This is the first of what will be two long, rambling babblings about music, so if you're not into Incubus or Chris Cornell you may want to skip both of them. Unless, of course, you find my writing incredibly compelling, in which case, read on…
On 11/9, I drove 4 hours from DC up to Allentown, PA, with the two-fold purpose of seeing Chris Cornell perform at the Crocodile Rock Café and to meet a bunch of people from the Cornell forum. Leading up to the show, I realized that I was more excited about meeting the forum folks than I was about seeing Chris. Since getting into Incubus over the summer, I haven't even listened to Cornell for the last two months. No Soundgarden, no Temple of the Dog, no Euphoria Morning. But I was still expecting to be entranced and transported once he walked onstage.
So, all of us forum folk found each other in line at the Croc, and we all managed to get right up at the front of the stage, directly below one of the speaker stacks hanging from the low ceiling. Some of us had seen Chris at least few times this year, and some hadn't seen him perform for a handful of years. Every one of us was fairly giddy with anticipation as we waited through the opening act and the set change.
And then it began. The lights dropped, the band members filed out and began playing on stage, and I craned my neck to watch for Chris to emerge from the backstage door. I could see a tall shadow reflected on the wall and knew it was him, and the disagreeable thought flashed through my mind that Chris Cornell was making us wait so that he could have a grand entrance. That thought was disregarded, though, once he finally strolled out and hit the stage to tear into "Let Me Drown" and "Outshined". The one-two punch of those ripping SG tunes had me banging my head and dancing as much as was possible in the confines of the crowd, even after I realized that I couldn't hear a single note of what Chris was singing. Now, everyone says that the sound is always terrible right up front, but I swear I could hear every screaming note from the two guitar players. They were mixed so loudly, though, that I heard nothing of The Voice. The music was ridiculously loud. Through the first several songs, the guitars shredded my ears and the bass literally had my guts quivering to the point of nausea. For a while, though, it didn't matter, since I recognized the music, I could hear the people around me singing the same words I was singing, I could see Chris mouthing those words, and it got me excited. When the band left the stage for Chris' acoustic set, I finally was able to somewhat hear the golden tones I came for. And that was the turning point. One of the tunes he played acoustically was "I Am the Highway", which for the past few years has been my theme song, if you will. I had my hands up, swaying along with the song, and I gradually became aware that I really wasn't feeling the rapturous emotional response to Chris' singing that I felt in Baltimore and Philly earlier this year. I realized that I was just going through the motions. That and the twisted sensations in my gut suddenly left me subdued. There were a few points further on when I felt a nostalgic exhilaration in response to an old SG tune or two, but for the most part I just did not enjoy the show.
When it was all over, the crowd began filing slowly towards the exit. The forum folk all stopped to re-group near the swag table, and a few expressed interest in the t-shirts. Now, I generally don't wear clothing that advertises anything, not even the music that I'm into. And the fact that every single one of the Cornell shirts incorporated his illegible signature into the design was slightly distasteful to me. I don't know whether it was an impulse brought on by sheep mentality or what, though, but I ended up shelling out $20 for a shirt with one of the cooler, more obscure designs.
Afterwards, we all headed to a local diner to grab some food and hang out. I felt like crap and couldn't bring myself to consume more than a cup of soup and some tea. After a while, the conversation became targeted on how skinny, haggard and unhealthy Chris had looked during the show. Was it the clothes he was wearing, was he tired out by non-stop touring since March..? None of us had a real clue, of course, but we were all disturbed by it. The talk continued as people brought up things that had struck them about his facial expressions and antics on the stage and then, as will happen when you get a group of fanatical music fans together, we began to analyze various examples of Chris' bizarre behavior as represented in the media over the last several months. Photos of his home in a recent issue of In Style, an interview in a Turkish mag that included photos of him and his wife Vicky lounging around and having a pillow fight on their hotel bed, the cancellation of a couple of shows so that he could perform at a media event for Paris Hilton… Based on postings at the CC forum, things of this nature have many of his fans confused, and have blatantly turned off many others. At one point during the conversation, I posed the question that I've considered many times over this past year: What would the 20-something punk rock Chris Cornell of Soundgarden think of what he's recently become? The general consensus around the table was that the early Cornell would be scornful of the actions of the current one. But what do we know, really? We're just a bunch of fans basing our opinions on what we see and read, much of which is either taken out of context, misquoted, or totally created by the media. What I do know, though, is that the t-shirt I bought after the show is now a symbol of my nostalgic love of what Chris Cornell was and the music he once made. I am no longer a fan of the new Chris Cornell. **
That said, I've also been considering lately what it is about Incubus that I responded to so strongly this past summer. As I've mentioned before, I've known of the band for several years and never gave them a serious listen. I've written already about what made a couple of particular tunes jump out and grab my attention a few months ago, but as I began buying and listening to the rest of their catalog, I began to think about which elements of their music turned my initial reaction into a full-blown addiction. As with every other band with which I've been obsessed over the years, it comes down to the same two things: Words and a voice. (See part II, if you're so inclined)
** I feel that I should add some kind of caveat to the statement that I'm no longer a fan of Chris Cornell, since it was very hard to write that. As my Incubus obsession levels off, I know that I will definitely continue listening to Soundgarden and other Cornell music previous to the second Audioslave album. And if I hear that the guy transforms again and quits acting like such a fucking Rock Star, I'll certainly give his next album a fair listen. Until then, I am a confirmed Incubus addict.
