jack around like so many of us do. But Steve is... was one of the few friends I've made within the Jack White community that I talk to.. talked to continually on a regular basis, one of the few with whom I found other interests we could share, one of the few that made a point to keep in touch with me, even if it was just to tell me what was going on with him.
My heart breaks for his husband, John, and their cats Rosie and Taffy (and the dearly departed Conchetta), and for his family. I think of his massively abundant tomato harvest last year that he posted fifty million photos of on Facebook. I think of all the mouth-watering meals he told me all the time that he was preparing, and all the art we talked about (he was my go-to when I came across a piece of art I needed help understanding). And it kills me that he died before Jack's new album could come out this year, that he couldn't get JACKED UP, couldn't see his JACK ON FIRE, even just one more time.
He was at that ^ goddamned show in 2005 when Jack screamed "And I will FUCK YOU until you die!!!" and he never, ever got tired of telling me about it.
I don't believe in Heaven, but that's not going to stop me from imagining Steven up there in the clouds with Conchetta, engaging in human bowling with the angels and telling them all those stories of all of those incredible shows he went to in his lifetime, bellowing "I GOT A FEELING MY MIND'S IN THE PIE!!!"
I'M GOING TO MISS YOU, STEVIE-O !!!
Steven was piratical and bombastical and a great big teddy bear of a guy (and I don't mean the gay version of "teddy bear", though that might apply, too). I first knew him through his fairly out-there, snake-chasing posts on the Third Man Records Vault and one of the Jack White message boards, where he used the screen-name Avard, which I later learned was his father's name (Or maybe his grandfather's, I can't exactly remember now). His avatar looked like a young African-American guy in a red wig...
...so imagine my surprise when I met Steve in person, in line in Chattanooga in 2012 for Jack White's first public solo show for Blunderbuss, and found myself confronted by this large and loud and boisterous, bald and goateed guy who looked like he could be either a biker or a sailor. Not what I was expecting. When I got home from that show and received in the mail a poster from Jack's first private solo show, prior to the one in Chattanooga, a poster featuring a huge black vulture, which Steve bought the day after the Chattanooga show on his way home through Nashville and sent to me just because he'd decided we were going to be pals, I was so touched and it was the beginning of an exchange of gifts, both large and small, back and forth, that culminated less than two months ago when I sent him a copy of Kid Congo Powers' Live at Third Man Records single that I'd asked Kid to sign for Steve when I was in Detroit for Devil's Night in October.
After Chattanooga was Jack's show at Webster Hall in New York, after which Steven told me that if he weren't gay I was exactly the sort of woman he'd want to marry, after he watched me coming around the corner up the street from the venue, sprinting as fast as my legs could go, hauling ass to make it by door-time because I had tickets for both of us and two more friends and I hadn't been able to get the day off from work and had to take the train up from DC mid-day and then catch two subway trains and then run four blocks from the subway and he was waiting for me so that he could grab me and drag me inside to the front of the line. This was the show broadcast live for AmEx Unstaged, directed by Gary Oldman. We'd gotten a teaser for this show in the form of a video of Jack and Gary that included a few moments of the two of them rolling around on the floor wrestling. Day of the show, Steve and our two other friends had camped out in line all day to ensure we'd be on the rail when I got there with the tickets and, according to Steve, when Gary Oldman walked by that morning, Steve asked him what it was like to wrestle with Jack, to which Gary apparently replied "I bet you'd like to wrestle him". Same show at which Steve swears he caught a drop of Jack's sweat in his mouth. You can see him, bald-headed and goateed, throughout the show, right smack in front of Jack (as well as the wrestling match that begins the video)--
Steve loved the raisin pie at Yoder's Amish Restaurant down in Sarasota, Florida, and one day when he was waxing rhapsodic about it to me, he altered a line in one of his favorite Jack White songs, Take Me With You When You Go, to "I got a feelin' my mind's in the pie", which became a repeated refrain when he wanted pie or Jack or just fucking felt like saying it.
And then there was the time I got up at midnight and drove all the way from Maryland to his house in Connecticut to pick him up so that we could drive to Boston for one of Jack's shows, at which we both fell in love with Cary Ann Hearst, of the opening act Shovels and Rope, when she belted out a song so intensely that she ended up with two long streaks of runny mascara all the way down her cheek. Oh, and some girl threw a bra at Jack on stage, to which he replied "Thanks, Ma!" and Steve and I joked about that again just a few months ago. I was so exhausted on the drive back to his place that night that he talked non-stop to try to keep me awake, telling me stories about things like the time Patti Smith did a reading (or something) at the Wadsworth Museum (where Steve was chief preparator right up until his death, dammit did I really just type that?) and he'd ended up out on the loading dock eating sandwiches with her.
And then we got up the next day and drove to New York for both of Jack's soon-to-be-infamous shows at Radio City Music Hall. Breakfast that morning before heading to New York was fabulous, as Stevie-O took me to the local Polish market where we stocked up on chicken meatballs with dill sauce, sauerkraut, sausages, rye bread, and other treats, and went back for a feast sitting at his 50s-era formica kitchen table with the Raconteurs Live in Glasgow blasting from the stereo in his living room. I was miserable at the show in New York that night, though, not because it was the show that Jack cut short after only an hour, but because our seats were halfway back and there were so many tall people in front of me, and so many people running back and forth along the row and up and down the aisle next to us that I couldn't see the goddamned stage. Steven's seat was right behind mine and he could tell how distraught I was because I wasn't dancing or clapping or singing along the way he knew I normally did, and at one point during the show he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a big hug. I almost started crying right then and there in the aisle at Radio City Music Hall, but I didn't. I am crying now, remembering it. It was sometimes hard to know what to make of Steve, with his bombast and ALL CAPS written communications and the constant stream of Radio City Music Hall Rockettes show e-mail announcements he would forward to me and how he'd rant about the things he couldn't buy or do because of the limitations of his health and his finances, but that hug at that particular show really kind of told me all I needed to know about him.
 |
| Me, Steve, and our friend Monya just before that infamous Radio City show. I have another photo of just Steve and me from that night, but I can't find it and am going to be fucking pissed off if it's not on my computer somewhere. |
And, yeah, it seems like pretty much all of my memories of Steve revolve around Jack White and, well, they do. He loved Jack the way I do. He was into all sorts of kinds of music and was constantly telling stories of shows he'd been to and musicians he'd met (I once asked him to list all of the bands he'd never seen live because that would be easier than listing the ones he had seen), but it was our shared addiction to Jack's music (during the Blunderbuss tour, it was Steve who coined the term "getting JACKED UP" for going to one of Jack's shows) that brought us together. Unfortunately, the last time I saw him in person and got one of his big hugs was just over three years ago, because, as mentioned above, his multiple health issues and financial difficulties made him unable to just up and follow Jack around like so many of us do. But Steve is... was one of the few friends I've made within the Jack White community that I talk to.. talked to continually on a regular basis, one of the few with whom I found other interests we could share, one of the few that made a point to keep in touch with me, even if it was just to tell me what was going on with him.
My heart breaks for his husband, John, and their cats Rosie and Taffy (and the dearly departed Conchetta), and for his family. I think of his massively abundant tomato harvest last year that he posted fifty million photos of on Facebook. I think of all the mouth-watering meals he told me all the time that he was preparing, and all the art we talked about (he was my go-to when I came across a piece of art I needed help understanding). And it kills me that he died before Jack's new album could come out this year, that he couldn't get JACKED UP, couldn't see his JACK ON FIRE, even just one more time.
He was at that ^ goddamned show in 2005 when Jack screamed "And I will FUCK YOU until you die!!!" and he never, ever got tired of telling me about it.
I don't believe in Heaven, but that's not going to stop me from imagining Steven up there in the clouds with Conchetta, engaging in human bowling with the angels and telling them all those stories of all of those incredible shows he went to in his lifetime, bellowing "I GOT A FEELING MY MIND'S IN THE PIE!!!"
I'M GOING TO MISS YOU, STEVIE-O !!!
May 7, 2015
Confessions of a Jack White junkie, part 13: See you down the road sometime
As the internet parlance goes these days, I had "all the feels". April 26th, Sunday before last, was Jack White’s final live performance for “a long period of time”. The fan-girl junkie had been in deep denial all month because she was still brooding over the Columbus, OH show at the end of January and hadn't been able to get to any of the final shows of the Lazaretto tour in mid-April. Missing the show at Blaisdell Center in Hawaii, the venue from which Elvis’ 1973 "Aloha From Hawaii" performance had been broadcast, was particularly galling because of my love of the Elvis connection and because Kristi, Sam, and Helen were going to that one. But my rational side had taken over and squelched the junkie’s feelings of jealousy and regret as much as possible, so that I was able to be happy for them. And, probably fortunately, Helen was the only one who kept in touch with me during their trip, and she very sensitively kept details to a minimum, which gave the junkie less to respond to. But then… there was the announcement:
After many years of performing in a multitude of configurations, Jack is announcing that he will be taking a break from performing live for a long period of time. To cap off the Lazaretto world tour, and following his pair of headlining performances at Coachella, Jack will embark on a short acoustic tour of the only five states left in the U.S. that he has yet to play. The states these shows are occurring in will be unannounced until the day of each performance. Joining Jack on his jaunt across these locations will be musicians making up an acoustic quartet, including Fats Kaplin, Lillie Mae Rische and Dominic Davis. The shows will be totally acoustic and amplified only with ribbon microphones to the audience as well. These shows will be the very first totally acoustic full concerts Jack has ever done.