November 11, 2007
It's done: From Cornell... (Part I)
November 4, 2007
Impermanence in WV
Had a surprise on today's drive. After breakfast in Shep'town, I set out to cruise some back roads I first explored a couple of weeks ago. At one point along this curvy little set of roller-coasters during that October drive, I had to slow down for a young boy of 9 or 10 who was playing basketball in the road. As he moseyed off the blacktop, I glanced at what I assumed was his home. There in the midst of farmland sprinkled with nice, somewhat aged, little single-family homes, was a stereotypical West Virginia trailer-cum-shack, complete with junk-strewn front yard. At the edge of the yard, apparently for the kid's entertainment, they'd erected a basketball hoop facing out into the road. Having been the only obstacle to an otherwise smoothly flowing cruise, the boy stayed on my mind for a while that afternoon.
So today I'm flying along the same road and remember that, not sure exactly where, but somewhere, I'm going to need to watch out in case that kid's out in the middle of the road again. Cresting a small rise, I recognize the spot and am taken aback. Not only is there no boy with a basketball, but the trailer/shack is nothing but charred black bits pointing up at a roofless sky, in the middle of all those piles of junk.
And the basketball hoop is still there, on top of its pole along the edge of the road.
November 2, 2007
November 2nd haiku
Another great hike today that inspired a bit of haiku. Too bad the poem's not as good as the hike was
Hot November sun
A deer snorts in the distance
Sycamores applaud
Ya had to be there.
October 27, 2007
Aimless meandering
Had a good hike today. Three days of rain cleared into a beautiful autumn day, so I hit the woods and let both my feet and my mind wander. Passed a couple of guys in the parking lot who were donning camo gear for some bow hunting in the area, and that prompted the majority of my mental ramblings. (Disclaimer: As with everything else I post here, what I'm about to state are my own opinions and ideas, and they're not even terribly well informed ones, at that. I'm not looking to offend anyone with these opinions, I'm just putting my thoughts into words. So, my apologies in advance to any cattle ranchers or Bambi fans who may be reading.)
I decided long ago that I have no problem with hunters, even when their hunting grounds coincide with my hiking trails (Becoming common practice where I live. The deer population is huge.). Poachers and trophy hunters disgust me, but someone who goes out with a bow and spends the time to familiarise themself with the animal's habits, learns to think like the animal, and then actually makes use of the meat after the kill, seems to have more respect for the animal (though I don't generally poll the hunters I meet on their intentions and practices, so for all I know the guys I saw today were just looking to score a big rack). Since humankind was stupid enough to kill off most of our predatory competitors, we've put ourselves in the position of having to control the populations of herbivores like the whitetail. Controlled, managed hunting culls the population and helps to maintain the health of the herd. That's how nature intended it, and by decimating fellow predatory species we perverted the cycle of life. Hunting somewhat helps to restore it.
Another element of this equation is the whole meat-eating question. I've been considering this more and more frequently and, as usual, I'm conflicted about it. I vaguely remember my parents dabbling in vegetarianism at one point back when I was a kid. Or at least Mom did. Dad's always been one of those guys you see in the current Wendy's ads, screaming for meat as if it were the source of all manliness. But anyway... Since I began reading about Buddhism and the Yogic concept of ahimsa, you'd think that going veg-o would be a natural course of action. Thing is, though, that I don't necessarily believe that humankind isn't supposed to eat meat. I believe that we evolved to be omnivorous, similarly to bears and raccoons. We developed rudimentary canine teeth and the ability to digest meat proteins. Our bodies actually require a certain amount of protein to function properly. Evolution just did not develop us to be herbivorous grazers. Where we went astray, though, was in allowing our appetite to consume us.
Think about it. In the beginning, humans had to work for their meat. It was a "special occasion" kind of thing, depending on the success of the hunt. But that bit of protein helped our brains to grow, and we ironically became smart enough to begin coralling and domesticating some of our more gentle, less-skittish protein sources. From that point on, meat became a staple in our diets and the Big Mac was the unfortunately inevitable outcome.
It's always our intelligence that gets us in trouble. From throwing up a fence, we moved on to members of the tribe learning to specialize in butchery and, voila!, the Meat Industry was born. What we have today is such a perversion of our original instincts that it's almost on a par with the atomic bomb coming from the ideas of someone like Einstein. Not only have we industrialized our consumption of something we originally had to work for, we've allowed that industry to become a filthy, corrupt thing that's cruel to the animals in question and, by ironic extension, hazardous to ourselves. (What's being fed to animals raised for consumption is disgusting and frightening. And that doesn't even get into the chemicals and antibiotics they're pumped up with.)