Each special acoustic performance will be announced day of show at 8am local time. Tickets for these engagements are priced at $3 per ticket and will be limited to one ticket per person. All tickets will be sold at the venue door starting at 12pm local time on the day of the show – first come, first served and cash only.
My immediate reaction was a feeling that I’d been punched in the sternum. Sitting at my desk at work reading those words, my face got hot, my chest tightened, my eyes filled with tears. I’ve said before that I realize how ridiculous these reactions may be compared to very real tragedies people have to deal with in this world, but we all have different things that affect our own individual lives and that impact our emotions. I also know that I’m far from alone in how I reacted to this news, almost every one of my friends was upset over it and we were still commiserating with each other more than a week later. But after a day or two of feeling I’d been sucker punched, I began deliberately distancing myself from the news. I tried to look forward, feeling intense curiosity about what else Jack might be working on with no more touring going on, and when we’d begin getting news of whatever projects he’s involved in. And I refrained as much as possible from reading about or discussing the acoustic shows as they began happening. People immediately figured out the five states they would take place in, but I didn't bother to think about which of them I could possibly get to. I snuck peaks at setlists and the official photos from the shows as they began happening, but otherwise went into denial, putting up a wall of rational calm to keep the fan-girl junkie from plunging me into irrational misery.
And then, Friday afternoon, the day the fourth acoustic show was taking place in South Dakota, I got a message from Sharon about the last state left for him to play-- North Dakota. The assumption was that he'd play in Fargo, probably the very next night, Saturday. I was scheduled to work on Saturday, but when she talked about flying out there my brain immediately began spinning. People had lined up by the hundreds for the previous shows as soon as they were announced the morning of. I'd have to fly out that very night and skip work the next day. I'd lied to my boss once before to get to one of Jack's shows, but I really didn't want to do that again. And, hell, could I even get on a flight at such short notice so late in the day and, if I could, how many arms and legs would it cost me?
And then more news popped up, this time an announcement sent to subscribers of the new music streaming site, Tidal, of which Jack is a partial owner (along with Jay-Z, Kanye West, Beyonce, Madonna, and a handful of other notable musicians). The announcement stated that subscribers would be able to watch a livestream of a special surprise event coming up on Sunday night at 8:30pm CENTRAL TIME. Bingo. What else could it be but Jack's final acoustic show in North Dakota? My plans were set. Fly into Fargo after work Saturday night, line up in the wee hours with my buddies who were also there, have the experience of a lifetime Sunday night, then fly back Monday morning and go straight into work as early as possible. Nothing I haven't done for Jack before, and no lies necessary to get time off. Except that I wouldn't know until Sunday morning whether Fargo was the right city or if the show really would take place that day. I could fly all the way out there for nothing.
I didn't. My gut reaction to Sharon's urging and that Tidal announcement had been correct:
To commemorate the final show of Jack’s acoustic tour of states he has never played, the end of the Lazaretto world tour, and his final live performance of any sort for the foreseeable future, Jack’s performance at the Fargo Theatre tonight will be live streamed on TIDAL. The TIDAL X Jack White livestream will begin at 8:30pm CT/9:30pm ET and will be replayed in its entirety immediately following the initial live broadcast. An on-demand archive of the full performance will be available on TIDAL at a later date.
The 16 hour wait in line was a breeze. When we got inside, we found a small 870-seat theater that was starkly Art Deco and understatedly gorgeous. A beat up boombox on the stage was playing a cassette of what I found out later was a Lawrence Welk/Bob Wills mix-tape.
When Jack's tour manager, Lalo Medina, came out for his usual pre-show no-iPhones speech, I was as stunned as he seemed to be by the audience reaction-- A standing ovation that was as loud or louder than anything I've heard at a large festival or arena show. I knew in that moment that this was going to be a wonderful, intense show. The crowd exploded again a handful of minutes later when the band- Dominic, Fats, and Lillie Mae- stepped out on stage and began a rollicking intro to Just One Drink. And then, as we began clapping along, out came Jack, strumming a galloping, percussive rhythm on his old Gibson Army-Navy guitar, and the place really took off. Folks were so enthusiastic that partway into the second song, Temporary Ground, Jack grinned and motioned for us all to sit down and settle in. Within moments everyone was silent, rapt, allowing the sounds of Fats Kaplin's steel guitar flourishes to ring out magnificently.
But with the next tune, Hotel Yorba, everyone was clapping along again. Following my usual impulse, I began to sing along, but as quietly as possible. Even barely audible, I felt I was hearing myself too much, Jack's voice and the band's instruments were cutting with such beautiful clarity through the acoustics of the theater that they had to be unmarred. From the moment the band quieted for the third verse of Alone In My Home, leaving Jack's voice echoing softly by itself, I couldn't do anything but mouth the words as he sang them.
And the combination of this band was phenomenal, transforming these songs that I've heard so many times into truly brand new experiences, taking them to emotional levels that I've not felt before. It's taken me days to describe this show, everything I've thought of to say sounds so overblown and hackneyed. But it can't be helped. Every song had some special something that left a gorgeous impression-- From Fats Kaplin's mandolin on Alone In My Home, to the aching interplay of standup bass and violin in Do, to the brief-but-transcendently beautiful introduction to Martyr For My Love For You leading into some of Jack's most tongue-trippingly lovely lyrics... The latter was one of the four songs that initially pulled me into his music and one that has rarely ever been played live, so hearing it in this setting was an especial treat. And Inaccessible Mystery, which Jack introduced as an "orphan, mis-fit" song-- That song really didn't have much impact for me when I first heard it as a b-side to one of the Blunderbuss singles. It seemed somehow unfinished. Completely acoustic, though, the performance this night felt like it was finally finished, as if this was what the song was meant to become from the very beginning, with Fats' steel guitar and Lillie Mae's violin soaring in a way that the electric guitar in the original recorded version couldn't .
During other songs, what made the experience special was the people around me. Early on in my run through the Lazaretto tour, We Are Going To Be Friends had inspired me to begin putting my arms around whichever friends I was surrounded by as we sang along. On this night, when I reached out for Angelina's hand during the song, she leaned her head on my shoulder while the two of us quietly sang the words, and I swear I'll never hear that song again without thinking of that moment.
Another touching element was the casualness of Jack's stage banter through most of the show, as he told charmingly corny jokes during the band intros, admired the theater decor, and revealed thoughtful stories behind the songs.
And then, after a plaintive Carolina Drama that had the audience back on their feet, the first set was over. Already, so quickly. The break, though, was fortunately also over quickly. And as wonderful as the band was, as much as they added to the songs they performed, the next two tunes were sublime for just the opposite reason-- They were performed by Jack alone, with his silver shoes, his pompadour, and his warmly resonating Army-Navy guitar.
I think if anyone ever asked me to show them what makes Jack White such a magnetic performer, instead of directing them to a more explosive show, the sort that most people might think of as an example, I might instead have them watch Same Boy You've Always Known from this show. It was stripped down, simple and quiet, and yet absolutely mesmerizing purely for the intensely emotive quality of Jack's voice. I've written before about how he doesn't think of himself as a singer, how he considers himself a vocalist or impressionist. Whatever the case, the impression he's able to create with his voice is dramatic. Even if you were someone who didn't think much of the sound of his voice, I think it'd be hard to deny the range of emotion he's able to convey.
And, of course, each of the five final acoustic shows ended with Goodnight, Irene, which he'd not played since the volatile show at the Fox Theater in Detroit last summer. I had expected to cry through this entire show, knowing that it was the last for who knows how long, and expecting it to be completely beautiful. Instead, I was too overwhelmed and caught up in it all for the tears to let loose. The closest I came was the final moment when he stepped to the front of stage, as I first experienced it in 2012 in Omaha, NE, to sing the last verse a capella right there in front of us, his voice carrying us to the end and joining with all of ours in the final chorus.
His final words were his usual sign-off of "You've been incredible and I've been Jack White", but coupled with "I'll see you down the road sometime". I know four people who'll be waiting down that road...
The next morning was a doozy. I rolled over in bed and took a sleepy glance at the clock to see how much time I had till the alarm went off, only to realize I was 45 minutes late for my 5:00am flight. So much for cell phone alarms. A quick call to the airline left me happily stuck in Fargo til late that afternoon, giving me time to walk around, explore the small downtown under a beautiful blue sky, and sit and think about what I'd experienced.
And I juggled a mix of conflicting impressions. I'm so very glad that so many people were able to watch the show via the livestream, and that it's been archived (go ahead, join the Vault (or Tidal), you know you want to be able to see this show), though there were some small feelings of agitation mixed in with that gladness-- It felt as if the show wasn't quite as intimate as it could have been because of the cameras that hovered inches above our heads a few times and the inclusion of the "music is sacred" speech that'd been made at both Coachella shows earlier this month and in a recent Vault chat.
The songs played were gorgeous and his exhortation about the sacredness of music is profoundly important, but I still had a slight, nagging feeling that Jack had been playing for a bigger crowd than just us, trying to send this new message of his farther out into the world. The crowd that night made themselves feel bigger than they actually were, though, being so obviously engaged in the music, whooping and applauding one moment and so silent the next you could hear a pin drop. And because of those cameras that were occasionally distracting and of which he was so seemingly aware, I get to have this experience again and again.
And yet, at the same time, it was a very intimate, special event. That’s the drawback to having seen so many of Jack’s shows, both live and livestreamed. I’ve experienced such a gamut that I have high expectations, and I can tell when he’s gearing a show toward a large crowd such as a festival or a livestream audience. The choice of songs, the speeches vs just freewheeling banter (such as two nights earlier in South Dakota when he'd called his mother from the stage and had her tell a story to the crowd as he held the phone to the mic), these things show me clearly whether he’s doing a “club show” or sending out a message to the world. I wanted a club show, like that one in South Dakota at which he played a song I’d requested in vain back in San Francisco and then had his mother talk to the audience. But does that mean I wasn’t thrilled at this show, wasn’t feeling such intense emotions that it affected me physically? No. I wanted more, but I was more than satisfied with what I got. Does that seem like a contradiction? It’s just that it’s become impossible for me to have a simple experience with Jack anymore. Every experience is threaded with conflicting thoughts and contradictory emotions. And that’s not a bad thing. It can cause niggling frustration underneath the euphoria, but also makes every experience more multifaceted.
And I am inexpressibly happy that I was able to share this experience with Angelina, Sam, Sharon and other friends (missing friends were also thought of and spoken about, so they were definitely there with us in spirit). The hugs we all shared afterward were some of the best I've ever had in my life. This is one of the greatest things I've gotten from discovering Jack's music. I owe him so much for the musical education and awakening he's provided me, but the friends I've made over the last five years and the experiences we've had together because of him have given me moments of joy such as I never expected to have at this point in my life. That's a large part of what makes me so terribly sad about this being the last show until who knows when-- Not only am I losing the exuberant high I've been dependent upon for the last five years, but I will also miss all of my friends scattered around the country. Will we find another reason to spend the money and make the time necessary to see each other without Jack's shows to pull us together?
A few other reminiscences inspired by this hopefully temporary end of the road--
All of the places I’d rarely or never been to before that I’ve traveled to because of Jack:
Nashville, TN (lost count of how many times)
Memphis, TN
Chattanooga, TN
Atlanta, GA
New York City (7 times)
Omaha, NE
Denver/Red Rocks, Colorado
Tulsa, OK
Pittsburgh, PA
Detroit, MI and countryside nearby
San Francisco, CA
Seattle, WA (which had been a goal for many years)
Cleveland and Columbus, OH
New Haven, CT
Austin, TX
Fargo, ND
People have told me how lucky I've been to be able to go to all the shows I have. Yes, there's been a degree of luck in a few cases, especially in succeeding in acquiring tickets that sold out in minutes. But where there wasn't luck, there were choices I made. Such as how I was thinking of refurbishing my kitchen around the time I got into Jack's music and made my first road-trip to Memphis to see him. It hasn't happened, the wallpaper's still torn, the flooring is still crooked, the dishwasher is still broken. Likewise, I thought for a while just a couple of years ago about quitting my job, selling my condo, and re-locating. Actually brushed up my resume and talked to a realtor. But then the Lazaretto tour began and all of that would've gotten in the way. Do I regret giving up these and other oh-so-adult plans to instead spend my time and money running around the country going to concerts? Not for one bloody moment. Especially now that Jack's announced this hiatus. On more than one occasion, the decision to buy a ticket and book a flight (or map out a road-trip) hinged on a feeling that I had to take advantage of what he was doing now, that who knew how long it would last? Friends even said that to me on a couple of occasions when I was waffling, go for it, we don't know when he'll do this again. My only regrets are for shows that I didn't make more effort to get to. We have to follow our passion-- Not just the things that we are passionate about, but the things that ignite a passion within us, that make us feel alive.
The show in Fargo may have been Jack’s last live performance for the foreseeable future, but it’s not the end of me being a junkie. He's made it clear that he's as busy and as ambitious as ever, between making donations to the soon-to-open National Blues Museum and, even more exciting, producing the upcoming PBS documentary American Epic with Robert Redford and T Bone Burnett. We may not have anymore of his music for a while, but he seems set on ensuring that we continue to explore the rest of the music that's out there while he takes his break from the stage. Because that's what it's all about at this point-- It's not about just him, it's about the fact that music is sacred.
Amen.
After many years of performing in a multitude of configurations, Jack is announcing that he will be taking a break from performing live for a long period of time. To cap off the Lazaretto world tour, and following his pair of headlining performances at Coachella, Jack will embark on a short acoustic tour of the only five states left in the U.S. that he has yet to play. The states these shows are occurring in will be unannounced until the day of each performance. Joining Jack on his jaunt across these locations will be musicians making up an acoustic quartet, including Fats Kaplin, Lillie Mae Rische and Dominic Davis. The shows will be totally acoustic and amplified only with ribbon microphones to the audience as well. These shows will be the very first totally acoustic full concerts Jack has ever done.
Each special acoustic performance will be announced day of show at 8am local time. Tickets for these engagements are priced at $3 per ticket and will be limited to one ticket per person. All tickets will be sold at the venue door starting at 12pm local time on the day of the show – first come, first served and cash only.
My immediate reaction was a feeling that I’d been punched in the sternum. Sitting at my desk at work reading those words, my face got hot, my chest tightened, my eyes filled with tears. I’ve said before that I realize how ridiculous these reactions may be compared to very real tragedies people have to deal with in this world, but we all have different things that affect our own individual lives and that impact our emotions. I also know that I’m far from alone in how I reacted to this news, almost every one of my friends was upset over it and we were still commiserating with each other more than a week later. But after a day or two of feeling I’d been sucker punched, I began deliberately distancing myself from the news. I tried to look forward, feeling intense curiosity about what else Jack might be working on with no more touring going on, and when we’d begin getting news of whatever projects he’s involved in. And I refrained as much as possible from reading about or discussing the acoustic shows as they began happening. People immediately figured out the five states they would take place in, but I didn't bother to think about which of them I could possibly get to. I snuck peaks at setlists and the official photos from the shows as they began happening, but otherwise went into denial, putting up a wall of rational calm to keep the fan-girl junkie from plunging me into irrational misery.
And then, Friday afternoon, the day the fourth acoustic show was taking place in South Dakota, I got a message from Sharon about the last state left for him to play-- North Dakota. The assumption was that he'd play in Fargo, probably the very next night, Saturday. I was scheduled to work on Saturday, but when she talked about flying out there my brain immediately began spinning. People had lined up by the hundreds for the previous shows as soon as they were announced the morning of. I'd have to fly out that very night and skip work the next day. I'd lied to my boss once before to get to one of Jack's shows, but I really didn't want to do that again. And, hell, could I even get on a flight at such short notice so late in the day and, if I could, how many arms and legs would it cost me?
And then more news popped up, this time an announcement sent to subscribers of the new music streaming site, Tidal, of which Jack is a partial owner (along with Jay-Z, Kanye West, Beyonce, Madonna, and a handful of other notable musicians). The announcement stated that subscribers would be able to watch a livestream of a special surprise event coming up on Sunday night at 8:30pm CENTRAL TIME. Bingo. What else could it be but Jack's final acoustic show in North Dakota? My plans were set. Fly into Fargo after work Saturday night, line up in the wee hours with my buddies who were also there, have the experience of a lifetime Sunday night, then fly back Monday morning and go straight into work as early as possible. Nothing I haven't done for Jack before, and no lies necessary to get time off. Except that I wouldn't know until Sunday morning whether Fargo was the right city or if the show really would take place that day. I could fly all the way out there for nothing.
I didn't. My gut reaction to Sharon's urging and that Tidal announcement had been correct:
To commemorate the final show of Jack’s acoustic tour of states he has never played, the end of the Lazaretto world tour, and his final live performance of any sort for the foreseeable future, Jack’s performance at the Fargo Theatre tonight will be live streamed on TIDAL. The TIDAL X Jack White livestream will begin at 8:30pm CT/9:30pm ET and will be replayed in its entirety immediately following the initial live broadcast. An on-demand archive of the full performance will be available on TIDAL at a later date.
 |
| All photos before and after show courtesy of Mike Dziama |
When Jack's tour manager, Lalo Medina, came out for his usual pre-show no-iPhones speech, I was as stunned as he seemed to be by the audience reaction-- A standing ovation that was as loud or louder than anything I've heard at a large festival or arena show. I knew in that moment that this was going to be a wonderful, intense show. The crowd exploded again a handful of minutes later when the band- Dominic, Fats, and Lillie Mae- stepped out on stage and began a rollicking intro to Just One Drink. And then, as we began clapping along, out came Jack, strumming a galloping, percussive rhythm on his old Gibson Army-Navy guitar, and the place really took off. Folks were so enthusiastic that partway into the second song, Temporary Ground, Jack grinned and motioned for us all to sit down and settle in. Within moments everyone was silent, rapt, allowing the sounds of Fats Kaplin's steel guitar flourishes to ring out magnificently.
But with the next tune, Hotel Yorba, everyone was clapping along again. Following my usual impulse, I began to sing along, but as quietly as possible. Even barely audible, I felt I was hearing myself too much, Jack's voice and the band's instruments were cutting with such beautiful clarity through the acoustics of the theater that they had to be unmarred. From the moment the band quieted for the third verse of Alone In My Home, leaving Jack's voice echoing softly by itself, I couldn't do anything but mouth the words as he sang them.
 |
| All photos during show by David James Swanson |
And the combination of this band was phenomenal, transforming these songs that I've heard so many times into truly brand new experiences, taking them to emotional levels that I've not felt before. It's taken me days to describe this show, everything I've thought of to say sounds so overblown and hackneyed. But it can't be helped. Every song had some special something that left a gorgeous impression-- From Fats Kaplin's mandolin on Alone In My Home, to the aching interplay of standup bass and violin in Do, to the brief-but-transcendently beautiful introduction to Martyr For My Love For You leading into some of Jack's most tongue-trippingly lovely lyrics... The latter was one of the four songs that initially pulled me into his music and one that has rarely ever been played live, so hearing it in this setting was an especial treat. And Inaccessible Mystery, which Jack introduced as an "orphan, mis-fit" song-- That song really didn't have much impact for me when I first heard it as a b-side to one of the Blunderbuss singles. It seemed somehow unfinished. Completely acoustic, though, the performance this night felt like it was finally finished, as if this was what the song was meant to become from the very beginning, with Fats' steel guitar and Lillie Mae's violin soaring in a way that the electric guitar in the original recorded version couldn't .