But what's a lazy slob like me to do? I hate to admit it, but I'm a slave to convenience. If I can't nuke it, order it, or pick it up at the drive-through, then I don't eat (cereal and fruit are nifty alternatives, though). This doesn't mean that I can't cook, just that I choose not to. I go through periodic phases when I make use of a few pots and pans and my handy-dandy George Foreman grill. It ain't gourmet, but I can make some fairly tasty meals. But then there are all those pots and pans and dishes to clean up... I'll admit it again: I'm a lazy slob. For someone like me, going vegetarian is decidedly challenging. Until Chick-Fil-A changes its name to Tofu-Fil-A, I'm a pawn to an industry that I'd rather have no part of.
And that's what it comes down to. For me, if I were to get off my lazy ass and make the decision to go veg-o, it would be as a boycott of Meat Industry practices, not out of any ahims-ic feelings towards my fellow creatures. I'll emphasize, again: I feel that truly needless killing is reprehensible. But if a bear or a wolf or a lion can remorselessly consume an animal that sits lower down the food chain, I can as well. And when I'm mindful enough to stop and think about it, I try to do so with respect and gratitude towards that animal. I'll admit, though, that my conscience would rest more easily if I were out there working for it, rather than having it neatly sliced, diced, and packaged, then handed to me at the drive-through.
Life feeds on life feeds on life...
So, spending much of today's hike pondering my feelings on this subject was a good break for me. It predominated my thoughts, allowing only a short time to brood over a sick cat, necessary home repairs, and problems at work and the terribly un-skillful ways in which I've been dealing with them. Another good distraction was a very cool animal encounter. I had stopped for a bit to just take in my surroundings, when I caught the flap of large wings out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head in time to see a Barred Owl settle on the limb of a tree just a couple hundred feet away. There were a few leafy branches between us, but I was able to very quietly maneuver myself to an angle at which I could see its eyes as it turned its head from side to side. At one point I let out a low whistle and it turned to stare directly towards me. Then, stupidly, I tried to slowly move a few steps to get a clearer view, which prompted it to spread its wings and swoop off to a further tree. So I apologized for disturbing it and hit the trail.
I decided long ago that I have no problem with hunters, even when their hunting grounds coincide with my hiking trails (Becoming common practice where I live. The deer population is huge.). Poachers and trophy hunters disgust me, but someone who goes out with a bow and spends the time to familiarise themself with the animal's habits, learns to think like the animal, and then actually makes use of the meat after the kill, seems to have more respect for the animal (though I don't generally poll the hunters I meet on their intentions and practices, so for all I know the guys I saw today were just looking to score a big rack). Since humankind was stupid enough to kill off most of our predatory competitors, we've put ourselves in the position of having to control the populations of herbivores like the whitetail. Controlled, managed hunting culls the population and helps to maintain the health of the herd. That's how nature intended it, and by decimating fellow predatory species we perverted the cycle of life. Hunting somewhat helps to restore it.
Another element of this equation is the whole meat-eating question. I've been considering this more and more frequently and, as usual, I'm conflicted about it. I vaguely remember my parents dabbling in vegetarianism at one point back when I was a kid. Or at least Mom did. Dad's always been one of those guys you see in the current Wendy's ads, screaming for meat as if it were the source of all manliness. But anyway... Since I began reading about Buddhism and the Yogic concept of ahimsa, you'd think that going veg-o would be a natural course of action. Thing is, though, that I don't necessarily believe that humankind isn't supposed to eat meat. I believe that we evolved to be omnivorous, similarly to bears and raccoons. We developed rudimentary canine teeth and the ability to digest meat proteins. Our bodies actually require a certain amount of protein to function properly. Evolution just did not develop us to be herbivorous grazers. Where we went astray, though, was in allowing our appetite to consume us.
Think about it. In the beginning, humans had to work for their meat. It was a "special occasion" kind of thing, depending on the success of the hunt. But that bit of protein helped our brains to grow, and we ironically became smart enough to begin coralling and domesticating some of our more gentle, less-skittish protein sources. From that point on, meat became a staple in our diets and the Big Mac was the unfortunately inevitable outcome.
It's always our intelligence that gets us in trouble. From throwing up a fence, we moved on to members of the tribe learning to specialize in butchery and, voila!, the Meat Industry was born. What we have today is such a perversion of our original instincts that it's almost on a par with the atomic bomb coming from the ideas of someone like Einstein. Not only have we industrialized our consumption of something we originally had to work for, we've allowed that industry to become a filthy, corrupt thing that's cruel to the animals in question and, by ironic extension, hazardous to ourselves. (What's being fed to animals raised for consumption is disgusting and frightening. And that doesn't even get into the chemicals and antibiotics they're pumped up with.)
But what's a lazy slob like me to do? I hate to admit it, but I'm a slave to convenience. If I can't nuke it, order it, or pick it up at the drive-through, then I don't eat (cereal and fruit are nifty alternatives, though). This doesn't mean that I can't cook, just that I choose not to. I go through periodic phases when I make use of a few pots and pans and my handy-dandy George Foreman grill. It ain't gourmet, but I can make some fairly tasty meals. But then there are all those pots and pans and dishes to clean up... I'll admit it again: I'm a lazy slob. For someone like me, going vegetarian is decidedly challenging. Until Chick-Fil-A changes its name to Tofu-Fil-A, I'm a pawn to an industry that I'd rather have no part of.
And that's what it comes down to. For me, if I were to get off my lazy ass and make the decision to go veg-o, it would be as a boycott of Meat Industry practices, not out of any ahims-ic feelings towards my fellow creatures. I'll emphasize, again: I feel that truly needless killing is reprehensible. But if a bear or a wolf or a lion can remorselessly consume an animal that sits lower down the food chain, I can as well. And when I'm mindful enough to stop and think about it, I try to do so with respect and gratitude towards that animal. I'll admit, though, that my conscience would rest more easily if I were out there working for it, rather than having it neatly sliced, diced, and packaged, then handed to me at the drive-through.
Life feeds on life feeds on life...
So, spending much of today's hike pondering my feelings on this subject was a good break for me. It predominated my thoughts, allowing only a short time to brood over a sick cat, necessary home repairs, and problems at work and the terribly un-skillful ways in which I've been dealing with them. Another good distraction was a very cool animal encounter. I had stopped for a bit to just take in my surroundings, when I caught the flap of large wings out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head in time to see a Barred Owl settle on the limb of a tree just a couple hundred feet away. There were a few leafy branches between us, but I was able to very quietly maneuver myself to an angle at which I could see its eyes as it turned its head from side to side. At one point I let out a low whistle and it turned to stare directly towards me. Then, stupidly, I tried to slowly move a few steps to get a clearer view, which prompted it to spread its wings and swoop off to a further tree. So I apologized for disturbing it and hit the trail.
October 9, 2007
Recent experiences in mind-expansion
In the last handful of days, I've been to two very intense, moving, and thought-provoking exhibits. It's going to be hard to convey the full impact of them, but hopefully I can get at least some of it across.
First of the two is the latest exhibit at the American Visionary Arts Museum (AVAM), "All Faiths Beautiful" (photos from the opening, apparently). I had been slightly disappointed by the last two year's exhibits at AVAM, but this one is special from the first step beyond the entrance. In addition, I had the pleasure of experiencing it with a new internet acquaintance with whom I was very much on the same wave-length. From the items we reacted to, to the connections we made with pieces, there were repeated moments of synchronicity as we wandered through the galleries. As I've written here before, I'm often hesitant to share with others things that are meaningful to me for fear that the experience will be diminished by that person not "getting it". Having this person along definitely made the experience richer and lots of fun to boot (thanks, Leo!).
So, the exhibit begins with a stream of postcards from the PostSecret project, chosen specifically for their reference to the sender's issues with faith. The secrets shared ranged from hilarious to heart-rending and were very touching to read. At the top of the entrance ramp, before entering the galleries, a sign explains that this year's exhibit is dedicated to the middle-eastern spiritual poet, Rumi, to celebrate the 800th anniversary of his birth. I've read about Rumi in the yoga and Buddhism magazines I subscribe to, but I had never been drawn into reading anything from Rumi. After this introduction to him, it's time.
Immediately beyond the ramp and across from the stairs, AVAM hung the lone Alex Grey piece in this exhibit, "Transfiguration". I've seen a few other of Grey's works at the gallery ("Gaia" and "Cosmic Christ", both presented in the same terrific spot by the stairs) and each one has left me in awe. It's impossible to conceive either the detail or the overall beauty of his work in the tiny images linked here. The man's work is profound and amazing.
The walls along the stairs leading to the upper exhibit floors are lined with more cards from PostSecret. They're a fantastic exhibit all to themselves, but they're only the beginning. The review in the Baltimore Sun really describes the entire show better than I can, but there were a few highlights that really stuck with me. One in particular is the art of Fred Kahler. The detail of Kahler's pieces is mind-boggling. I've often walked through AVAM and imagined the various artists hunched for hours and hours over their work, compelled to create by the power of their vision (AVAM recognizes this same impression, with a separate exhibit of permanent works entitled "OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Delight"). Just as many hours could be spent inspecting, analysing and comprehending works like Kahler's. Amazing stuff.
Another hightlight is the room of Rumi. The combination of Rumi's words with gorgeous imagery is fantastic. Being with someone at the time, I didn't take advantage of the pillows along the wall, but on my second visit I may have to pull one out to the middle of the room to sit and soak it all up.
Another excellent discovery of the day was later at the Fell's Point Festival (longest running street festival on the east coast, apparently). There are always several booths of wonderful photographers, but the works of Christos Palios were the most fantastic I saw. Very Escher-esque pieces that are as trippy as they are beautiful. It's definitely worth the time to explore the portfolio area at his site.
Today's incredible experience was attending Bodies, The Exhibit. At first glance, the exhibits appear to be very thoroughly detailed models. The colors of the muscles and other tissues have a faded appearance that makes them seem fake (whether this is their true color or from exposure to light, dust, etc, I don't know). As I looked closer, though, certain details became apparent that drove home the reality: The hairs on the shin of a human skin laid out sans body; thick, horney-looking toenails on the foot of an otherwise flayed body; eyelashes on another. From that point on, my thoughts veered between fascination and morbidity through the rest of the exhibit. The information accompanying the exhibits is very detail and informative, and actually seeing the veins, tendons, muscles, organs and skeletal structures was wonderfully instructive. But then I'd catch myself thinking that a gluteus muscle looked just like a flank steak, or that a cross-section cut of thigh looked like a slice of ham (with the center bone, marrow, and all).