During other songs, what made the experience special was the people around me. Early on in my run through the Lazaretto tour, We Are Going To Be Friends had inspired me to begin putting my arms around whichever friends I was surrounded by as we sang along. On this night, when I reached out for Angelina's hand during the song, she leaned her head on my shoulder while the two of us quietly sang the words, and I swear I'll never hear that song again without thinking of that moment.
Another touching element was the casualness of Jack's stage banter through most of the show, as he told charmingly corny jokes during the band intros, admired the theater decor, and revealed thoughtful stories behind the songs.
And then, after a plaintive Carolina Drama that had the audience back on their feet, the first set was over. Already, so quickly. The break, though, was fortunately also over quickly. And as wonderful as the band was, as much as they added to the songs they performed, the next two tunes were sublime for just the opposite reason-- They were performed by Jack alone, with his silver shoes, his pompadour, and his warmly resonating Army-Navy guitar.
I think if anyone ever asked me to show them what makes Jack White such a magnetic performer, instead of directing them to a more explosive show, the sort that most people might think of as an example, I might instead have them watch Same Boy You've Always Known from this show. It was stripped down, simple and quiet, and yet absolutely mesmerizing purely for the intensely emotive quality of Jack's voice. I've written before about how he doesn't think of himself as a singer, how he considers himself a vocalist or impressionist. Whatever the case, the impression he's able to create with his voice is dramatic. Even if you were someone who didn't think much of the sound of his voice, I think it'd be hard to deny the range of emotion he's able to convey.
And, of course, each of the five final acoustic shows ended with Goodnight, Irene, which he'd not played since the volatile show at the Fox Theater in Detroit last summer. I had expected to cry through this entire show, knowing that it was the last for who knows how long, and expecting it to be completely beautiful. Instead, I was too overwhelmed and caught up in it all for the tears to let loose. The closest I came was the final moment when he stepped to the front of stage, as I first experienced it in 2012 in Omaha, NE, to sing the last verse a capella right there in front of us, his voice carrying us to the end and joining with all of ours in the final chorus.
The next morning was a doozy. I rolled over in bed and took a sleepy glance at the clock to see how much time I had till the alarm went off, only to realize I was 45 minutes late for my 5:00am flight. So much for cell phone alarms. A quick call to the airline left me happily stuck in Fargo til late that afternoon, giving me time to walk around, explore the small downtown under a beautiful blue sky, and sit and think about what I'd experienced.
And I juggled a mix of conflicting impressions. I'm so very glad that so many people were able to watch the show via the livestream, and that it's been archived (go ahead, join the Vault (or Tidal), you know you want to be able to see this show), though there were some small feelings of agitation mixed in with that gladness-- It felt as if the show wasn't quite as intimate as it could have been because of the cameras that hovered inches above our heads a few times and the inclusion of the "music is sacred" speech that'd been made at both Coachella shows earlier this month and in a recent Vault chat.
 |
| Screencap courtesy of Mike Dziama |
And yet, at the same time, it was a very intimate, special event. That’s the drawback to having seen so many of Jack’s shows, both live and livestreamed. I’ve experienced such a gamut that I have high expectations, and I can tell when he’s gearing a show toward a large crowd such as a festival or a livestream audience. The choice of songs, the speeches vs just freewheeling banter (such as two nights earlier in South Dakota when he'd called his mother from the stage and had her tell a story to the crowd as he held the phone to the mic), these things show me clearly whether he’s doing a “club show” or sending out a message to the world. I wanted a club show, like that one in South Dakota at which he played a song I’d requested in vain back in San Francisco and then had his mother talk to the audience. But does that mean I wasn’t thrilled at this show, wasn’t feeling such intense emotions that it affected me physically? No. I wanted more, but I was more than satisfied with what I got. Does that seem like a contradiction? It’s just that it’s become impossible for me to have a simple experience with Jack anymore. Every experience is threaded with conflicting thoughts and contradictory emotions. And that’s not a bad thing. It can cause niggling frustration underneath the euphoria, but also makes every experience more multifaceted.
And I am inexpressibly happy that I was able to share this experience with Angelina, Sam, Sharon and other friends (missing friends were also thought of and spoken about, so they were definitely there with us in spirit). The hugs we all shared afterward were some of the best I've ever had in my life. This is one of the greatest things I've gotten from discovering Jack's music. I owe him so much for the musical education and awakening he's provided me, but the friends I've made over the last five years and the experiences we've had together because of him have given me moments of joy such as I never expected to have at this point in my life. That's a large part of what makes me so terribly sad about this being the last show until who knows when-- Not only am I losing the exuberant high I've been dependent upon for the last five years, but I will also miss all of my friends scattered around the country. Will we find another reason to spend the money and make the time necessary to see each other without Jack's shows to pull us together?
A few other reminiscences inspired by this hopefully temporary end of the road--
All of the places I’d rarely or never been to before that I’ve traveled to because of Jack:
Nashville, TN (lost count of how many times)
Memphis, TN
Chattanooga, TN
Atlanta, GA
New York City (7 times)
Omaha, NE
Denver/Red Rocks, Colorado
Tulsa, OK
Pittsburgh, PA
Detroit, MI and countryside nearby
San Francisco, CA
Seattle, WA (which had been a goal for many years)
Cleveland and Columbus, OH
New Haven, CT
Austin, TX
Fargo, ND
People have told me how lucky I've been to be able to go to all the shows I have. Yes, there's been a degree of luck in a few cases, especially in succeeding in acquiring tickets that sold out in minutes. But where there wasn't luck, there were choices I made. Such as how I was thinking of refurbishing my kitchen around the time I got into Jack's music and made my first road-trip to Memphis to see him. It hasn't happened, the wallpaper's still torn, the flooring is still crooked, the dishwasher is still broken. Likewise, I thought for a while just a couple of years ago about quitting my job, selling my condo, and re-locating. Actually brushed up my resume and talked to a realtor. But then the Lazaretto tour began and all of that would've gotten in the way. Do I regret giving up these and other oh-so-adult plans to instead spend my time and money running around the country going to concerts? Not for one bloody moment. Especially now that Jack's announced this hiatus. On more than one occasion, the decision to buy a ticket and book a flight (or map out a road-trip) hinged on a feeling that I had to take advantage of what he was doing now, that who knew how long it would last? Friends even said that to me on a couple of occasions when I was waffling, go for it, we don't know when he'll do this again. My only regrets are for shows that I didn't make more effort to get to. We have to follow our passion-- Not just the things that we are passionate about, but the things that ignite a passion within us, that make us feel alive.
The show in Fargo may have been Jack’s last live performance for the foreseeable future, but it’s not the end of me being a junkie. He's made it clear that he's as busy and as ambitious as ever, between making donations to the soon-to-open National Blues Museum and, even more exciting, producing the upcoming PBS documentary American Epic with Robert Redford and T Bone Burnett. We may not have anymore of his music for a while, but he seems set on ensuring that we continue to explore the rest of the music that's out there while he takes his break from the stage. Because that's what it's all about at this point-- It's not about just him, it's about the fact that music is sacred.
Amen.
June 13, 2014
Get out of my head, Jack White. Or, how the music we love can backfire
In Madness and Civilization, Michel Foucault wrote of Renaissance-era "ships of fools", on which societies would load their madmen and send them out into the harbor to get them out of the cities and isolate them. Or to isolate the cities from them, whichever. On Lazaretto, Jack White sings of being put down in a lazaretto, those old island fortresses where the sick and disabled were quarantined. That idea of separation, of isolation, has become pertinent for me lately and been much on my mind.
I got away from writing here regularly for a while, in part because everything I wrote was beginning to sound so self-obsessed and sometimes self-pitying, to the point that it was becoming tedious even to me, much less to anyone who might've stumbled across those ramblings on the interwebs. But also because as I got deeper and deeper into Jack White's music, I became involved in the community of his fans. It began at a message board, expanded to the Third Man Records Vault and another message board, to a couple of Facebook groups, and, most importantly, to people I've met face-to-face at his shows. I still wrote about Jack's music here because there was so much in it that inspired me and that I wanted to dig into and mentally digest. But more and more, I didn't need this place to get my thoughts out, I was able to do it in all those other places and get instant feedback, have dialogues instead of these rambling monologues. I came out of isolation, at least via the written word. Physically, I'm still separate, as all of these people I relate to are spread around the U.S. and I see them rarely, whenever we gather for a show. The rest of the time, it's me on my own, until I sit down at the computer and reach out.
But lately something's been different. It's been building up gradually for a while, a feeling of disconnection, of distance, from the community I've felt such a part of, from both the internet "friends" I relate to and the real friends I've formed an emotional connection with. Is it my old pattern rearing its head, my apparent inability to have long-lasting relationships with people? What's behind that, anyway? Whatever it is, it started out early. I was always one of those kids who was off by themselves with a book or exploring in the woods. I had friends, but still spent a lot of time alone. Then an incident in 6th grade led to complete ostracism, turning me into one of those kids sitting shunned on the side of the playground. High school was no better, especially after I became one of three punk rockers in the entire school and walked a daily gauntlet of derision from the jocks and popular kids. Exposure to my parents' constant arguing didn't help, either, as it was just one more thing to block out, to build a wall against.