The circulatory gallery, though, was more beautiful than morbid. I don't remember the exact name and details of the process used to create this portion of the exhibit, but in a nutshell-- A fluid is injected into the veins that colors and hardens them. The body is then immersed in a solution that dissolves everything except the hardened veins. The result is an amazing mesh of tiny, intricately branching veins in the rough form of a human body, heart, lungs, etc. It looks as if it can't possibly be real and, if it is, as if there wouldn't be room within the body for all of those veins along with skeleton, muscles and organs.
As much fun as the exhibit itself was riding the subway home afterwards and trying to picture what was under the skin of the people all around me. What would that heavy-set person look like in a cross-section cut? Do that person's lungs look like the healthy ones exhibited, or are they black like the smoker's lungs displayed? Mind-blowing stuff, and so worth the visit. See it if you can.
I've ended up the evening sitting in front of the computer tripping myself out over the Win Media Player visualizations dancing along to Incubus' "Calgone". Damn, man, who the f' needs drugs? I mean, really. Experiences such as I've had the last few days do it for me with no controlled substances necessary
October 7, 2007
The annual pilgrimage, 2007
I've let two weeks go by before making time to write about this year's annual pilgimage out to western Md. Life is freaking busy these days.
So, anyway, the pilgrimage. I first vacationed in western Md roughly ten years ago. I had moved into my grandmother's basement apartment as a 6-year relationship was in the process of crumbling (he wanted kids, I didn't), only to find that Grandma had just been diagnosed with cancer. So, at some point during that chaotic period, I picked up a brochure advertising "The Mountain Side of Maryland". Sounded damned good to me, so I booked a room at the Cumberland Holiday Inn and mapped a route of back roads through Va and WV up into Md. I've been in love with that area ever since and have spread my exploration over into Garrett County and up into Fayette County, Pa. Cumberland remains "home base", and I head in a different direction each day for exploration and adventure via car, bike and foot.
With so many great options, I usually cross my fingers for good weather and go for 4-5 days. This year's been another chaotic one, though, and I was only able to arrange a 3-day pilgrimage. Ma Nature blessed me with good weather, though, so while short, it was definitely sweet.
Thursday's adventure was a ride along the C&O Canal towpath from Little Orleans to the Paw Paw Tunnel. I've been riding the towpath in sections for the last several years, and there was one little stretch between these two locations that had been eluding me. I'd been needing to do this ride to finally link everything up and be able to say I've ridden the entire length from Great Falls to Cumberland (I have no interest in riding the section between D.C. and Great Falls, I'd rather head away from the city). This is a beautiful, solitary section, and the half-mile long, pitch-black tunnel is a real highlight.
Heading into the tunnel at the downstream end:
Within the tunnel (taken with flash):
Coming back out, heading downstream:
Further downstream:
And even further downstream:
Headed from there into Cumberland, checked into the hotel, then up to LaVale for dinner at the Texas Grillhouse. The place is a cowboy-themed chain and I wouldn't bother to mention it except that they consistently have the absolute best snowcrab legs I've ever eaten. Full of dense, sweet meat, and perfectly cooked so that you're able to pull out nice big chunks of meat to dip in the melted butter. After a good long bike ride, it's a decadently luxurious meal (yet somewhat healthy when combined with a baked sweet potato and applesauce) and I truly look forward to it each year.
The second day's ride was along the last completed stretch of the Great Allegheny Passage trail from Cumberland to Frostburg. I've ridden this trail west of Frostburg (my blog of that ride) and up in Fayette County, Pa, but this last 15 or so miles was just completed over the winter of 2006. It turned out to be a steeper grade than I expected, though, (I'd estimate 2-3%, more in some spots) and I ended up pooping out and turning around just 3 miles from Frostburg. Took me 2 hours and a whole lot of breaks to pedal 12 miles uphill, but only a bit over a half-hour to head back down.
In the mountains, along the tracks:
My trusty steed:
The evening consisted of a wander around Cumberland at dusk, then ordering room service and watching Spiderman III on pay-per-view.
Historic downtown Cumberland at dusk:
After cycling two days in a row, I weenied out of a third and headed back east a ways to Berkely Springs, WV. For the past several years, my Cumberland trips have begun with a massage at The Bath House (These pilgrimages may be solitary, but they are most definitely not ascetic). This year, though, all the time and money spent with the chiropractor made me feel I couldn't justify this particular luxury at this time. When my thighs turned to lead on the uphill to Frostburg, though, I changed my mind and decided to have myself kneaded into a lump of blissed-out clay after all.
After that, another indulgence-- Warm Brie, apple and almond salad at Tari's Cafe. And after that, I chose to partake in a bit of my favorite drug: Adrenaline, induced by high speed on smooth pavement. Instead of driving the highway back to Cumberland, I turned off to take a run up and down mountainous rural route 9 through WV. My trusty little Honda Civic flowed through the repeated 'S' curves like water, while Incubus cranked through the stereo. Brandon Boyd's no Chris Cornell (Edit 11/11/07: I've since changed that opinion), but he's got a sweet, fresh set of pipes nonetheless. A few choruses of "Nice to Know You", along with a couple of high-speed passes of slower pick-up trucks, and I was quite high.
After coming down, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Rudyard Kipling at a table in front of the Mountain City Coffehouse in Frostburg (with Jasmine tea and Belgian waffle with chocolate chips for dinner). When I first began these trips, it was the Tombstone Cafe, a funky little coffee joint geared towards the local college kids. The tiny little building, next door to St. Michael's church, originally housed the town's headstone carver. It's been through a few incarnations over the last decade, ending up as Mountain City, which seems to cater less to the funky college crowd and more to their yuppie parents.
Funny how the definition of "Yuppie" has expanded, at least in my mind. Originally coined to describe "Young Urban Professionals", it now encompasses, for me at least, a decidedly vaster age and geographic range. I find myself appying the term to 40- & 50-somethings piloting mini-vans and Hummers through the suburbs. What acronym would be more accurate? M.A.S.T.-ies (Middle-Aged Surburban Twits)? And how about the SUV-driving, born-again hippies who guzzle gas on their way to Whole Foods? That bunch makes me feel almost affectionate towards the born'n'bred country locals rumbling around in their pickup trucks. They seem somehow less hypocritical and disingenuous.
And yet, where do I get off judging the people around me in this way? Me, who dodges group identification as if it were a plague and fastidiously avoids labeling myself in any way, how can I so easily classify individuals about whom I know nothing but what I imagine I see in a quick glimpse? Like Camus' "judge-penitent", I'm cynical enough to exercise hypocrisy with impunity (and tongue firmly in cheek).
"[My words] have the purpose of...avoiding judgement personally, though there is apparently no escape. Is not the great thing that stands in the way of escaping it the fact that we are the first to condemn ourselves? Therefore it is essential to begin by extending the condemnation to all, without distinction..." (Albert Camus, The Fall)
To shake off the bitter direction my thoughts were taking, I headed out for an evening drive before my last night in Cumberland. In addition to being a great high, driving's also a meditative and relaxing activity for me. I often think that if I could just keep driving, all the need for judgement and condemnation would just fall away somewhere around the next bend...
"Nice to Know You"
Better than watching Gellar bending silver spoons
Better than witnessing newborn nebulaes in bloom
She who sees from up high smiles and surely sings
Perspective pries your once weighty eyes
And it gives you wings
I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you
Goodbye, nice to know you
Deeper than the deepest Cousteau would ever go
And higher than the heights of what we often think we know
Blessed she who clearly sees the wood for the trees
To obtain a birds eye is to turn a blizzard to a breeze
I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you
Goodbye, nice to know you
So could it be that it has been there all along?
So, anyway, the pilgrimage. I first vacationed in western Md roughly ten years ago. I had moved into my grandmother's basement apartment as a 6-year relationship was in the process of crumbling (he wanted kids, I didn't), only to find that Grandma had just been diagnosed with cancer. So, at some point during that chaotic period, I picked up a brochure advertising "The Mountain Side of Maryland". Sounded damned good to me, so I booked a room at the Cumberland Holiday Inn and mapped a route of back roads through Va and WV up into Md. I've been in love with that area ever since and have spread my exploration over into Garrett County and up into Fayette County, Pa. Cumberland remains "home base", and I head in a different direction each day for exploration and adventure via car, bike and foot.
With so many great options, I usually cross my fingers for good weather and go for 4-5 days. This year's been another chaotic one, though, and I was only able to arrange a 3-day pilgrimage. Ma Nature blessed me with good weather, though, so while short, it was definitely sweet.
Thursday's adventure was a ride along the C&O Canal towpath from Little Orleans to the Paw Paw Tunnel. I've been riding the towpath in sections for the last several years, and there was one little stretch between these two locations that had been eluding me. I'd been needing to do this ride to finally link everything up and be able to say I've ridden the entire length from Great Falls to Cumberland (I have no interest in riding the section between D.C. and Great Falls, I'd rather head away from the city). This is a beautiful, solitary section, and the half-mile long, pitch-black tunnel is a real highlight.
Heading into the tunnel at the downstream end:
Within the tunnel (taken with flash):
Coming back out, heading downstream:
Further downstream:
And even further downstream:
Headed from there into Cumberland, checked into the hotel, then up to LaVale for dinner at the Texas Grillhouse. The place is a cowboy-themed chain and I wouldn't bother to mention it except that they consistently have the absolute best snowcrab legs I've ever eaten. Full of dense, sweet meat, and perfectly cooked so that you're able to pull out nice big chunks of meat to dip in the melted butter. After a good long bike ride, it's a decadently luxurious meal (yet somewhat healthy when combined with a baked sweet potato and applesauce) and I truly look forward to it each year.
The second day's ride was along the last completed stretch of the Great Allegheny Passage trail from Cumberland to Frostburg. I've ridden this trail west of Frostburg (my blog of that ride) and up in Fayette County, Pa, but this last 15 or so miles was just completed over the winter of 2006. It turned out to be a steeper grade than I expected, though, (I'd estimate 2-3%, more in some spots) and I ended up pooping out and turning around just 3 miles from Frostburg. Took me 2 hours and a whole lot of breaks to pedal 12 miles uphill, but only a bit over a half-hour to head back down.