If you've ever read the book Cold Mountain (and I mean the book, not the film Jack White was in), you may understand when I say that I strongly identify with the main female character, Ada, who is described as "eccentric and bristly". Ada's physical isolation in Black Cove is, of course, a metaphor for her isolation from people in general, which is due in large part to how she chooses to relate to those around her. She has little patience for the accepted mores of the city culture she was raised in, and is at a loss in the completely unfamiliar realm of country society. She frequently ends up saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, often as a means to keep people at a distance either intentionally or unconsciously. As a result, there's a wall around her, built by her own hands using the bricks of other people's inability to comprehend her. To say that I understand that alienation would be an understatement, despite the friendships I've formed over the last few years.
For the past couple weeks, that feeling's been intensely strong. Part of it is envy of those friends whose schedules have allowed them to attend recent shows on Jack's current tour for the new album. These are people I genuinely like and have enjoyed spending time with, but I find myself not wanting to hear from them because the few details I've heard of these shows make me bitterly resentful that I've not been there. It's an ugly reaction, one that makes me loathe myself, and that makes me retreat even further from these people because I don't want to expose them to my ugliness. But the last few days, it's become even worse. Without any rational clue why, I've been peevish, angry, melancholy-- lashing out, crying while driving in the car, having arguments with people in my head that I wouldn't allow myself to have anywhere else, stuck in isolation inside my own brain instead of focused outward. Then it dawned on me-- Part of it is this record, Lazaretto. This depressed and angry mood's been with me ever since the night I received it last week, from the moment I read The Admitting of Patience, a play in one act at the beginning of the book that accompanied the album:
THE ADMITTING OF PATIENCE
(one act)
PERSON ONE
(Male or Female)
I fantasize about hospital beds,
jail, work camps, the army.
I thought of branding myself,
tattooing a message to myself
With a symbol that I can't be
at peace with anyone.
A raft, A boy in the water. I'm hurt,
but not afraid of physical pain.
PERSON TWO
(M or F)
I don't feel very good about myself.
People always leave me.
Nobody can stand me for very long.
I wish I could cut my tongue out,
or take out the part of my brain
that has opinions. Or cares.
I wish I could be simple.
Be quiet, introverted, or shy.
I'm half way in between a wallflower
at a party and elvis presley.
People love one or the other.
In between is no place to be.
PERSON THREE
I see.
The impact of that practically brought me to my knees. It did bring me to tears, and I don't mean just welling up in my eyes. I mean shoulder-shaking sobs. Good lord above, talk about identifying with something someone's expressed. And then to put on the record and discover the song Alone In My Home, in which he sings
These stones
That are thrown against my bones
Break through
But they hurt less as time goes on
And alone
I build my own home
To be sure
That nobody can touch me now
That's followed immediately by That Black Bat Licorice, with its refrain of
Don't you want to lose the
Part of the brain that has opinions?
To not even know what you are doing?
Or care about yourself or
Your species in the billions?
Listening to these two songs feels as if he's been in my own head, pulled out my own thoughts and feelings and experiences, all those incidents of feeling the wrong thing, thinking the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, offending people and pissing them off, alienating and feeling alienated, and retreating into self-imposed quarantine. I'm not quite vain enough to believe I'm the only person who's listened to these songs and felt such things, but that doesn't diminish the impact. It's not been good. I love both songs, one of them is very beautiful, the other very witty, but the effect of them has left me feeling a bit on the edge of madness, or at least sociopathology. Far from the euphoric feeling Jack's music normally inspires in me. How do I reconcile this? Wallow in it and hope it passes on its own? Stop listening to these songs? Smack myself upside the head in the hopes of knocking some rationality back into my brain?
I don't know. But I told someone the other night that I'd caught myself wishing I could be like a crazy homeless person, standing on a street corner ranting and talking to myself. It would be easier than trying to be a normal, civil person, at least until I can figure out how to get back out of this state of isolated insanity.
I got away from writing here regularly for a while, in part because everything I wrote was beginning to sound so self-obsessed and sometimes self-pitying, to the point that it was becoming tedious even to me, much less to anyone who might've stumbled across those ramblings on the interwebs. But also because as I got deeper and deeper into Jack White's music, I became involved in the community of his fans. It began at a message board, expanded to the Third Man Records Vault and another message board, to a couple of Facebook groups, and, most importantly, to people I've met face-to-face at his shows. I still wrote about Jack's music here because there was so much in it that inspired me and that I wanted to dig into and mentally digest. But more and more, I didn't need this place to get my thoughts out, I was able to do it in all those other places and get instant feedback, have dialogues instead of these rambling monologues. I came out of isolation, at least via the written word. Physically, I'm still separate, as all of these people I relate to are spread around the U.S. and I see them rarely, whenever we gather for a show. The rest of the time, it's me on my own, until I sit down at the computer and reach out.
But lately something's been different. It's been building up gradually for a while, a feeling of disconnection, of distance, from the community I've felt such a part of, from both the internet "friends" I relate to and the real friends I've formed an emotional connection with. Is it my old pattern rearing its head, my apparent inability to have long-lasting relationships with people? What's behind that, anyway? Whatever it is, it started out early. I was always one of those kids who was off by themselves with a book or exploring in the woods. I had friends, but still spent a lot of time alone. Then an incident in 6th grade led to complete ostracism, turning me into one of those kids sitting shunned on the side of the playground. High school was no better, especially after I became one of three punk rockers in the entire school and walked a daily gauntlet of derision from the jocks and popular kids. Exposure to my parents' constant arguing didn't help, either, as it was just one more thing to block out, to build a wall against.
If you've ever read the book Cold Mountain (and I mean the book, not the film Jack White was in), you may understand when I say that I strongly identify with the main female character, Ada, who is described as "eccentric and bristly". Ada's physical isolation in Black Cove is, of course, a metaphor for her isolation from people in general, which is due in large part to how she chooses to relate to those around her. She has little patience for the accepted mores of the city culture she was raised in, and is at a loss in the completely unfamiliar realm of country society. She frequently ends up saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, often as a means to keep people at a distance either intentionally or unconsciously. As a result, there's a wall around her, built by her own hands using the bricks of other people's inability to comprehend her. To say that I understand that alienation would be an understatement, despite the friendships I've formed over the last few years.
For the past couple weeks, that feeling's been intensely strong. Part of it is envy of those friends whose schedules have allowed them to attend recent shows on Jack's current tour for the new album. These are people I genuinely like and have enjoyed spending time with, but I find myself not wanting to hear from them because the few details I've heard of these shows make me bitterly resentful that I've not been there. It's an ugly reaction, one that makes me loathe myself, and that makes me retreat even further from these people because I don't want to expose them to my ugliness. But the last few days, it's become even worse. Without any rational clue why, I've been peevish, angry, melancholy-- lashing out, crying while driving in the car, having arguments with people in my head that I wouldn't allow myself to have anywhere else, stuck in isolation inside my own brain instead of focused outward. Then it dawned on me-- Part of it is this record, Lazaretto. This depressed and angry mood's been with me ever since the night I received it last week, from the moment I read The Admitting of Patience, a play in one act at the beginning of the book that accompanied the album:
THE ADMITTING OF PATIENCE
(one act)
PERSON ONE
(Male or Female)
I fantasize about hospital beds,
jail, work camps, the army.
I thought of branding myself,
tattooing a message to myself
With a symbol that I can't be
at peace with anyone.
A raft, A boy in the water. I'm hurt,
but not afraid of physical pain.
PERSON TWO
(M or F)
I don't feel very good about myself.
People always leave me.
Nobody can stand me for very long.
I wish I could cut my tongue out,
or take out the part of my brain
that has opinions. Or cares.
I wish I could be simple.
Be quiet, introverted, or shy.
I'm half way in between a wallflower
at a party and elvis presley.
People love one or the other.
In between is no place to be.
PERSON THREE
I see.
The impact of that practically brought me to my knees. It did bring me to tears, and I don't mean just welling up in my eyes. I mean shoulder-shaking sobs. Good lord above, talk about identifying with something someone's expressed. And then to put on the record and discover the song Alone In My Home, in which he sings
These stones
That are thrown against my bones
Break through
But they hurt less as time goes on
And alone
I build my own home
To be sure
That nobody can touch me now
That's followed immediately by That Black Bat Licorice, with its refrain of
Don't you want to lose the
Part of the brain that has opinions?
To not even know what you are doing?
Or care about yourself or
Your species in the billions?
Listening to these two songs feels as if he's been in my own head, pulled out my own thoughts and feelings and experiences, all those incidents of feeling the wrong thing, thinking the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, offending people and pissing them off, alienating and feeling alienated, and retreating into self-imposed quarantine. I'm not quite vain enough to believe I'm the only person who's listened to these songs and felt such things, but that doesn't diminish the impact. It's not been good. I love both songs, one of them is very beautiful, the other very witty, but the effect of them has left me feeling a bit on the edge of madness, or at least sociopathology. Far from the euphoric feeling Jack's music normally inspires in me. How do I reconcile this? Wallow in it and hope it passes on its own? Stop listening to these songs? Smack myself upside the head in the hopes of knocking some rationality back into my brain?