In the mountains, along the tracks:
My trusty steed:
The evening consisted of a wander around Cumberland at dusk, then ordering room service and watching Spiderman III on pay-per-view.
Historic downtown Cumberland at dusk:
After cycling two days in a row, I weenied out of a third and headed back east a ways to Berkely Springs, WV. For the past several years, my Cumberland trips have begun with a massage at The Bath House (These pilgrimages may be solitary, but they are most definitely not ascetic). This year, though, all the time and money spent with the chiropractor made me feel I couldn't justify this particular luxury at this time. When my thighs turned to lead on the uphill to Frostburg, though, I changed my mind and decided to have myself kneaded into a lump of blissed-out clay after all.
After that, another indulgence-- Warm Brie, apple and almond salad at Tari's Cafe. And after that, I chose to partake in a bit of my favorite drug: Adrenaline, induced by high speed on smooth pavement. Instead of driving the highway back to Cumberland, I turned off to take a run up and down mountainous rural route 9 through WV. My trusty little Honda Civic flowed through the repeated 'S' curves like water, while Incubus cranked through the stereo. Brandon Boyd's no Chris Cornell (Edit 11/11/07: I've since changed that opinion), but he's got a sweet, fresh set of pipes nonetheless. A few choruses of "Nice to Know You", along with a couple of high-speed passes of slower pick-up trucks, and I was quite high.
After coming down, I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Rudyard Kipling at a table in front of the Mountain City Coffehouse in Frostburg (with Jasmine tea and Belgian waffle with chocolate chips for dinner). When I first began these trips, it was the Tombstone Cafe, a funky little coffee joint geared towards the local college kids. The tiny little building, next door to St. Michael's church, originally housed the town's headstone carver. It's been through a few incarnations over the last decade, ending up as Mountain City, which seems to cater less to the funky college crowd and more to their yuppie parents.
Funny how the definition of "Yuppie" has expanded, at least in my mind. Originally coined to describe "Young Urban Professionals", it now encompasses, for me at least, a decidedly vaster age and geographic range. I find myself appying the term to 40- & 50-somethings piloting mini-vans and Hummers through the suburbs. What acronym would be more accurate? M.A.S.T.-ies (Middle-Aged Surburban Twits)? And how about the SUV-driving, born-again hippies who guzzle gas on their way to Whole Foods? That bunch makes me feel almost affectionate towards the born'n'bred country locals rumbling around in their pickup trucks. They seem somehow less hypocritical and disingenuous.
And yet, where do I get off judging the people around me in this way? Me, who dodges group identification as if it were a plague and fastidiously avoids labeling myself in any way, how can I so easily classify individuals about whom I know nothing but what I imagine I see in a quick glimpse? Like Camus' "judge-penitent", I'm cynical enough to exercise hypocrisy with impunity (and tongue firmly in cheek).
"[My words] have the purpose of...avoiding judgement personally, though there is apparently no escape. Is not the great thing that stands in the way of escaping it the fact that we are the first to condemn ourselves? Therefore it is essential to begin by extending the condemnation to all, without distinction..." (Albert Camus, The Fall)
To shake off the bitter direction my thoughts were taking, I headed out for an evening drive before my last night in Cumberland. In addition to being a great high, driving's also a meditative and relaxing activity for me. I often think that if I could just keep driving, all the need for judgement and condemnation would just fall away somewhere around the next bend...
"Nice to Know You"
Better than watching Gellar bending silver spoons
Better than witnessing newborn nebulaes in bloom
She who sees from up high smiles and surely sings
Perspective pries your once weighty eyes
And it gives you wings
I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you
Goodbye, nice to know you
Deeper than the deepest Cousteau would ever go
And higher than the heights of what we often think we know
Blessed she who clearly sees the wood for the trees
To obtain a birds eye is to turn a blizzard to a breeze
I haven't felt the way I feel today in so long
It's hard for me to specify
I'm beginning to notice
How much this feels like a waking limb
Pins and needles, nice to know you
Goodbye, nice to know you
So could it be that it has been there all along?
September 13, 2007
Another weekend in Pennsylvania
A software training class for work sent me back up to Pennsylvania this past weekend, this time to King of Prussia, home to the East Coast's Premier Shopping Destination. From what I could see, there's almost no town to speak of in K of P, just a bunch of industrial/office parks and that frighteningly humongous mall. But... The location of the training class was less than half a mile from the entrance to Valley Forge National Historical Park. Wow. I didn't know what to expect, and ended up just blown away by this park.
I drove up Sunday morning, arriving about noon, checked into the hotel, then immediately drove over to the park. As with July's Philly weekend, I had considered bringing my bike. The park map showed a handful of miles of paved multi-use trail, and the Schuyllkill River Trail was smack-dab across the river from the park (back in July, the waylaid plan was to ride from Philly to Valley Forge on the Schuyllkill). Again, though, the weather forecast was iffy and I didn't feel like worrying about wet bike components so far from home (and from proper cleaning/lubing supplies). So, the bike stayed home and I ended up regretting that decision. The park and its trails were fantastic.
Like the US Civil War battlefield parks closer to home, the landscape is absolutely beautiful.