I don't know. But I told someone the other night that I'd caught myself wishing I could be like a crazy homeless person, standing on a street corner ranting and talking to myself. It would be easier than trying to be a normal, civil person, at least until I can figure out how to get back out of this state of isolated insanity.
November 3, 2012
Random babblings: On corvids and connections
On a very November day, I wandered through a cemetery full of crows, thinking, thinking, thinking...
Greenmount Cemetery's located in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Baltimore, but it's well worth venturing through the nearby streets for because it's one of the vastest, most gorgeous cemeteries I've ever visited. I discovered it through the work of A. Aubrey Bodine, who photographed Baltimore and Maryland for 50 years for the Baltimore Sun. Sounds completely trite to describe it this way, but really, the place is an oasis of rolling hills, lovely trees, and beautiful monuments in the middle of some serious urban decay. Historically important, too, and not just for its notoriety as the final resting place of John Wilkes Booth.
A fellow blogger, J., recently posted about a cemetery visit of her own. I refer to her as a "fellow blogger", but is there more to it than that? We first "met" through the blogosphere portion of the internet when she discovered my own blog and posted a comment asking me to get in touch with her via e-mail so that we could talk more in-depth. I did and we began a correspondence about what the music we love means to us. She shared very private details of her personal life with me and it felt like a bond was beginning to form. Then we lost touch for a bit (my fault, through distraction and laziness). Recently, we finally had the opportunity to meet "IRL", as the internet parlance goes. It took place in a fair-sized group, though, and once we'd said hello and shared a hug, we each ended up talking to other people. So what does that make us? Fellow bloggers, acquaintances, friends...? I'd like to be able to refer to her as the latter because I very much like what I know of her, but developing a deeper connection has eluded us. But that doesn't mean the potential isn't there. I think that, in this age of internet connection with folks who share interests but are strewn around the world, someone needs to come up with a new term for people who would likely be friends if only proximity allowed. It's not like long-distance friendships with people one has barely, if ever, met are anything new. Bookstores are full of collections of letters between literary and historical figures who shared ideas and emotional resonance through the written word because they were nations apart. How is what happens all the time on Facebook and message boards any different? Ok, yes, the communication you find on the internet these days is certainly probably much shallower than that of folks in those olden days (at least the ones whose letters made it into published books). But are the relationships formed through such communication any less valid?
Posts like this in which I pose so many questions make me feel like that character from Sex and the City, the writer chick. Someone please tell me it doesn't really come across that way...
Annoying that the crow photos didn't come out as well as I would've liked. They were everywhere. Couldn't get near them on foot, but was pleasantly surprised as I was leaving by the way that several of them perched on headstones right next to the lane seemed completely undisturbed when I brought the car to a stop and rolled down the window to capture some shots. Huge buggers. Hard not to think of Poe's raven, even though it's not likely that piece was inspired by Baltimore's birds.
In other news, I still cannot get this song out of my head. Not sure why, but it somehow seemed especially fitting today.
Greenmount Cemetery's located in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Baltimore, but it's well worth venturing through the nearby streets for because it's one of the vastest, most gorgeous cemeteries I've ever visited. I discovered it through the work of A. Aubrey Bodine, who photographed Baltimore and Maryland for 50 years for the Baltimore Sun. Sounds completely trite to describe it this way, but really, the place is an oasis of rolling hills, lovely trees, and beautiful monuments in the middle of some serious urban decay. Historically important, too, and not just for its notoriety as the final resting place of John Wilkes Booth.
A fellow blogger, J., recently posted about a cemetery visit of her own. I refer to her as a "fellow blogger", but is there more to it than that? We first "met" through the blogosphere portion of the internet when she discovered my own blog and posted a comment asking me to get in touch with her via e-mail so that we could talk more in-depth. I did and we began a correspondence about what the music we love means to us. She shared very private details of her personal life with me and it felt like a bond was beginning to form. Then we lost touch for a bit (my fault, through distraction and laziness). Recently, we finally had the opportunity to meet "IRL", as the internet parlance goes. It took place in a fair-sized group, though, and once we'd said hello and shared a hug, we each ended up talking to other people. So what does that make us? Fellow bloggers, acquaintances, friends...? I'd like to be able to refer to her as the latter because I very much like what I know of her, but developing a deeper connection has eluded us. But that doesn't mean the potential isn't there. I think that, in this age of internet connection with folks who share interests but are strewn around the world, someone needs to come up with a new term for people who would likely be friends if only proximity allowed. It's not like long-distance friendships with people one has barely, if ever, met are anything new. Bookstores are full of collections of letters between literary and historical figures who shared ideas and emotional resonance through the written word because they were nations apart. How is what happens all the time on Facebook and message boards any different? Ok, yes, the communication you find on the internet these days is certainly probably much shallower than that of folks in those olden days (at least the ones whose letters made it into published books). But are the relationships formed through such communication any less valid?
Posts like this in which I pose so many questions make me feel like that character from Sex and the City, the writer chick. Someone please tell me it doesn't really come across that way...
Annoying that the crow photos didn't come out as well as I would've liked. They were everywhere. Couldn't get near them on foot, but was pleasantly surprised as I was leaving by the way that several of them perched on headstones right next to the lane seemed completely undisturbed when I brought the car to a stop and rolled down the window to capture some shots. Huge buggers. Hard not to think of Poe's raven, even though it's not likely that piece was inspired by Baltimore's birds.
In other news, I still cannot get this song out of my head. Not sure why, but it somehow seemed especially fitting today.
December 23, 2007
Digging for friends
Since this summer, I've lamented not getting into Incubus several years ago when I was first introduced to them. I feel like I've missed out on following the band's growth and on many, many opportunities to experience the fantastic energy of their live performances. When I stop to think about it, though, I realize that the time just wasn't right back then. I'm not sure that I would have been open then to what this band has to offer. I'm at a point now that their music speaks to me in very meaningful ways. One particular song, Dig, struck me right away when I heard it for the first time a couple of months ago. I have to say that a part of me is a bit embarassed to admit how much I love this song. Dig's an exceptionally pretty tune, bordering on power-ballad, and jaded, cynical ears might even consider it to be cheesy and cornball. The lyrics, though, are really wonderfully self-aware and quite touching, and have given me much food for thought.
At this point, I imagine some of you may be rolling your eyes. "Is she just gonna babble about that Brandon Boyd guy again?" Well... yes. But with a purpose that I hope you'll appreciate by the time this already rambling mess is done. You see, Dig is about friendship, which is something I've thought about frequently since getting into the whole MySpace thing, with its collecting of virtual "friends" who can be anything from family members to 'net trolls to aspiring or established musicians to that mysterious entity named "Tom". It's made me wonder just what constitutes a friend, and what's involved in both being and having one.
The friendships I've had over the years, both real-life and virtual, have been like rollercoasters on which I've ridden through intense highs and lows with one or a couple of people for a few years, and then the ride has ended abruptly for some reason and we've parted ways. It's either been an argument, a disappointment, or just that vague feeling of growing apart. I've described in previous blogs (here, and again here) how I ended my last batch of friendships because I felt I was no longer getting anything from them. I have to wonder, though, if much of the problem hasn't really been with me and the level of my expectations. Have I expected loyalty and a level of understanding that's unrealistic for most people to deliver?
Michel de Montaigne, in his essay "Of Friendship", described what seems to be the rarified pinnacle of relationships:
"...a friendship, which we afterwards improved and maintained, so long as God was pleased to continue us together, so perfect, inviolate, and entire, that certainly the like is hardly to be found in story, and amongst men of this age, there is no sign nor trace of any such thing in use; so much concurrence is required to the building of such a one, that 'tis much, if fortune bring it but once to pass in three ages."
Wow. How many of us have had buddies like that? Apparently, the guys in Incubus come close. Three of the five have known each other since middle-school and have been making music together, not to mention traveling around on a tour bus together, for 15 years. Watching them together in interviews and in parts of their recent dvd, Look Alive, it's obvious that these guys have a strong rapport and genuinely enjoy each other's company. I find myself feeling envious of them, that they seem to have such strong ties based on shared history, laughter, creative stimulation, and support. There's been some severing of ties, specifically the controversial firing a few years ago of one band member who was also a high school buddy, but the overall solidity of their relationships is apparently what inspired Dig:
We all have a weakness
But some of ours are easier to identify.
Look me in the eye
& ask for forgiveness;
We'll make a pact to never speak that word again.
Yes, you are my friend.
We all have something that digs at us,
at least we dig each other.
So when weakness turns my ego up
I know you'll count on the me from yesterday.
If I turn into another,
dig me up from under what is covering
the better part of me.
Sing this song,
Remind me that we'll always have each other
when everything else is gone.
We all have a sickness
that cleverly attaches & multiplies
No matter how we try.
We all have someone that digs at us,
at least we dig each other.
So when sickness turns my ego up
I know you'll act as a clever medicine.
If I turn into another
dig me up from under what is covering
The better part of me.
Sing this song!
Remind me that we'll always have each other
when everything else is gone.
Up to this point in my life, I didn't feel that I had experienced anything like that with anyone I'd known. In the past, I often went out of my way to help friends in need, giving of my time, even my car and money. And I've always made a point of trying to learn about the interests of people I consider friends, as much to develop common bonds between us as for my own curiosity. And, so often, it seemed those things weren't appreciated and reciprocated. In those instances, I invariably felt slighted.
Lately, though, I find myself wondering what's changed. In hindsight, I think I've realized that what I felt I wasn't getting in past friendships was attention, and comfort and support when I needed them. I'm learning now that I don't have to have the attention, I can sit back and let others take the spotlight, and yet know that I still have something to offer. And I've been on my own long enough to feel confident that I can weather pretty much any emotional crisis without external support. What I do need, though, is communication, people with whom to share ideas, discuss experiences, and learn from.
I've already written (in one of those blogs linked above) about the various places around the 'net that have led me to begin establishing quite a few new relationships that seem to be burgeoning into friendship. I'm finding that what I enjoy most from these new relationships is the stimulus-- my cycling/kayaking buddies push me physically; various of my MySpace "friends" and music forum acquaintances have exposed me to new literary paths or inspired my creativity; and with some of these folks, I'm exploring new spiritual ground and being challenged to think about my future. But there's also been much of what I felt I didn't have in past friendships-- With everything I've been through lately with my cat's illness and death, I'm having trouble keeping up with and responding to all the thoughtful messages of comfort I've received, and it's left me a bit astounded. (And grateful. Thank you all very much.)
So where have all these people come from? What's behind all these sudden synchronous connections? Is it just chance that I've found internet sites frequented by like-minded folks? Or is there something in me that's shifted and allowed me to reach out? Or all of the above? As these friendships develop, will I allow expectation to take a backseat and just be open to whatever I can learn about and from these various people? My feeling is that I need to avoid expecting a certain level of support or loyalty, and instead hope for more of the stimulus that inspires me to be a finer person. In other words, I think I'm ready to aim for Brandon's ideal of friendship over Montaigne's: If I turn into another, dig me up from under what is covering the better part of me...
At this point, I imagine some of you may be rolling your eyes. "Is she just gonna babble about that Brandon Boyd guy again?" Well... yes. But with a purpose that I hope you'll appreciate by the time this already rambling mess is done. You see, Dig is about friendship, which is something I've thought about frequently since getting into the whole MySpace thing, with its collecting of virtual "friends" who can be anything from family members to 'net trolls to aspiring or established musicians to that mysterious entity named "Tom". It's made me wonder just what constitutes a friend, and what's involved in both being and having one.
The friendships I've had over the years, both real-life and virtual, have been like rollercoasters on which I've ridden through intense highs and lows with one or a couple of people for a few years, and then the ride has ended abruptly for some reason and we've parted ways. It's either been an argument, a disappointment, or just that vague feeling of growing apart. I've described in previous blogs (here, and again here) how I ended my last batch of friendships because I felt I was no longer getting anything from them. I have to wonder, though, if much of the problem hasn't really been with me and the level of my expectations. Have I expected loyalty and a level of understanding that's unrealistic for most people to deliver?
Michel de Montaigne, in his essay "Of Friendship", described what seems to be the rarified pinnacle of relationships:
"...a friendship, which we afterwards improved and maintained, so long as God was pleased to continue us together, so perfect, inviolate, and entire, that certainly the like is hardly to be found in story, and amongst men of this age, there is no sign nor trace of any such thing in use; so much concurrence is required to the building of such a one, that 'tis much, if fortune bring it but once to pass in three ages."
Wow. How many of us have had buddies like that? Apparently, the guys in Incubus come close. Three of the five have known each other since middle-school and have been making music together, not to mention traveling around on a tour bus together, for 15 years. Watching them together in interviews and in parts of their recent dvd, Look Alive, it's obvious that these guys have a strong rapport and genuinely enjoy each other's company. I find myself feeling envious of them, that they seem to have such strong ties based on shared history, laughter, creative stimulation, and support. There's been some severing of ties, specifically the controversial firing a few years ago of one band member who was also a high school buddy, but the overall solidity of their relationships is apparently what inspired Dig:
We all have a weakness
But some of ours are easier to identify.
Look me in the eye
& ask for forgiveness;
We'll make a pact to never speak that word again.
Yes, you are my friend.
We all have something that digs at us,
at least we dig each other.
So when weakness turns my ego up
I know you'll count on the me from yesterday.
If I turn into another,
dig me up from under what is covering
the better part of me.
Sing this song,
Remind me that we'll always have each other
when everything else is gone.
We all have a sickness
that cleverly attaches & multiplies
No matter how we try.
We all have someone that digs at us,
at least we dig each other.
So when sickness turns my ego up
I know you'll act as a clever medicine.
If I turn into another
dig me up from under what is covering
The better part of me.
Sing this song!
Remind me that we'll always have each other
when everything else is gone.
Up to this point in my life, I didn't feel that I had experienced anything like that with anyone I'd known. In the past, I often went out of my way to help friends in need, giving of my time, even my car and money. And I've always made a point of trying to learn about the interests of people I consider friends, as much to develop common bonds between us as for my own curiosity. And, so often, it seemed those things weren't appreciated and reciprocated. In those instances, I invariably felt slighted.
Lately, though, I find myself wondering what's changed. In hindsight, I think I've realized that what I felt I wasn't getting in past friendships was attention, and comfort and support when I needed them. I'm learning now that I don't have to have the attention, I can sit back and let others take the spotlight, and yet know that I still have something to offer. And I've been on my own long enough to feel confident that I can weather pretty much any emotional crisis without external support. What I do need, though, is communication, people with whom to share ideas, discuss experiences, and learn from.
I've already written (in one of those blogs linked above) about the various places around the 'net that have led me to begin establishing quite a few new relationships that seem to be burgeoning into friendship. I'm finding that what I enjoy most from these new relationships is the stimulus-- my cycling/kayaking buddies push me physically; various of my MySpace "friends" and music forum acquaintances have exposed me to new literary paths or inspired my creativity; and with some of these folks, I'm exploring new spiritual ground and being challenged to think about my future. But there's also been much of what I felt I didn't have in past friendships-- With everything I've been through lately with my cat's illness and death, I'm having trouble keeping up with and responding to all the thoughtful messages of comfort I've received, and it's left me a bit astounded. (And grateful. Thank you all very much.)
So where have all these people come from? What's behind all these sudden synchronous connections? Is it just chance that I've found internet sites frequented by like-minded folks? Or is there something in me that's shifted and allowed me to reach out? Or all of the above? As these friendships develop, will I allow expectation to take a backseat and just be open to whatever I can learn about and from these various people? My feeling is that I need to avoid expecting a certain level of support or loyalty, and instead hope for more of the stimulus that inspires me to be a finer person. In other words, I think I'm ready to aim for Brandon's ideal of friendship over Montaigne's: If I turn into another, dig me up from under what is covering the better part of me...
July 7, 2007
What's new: Music and Friendship
Strange summer so far. I seem to be entering into one of my periodic extroverted phases. After a winter of self-aggravated discontent, self-imposed isolation, and self-indulgent introspection, the hermit seems to have wandered out of her cave for a bit.
This foray into sociability comes on two fronts (possibly three): the internet and the outdoors (the third hasn't yet gotten off the ground, so we'll just have to wait and see how it develops). Regarding the outdoors, I've always gravitated towards activities that lend themselves to solitary enjoyment-- hiking, kayaking, cycling. Many, if not most, people seem to do these things with others, but if one is sufficiently self-sufficient, then these activities are an excellent escape from the annoyances of society. Being alone by myself in the woods, on the water, or cranking the pedals, allows me to think about whatever I choose. I can mull and brood over issues at work, contemplate deep philosophical ideas, or just plain let my mind go blank. Last year, though, I began to experiment with kayaking and cycling with people I met on 'net forums geared towards those sports. One in particular, the Team Estrogen Women's Cycling forum (I absolutely hate the idea of posting at a site named for a female hormone, but it's really a great forum), has led to becoming part of a group of DC-area women who've begun to ride together on a fairly frequent basis. And now it's branching out-- a few weeks ago, three of us got together for kayaking, and one of them invited me to a get-together at her home. This has made it difficult to find time to paddle with Lee, my occasional paddling buddy of the last two summers and a fellow introvert. Even more disconcerting, I'm finding that it's been a few weeks since I've had a weekend entirely to myself. Obviously, this is not something to cry about, but it's requiring some adjusting to. These people want to spend time with me, and I have a good time with them. What might be considered strange is that I can't decide when it's time to begin referring to these people as friends. For two years, Lee has been "the guy I paddle with". The Team Estrogen ladies are just that, or "the women I cycle (and now kayak) with". At what point do they cross over from being people I enjoy certain activities with, to being friends? (Ugh. I just realized that question sounded like something Sarah Jessica Parker would say in a voice-over on Sex & the City.)
In addition to the TE cycling forum, I've also been posting at a couple of sites dedicated to Chris Cornell. I've ventured into music forums/chat rooms in the past, and actually began forming some virtual friendships that were pretty close. Throughout it all, I waffled between enjoying the anonymity that allowed me to comfortably open up and the dis-connect of not being able to see people's facial expressions and hear their tone of voice, of having interaction that is entirely intellectual as opposed to physical. I always felt strange reacting emotionally to the words of someone I couldn't see or hear and questioned whether these people I interacted with could really be called "friends". I mean, they couldn't come over and help me move furniture if I needed, or give me more than words when I needed comfort. Nor could I offer the same things to them. So were they really friends? This thought is what led me to cut ties with everyone I considered a "friend" a couple of years ago. After that I descended into full-on hermit mode, enjoying my books, my bike, my kayak and the great outdoors all on my own and finding great contentment (and occasional discontent, of course).
So now I find myself out in the world, beginning to form attachments again. Do I want this? Do I want to have a busy schedule of "dates" to do this or that with other people? Do I want to care about how people at some music forum react to my words and about what they think of me? I don't know.
On another note, I'm beginning to explore new musical territories. As mentioned in my My(WasteOf)Space profile, it takes a lot for music to really move me. I'll listen casually to all sorts of different things, but for me to want to go out and buy an album and listen to it repeatedly I've got to be touched emotionally, provoked to thought, or sucked in by a beautiful voice. For several years, I've listened to anything by Maynard James Keenan. For a while there, MJK's involvement with A Perfect Circle meant there was plenty new to listen to in the years between T00l albums. Lately, though, between his vineyard and T00l's latest epic tour, it looks like it may be a while before there's anything new from him (I'm looking forward to his Puscifer release, but I have a feeling there won't be much in the way of moving lyrical content to that. I could be wrong, though.).
And, of course, there's been Chris Cornell. It took a handful of years of casual listening to break through the density of his lyrics, but once through, the addiction developed with frightening intensity. In recent posts, though, I've written about my concerns over the direction his music's taken. The things I related to so much in Cornell's music over the years were the sense of isolation, the confusion over human interactions, the combination of melancholy in relationships and strength in solitude. At least, that's what I took from it. With Chris now a happy family man writing songs about love and his wishes for a better world for his children to live in, there's much less for me to relate to. And, as I've stated before, it seems that his incredible talent for imagery has been tempered by sobriety. I don't know how long it will be before his next album, but I'm both eager and tentative in my anticipation of it. The handful of songs from Carry On that I enjoy make me feel it's very much a transitional album, and that he'll find a way to combine those elements I've always loved with his new attitude and pespective. It'll be sad, though, if the next album reveals that it's time for me to move on.
To that end, I've begun listening to Incubus. Similarly to the way I got into Soundgarden, I've been familiar with Incubus since 2001 but only on a casual level. A friend sent me files of a few songs from their album, Morning View, back when it was released. I've listened to these songs periodically over the last several years and enjoyed them, but never really paid full attention to them. I recently had a project at work that required more focus than the distractions of the office allowed, so my boss gave me permission to plug in my earphones and crank some tunes. Hearing those Incubus songs through earphones gave me a chance to really hear both Brandon Boyd's voice and his terrific lyrics. So, I went out and bought Morning View and it quickly supplanted Cornell's Carry On in my cd player. One song, in particular, has been set on 'repeat' on several occasions:
Wish You Were Here
I dig my toes into the sand
The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket
I lean against the wind
Pretend that I am weightless
And in this moment I am happy...happy
I wish you were here (x4)
I lay my head on to the sand
The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it
I'm counting UFO's
I signal them with my lighter
And in this moment I am happy...happy
I wish you were here (x4)
The world's a roller coaster and I am not strapped in
Maybe I should hold with care but my hands are busy in the air
I wish you were here
When I really listened to these words, the sentiment of them struck me like a punch to the solar plexus (a punch softened by Boyd's lovely, mellow vocals). I've felt that way so many times. I've written here in my blog about it, that feeling of freedom and contentment that is so delicious on one's own, but that you can't help wishing you could share. But with whom? A friend or loved one is the first thought, but really, sharing it with anyone who needs that feeling in their life would be fulfilling. Which kind of brings me back full circle. Do I want to make the effort to try and turn these recent real & virtual internet acquaintances into friends and risk the frustrations that will be part of that? Or do I maintain my disattachment and keep them at arm's length, enjoying sharing words &/or activities with them and leaving it at that? Do I "wish [they] were here" in those special moments of euphoric contentment? I just don't know.
This foray into sociability comes on two fronts (possibly three): the internet and the outdoors (the third hasn't yet gotten off the ground, so we'll just have to wait and see how it develops). Regarding the outdoors, I've always gravitated towards activities that lend themselves to solitary enjoyment-- hiking, kayaking, cycling. Many, if not most, people seem to do these things with others, but if one is sufficiently self-sufficient, then these activities are an excellent escape from the annoyances of society. Being alone by myself in the woods, on the water, or cranking the pedals, allows me to think about whatever I choose. I can mull and brood over issues at work, contemplate deep philosophical ideas, or just plain let my mind go blank. Last year, though, I began to experiment with kayaking and cycling with people I met on 'net forums geared towards those sports. One in particular, the Team Estrogen Women's Cycling forum (I absolutely hate the idea of posting at a site named for a female hormone, but it's really a great forum), has led to becoming part of a group of DC-area women who've begun to ride together on a fairly frequent basis. And now it's branching out-- a few weeks ago, three of us got together for kayaking, and one of them invited me to a get-together at her home. This has made it difficult to find time to paddle with Lee, my occasional paddling buddy of the last two summers and a fellow introvert. Even more disconcerting, I'm finding that it's been a few weeks since I've had a weekend entirely to myself. Obviously, this is not something to cry about, but it's requiring some adjusting to. These people want to spend time with me, and I have a good time with them. What might be considered strange is that I can't decide when it's time to begin referring to these people as friends. For two years, Lee has been "the guy I paddle with". The Team Estrogen ladies are just that, or "the women I cycle (and now kayak) with". At what point do they cross over from being people I enjoy certain activities with, to being friends? (Ugh. I just realized that question sounded like something Sarah Jessica Parker would say in a voice-over on Sex & the City.)
In addition to the TE cycling forum, I've also been posting at a couple of sites dedicated to Chris Cornell. I've ventured into music forums/chat rooms in the past, and actually began forming some virtual friendships that were pretty close. Throughout it all, I waffled between enjoying the anonymity that allowed me to comfortably open up and the dis-connect of not being able to see people's facial expressions and hear their tone of voice, of having interaction that is entirely intellectual as opposed to physical. I always felt strange reacting emotionally to the words of someone I couldn't see or hear and questioned whether these people I interacted with could really be called "friends". I mean, they couldn't come over and help me move furniture if I needed, or give me more than words when I needed comfort. Nor could I offer the same things to them. So were they really friends? This thought is what led me to cut ties with everyone I considered a "friend" a couple of years ago. After that I descended into full-on hermit mode, enjoying my books, my bike, my kayak and the great outdoors all on my own and finding great contentment (and occasional discontent, of course).
So now I find myself out in the world, beginning to form attachments again. Do I want this? Do I want to have a busy schedule of "dates" to do this or that with other people? Do I want to care about how people at some music forum react to my words and about what they think of me? I don't know.
On another note, I'm beginning to explore new musical territories. As mentioned in my My(WasteOf)Space profile, it takes a lot for music to really move me. I'll listen casually to all sorts of different things, but for me to want to go out and buy an album and listen to it repeatedly I've got to be touched emotionally, provoked to thought, or sucked in by a beautiful voice. For several years, I've listened to anything by Maynard James Keenan. For a while there, MJK's involvement with A Perfect Circle meant there was plenty new to listen to in the years between T00l albums. Lately, though, between his vineyard and T00l's latest epic tour, it looks like it may be a while before there's anything new from him (I'm looking forward to his Puscifer release, but I have a feeling there won't be much in the way of moving lyrical content to that. I could be wrong, though.).
And, of course, there's been Chris Cornell. It took a handful of years of casual listening to break through the density of his lyrics, but once through, the addiction developed with frightening intensity. In recent posts, though, I've written about my concerns over the direction his music's taken. The things I related to so much in Cornell's music over the years were the sense of isolation, the confusion over human interactions, the combination of melancholy in relationships and strength in solitude. At least, that's what I took from it. With Chris now a happy family man writing songs about love and his wishes for a better world for his children to live in, there's much less for me to relate to. And, as I've stated before, it seems that his incredible talent for imagery has been tempered by sobriety. I don't know how long it will be before his next album, but I'm both eager and tentative in my anticipation of it. The handful of songs from Carry On that I enjoy make me feel it's very much a transitional album, and that he'll find a way to combine those elements I've always loved with his new attitude and pespective. It'll be sad, though, if the next album reveals that it's time for me to move on.
To that end, I've begun listening to Incubus. Similarly to the way I got into Soundgarden, I've been familiar with Incubus since 2001 but only on a casual level. A friend sent me files of a few songs from their album, Morning View, back when it was released. I've listened to these songs periodically over the last several years and enjoyed them, but never really paid full attention to them. I recently had a project at work that required more focus than the distractions of the office allowed, so my boss gave me permission to plug in my earphones and crank some tunes. Hearing those Incubus songs through earphones gave me a chance to really hear both Brandon Boyd's voice and his terrific lyrics. So, I went out and bought Morning View and it quickly supplanted Cornell's Carry On in my cd player. One song, in particular, has been set on 'repeat' on several occasions:
Wish You Were Here
I dig my toes into the sand
The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket
I lean against the wind
Pretend that I am weightless
And in this moment I am happy...happy
I wish you were here (x4)
I lay my head on to the sand
The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it
I'm counting UFO's
I signal them with my lighter
And in this moment I am happy...happy
I wish you were here (x4)
The world's a roller coaster and I am not strapped in
Maybe I should hold with care but my hands are busy in the air
I wish you were here
When I really listened to these words, the sentiment of them struck me like a punch to the solar plexus (a punch softened by Boyd's lovely, mellow vocals). I've felt that way so many times. I've written here in my blog about it, that feeling of freedom and contentment that is so delicious on one's own, but that you can't help wishing you could share. But with whom? A friend or loved one is the first thought, but really, sharing it with anyone who needs that feeling in their life would be fulfilling. Which kind of brings me back full circle. Do I want to make the effort to try and turn these recent real & virtual internet acquaintances into friends and risk the frustrations that will be part of that? Or do I maintain my disattachment and keep them at arm's length, enjoying sharing words &/or activities with them and leaving it at that? Do I "wish [they] were here" in those special moments of euphoric contentment? I just don't know.
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