Rolling hills rise up south of the river, and in the center of them lies the valley of Washington's encampment interspersed by woods and open meadows. At the last minute, I did decide to bring my camera in place of the bike. Unfortunately, though, I didn't think to bring the battery charger. Went through both batteries Sunday afternoon, and kept finding spots that I was dying to photograph but couldn't. Knowing that the training sessions on Monday and Tuesday let out at 4:30pm, I was severely tempted to pop into the freaking humongous mall and buy a new camera just so I could shoot those two afternoons, but managed to restrain myself (found out that Sony's discontinued both my camera and the batteries it uses, dammit). So, I didn't get all the photos I wanted, but did spend a lot of time driving and wandering around the park. Of note:
- There were deer everywhere. Now, I'm used to seeing a lot of whitetails. I've had deer right outside my suburban front door on several occasions. So when I say there were a lot of deer in this park, I mean there were a lot of deer. They wandered in pairs and groups across the road and stood grazing just along the edge as cars and pedestrians cruised right by them. The most blasé, nonchalant deer I've ever seen:
- Drove through the park at 6:30am Monday morning, heading to a breakfast spot recommended by an old-timer working in the visitor's center. The valley was filled by a thick, cottony-white blanket of fog that had totally dispersed by the time I drove back an hour later. The breakfast spot was very cool: A place called the 'G' Lodge, that's temporarily going by the name of "Filbert's". Apparently, M. Night Shyamalan recently filmed scenes at the restaurant for the upcoming film The Happening, and the owner hasn't yet taken down the signs used for the movie. The food is unfortunately only mediocre, but the atmosphere was very M. Night. Very rustic and lodge-like inside, the place has obviously been there for a long time. It looks cozy from the exterior, but inside is vaguely creepy. Adding to that sensation were the four regulars at the counter, gentlemen who appeared as old and rustic as the 'G' Lodge itself, and who sat and ate their breakfasts in stone-cold silence. I've never eaten in a quieter place. Wanted to get a photo to show that I ate in the restaurant that's going to be in The Happening, but because the camera batteries died you'll just have to take my word for it.
- Another spot that had me fuming over the camera batteries was the Washington Memorial Chapel. Wandering over from Varnum's Quarters on Sunday afternoon, I found a very pretty cemetery tucked into the woods behind Route 23:
Turns out, it's part of the chapel. And, of course, there were deer:
Wandering back toward the car, I stopped for some photos of the old rectory:
Continuing down the road, I almost gave myself whiplash when the chapel itself came into view. It was already closed by that time, but the architecture and grounds are the real draw:
It was at this point that I really began cussing. I managed one single freaking photo of this beautifully haunting statue before the camera died on me:
Reason number 1 that I need to go back for another long weekend: to do a full photo study of that statue. Reason number 2 is the gorgeous Kennedy Supplee mansion across from the visitor's center. Apparently once a restaurant, the building now sits shamefully empty and abandoned. I'd really love to know why. And, reason number 3 is to ride my bike!!!
Also of note on this trip was having dinner with a new on-line pal (one of the folks I met at the Philly Chris Cornell show in July). I've been on quite the friend-making spree this year, between my cycling/kayaking buddies and the people at the Cornell forum. So far it's been fun getting to know these people and spending time with them, but I still can't get used to the scheduling issues. My calendar for the next couple of months is getting pretty crowded and I need to make sure I leave some days to be on my own. All this socializing leaves little time for introspection, which means less self-absorbed blogs. And that'd be a pity
More and larger photos here.
I drove up Sunday morning, arriving about noon, checked into the hotel, then immediately drove over to the park. As with July's Philly weekend, I had considered bringing my bike. The park map showed a handful of miles of paved multi-use trail, and the Schuyllkill River Trail was smack-dab across the river from the park (back in July, the waylaid plan was to ride from Philly to Valley Forge on the Schuyllkill). Again, though, the weather forecast was iffy and I didn't feel like worrying about wet bike components so far from home (and from proper cleaning/lubing supplies). So, the bike stayed home and I ended up regretting that decision. The park and its trails were fantastic.
Rolling hills rise up south of the river, and in the center of them lies the valley of Washington's encampment interspersed by woods and open meadows. At the last minute, I did decide to bring my camera in place of the bike. Unfortunately, though, I didn't think to bring the battery charger. Went through both batteries Sunday afternoon, and kept finding spots that I was dying to photograph but couldn't. Knowing that the training sessions on Monday and Tuesday let out at 4:30pm, I was severely tempted to pop into the freaking humongous mall and buy a new camera just so I could shoot those two afternoons, but managed to restrain myself (found out that Sony's discontinued both my camera and the batteries it uses, dammit). So, I didn't get all the photos I wanted, but did spend a lot of time driving and wandering around the park. Of note:
- There were deer everywhere. Now, I'm used to seeing a lot of whitetails. I've had deer right outside my suburban front door on several occasions. So when I say there were a lot of deer in this park, I mean there were a lot of deer. They wandered in pairs and groups across the road and stood grazing just along the edge as cars and pedestrians cruised right by them. The most blasé, nonchalant deer I've ever seen:
- Drove through the park at 6:30am Monday morning, heading to a breakfast spot recommended by an old-timer working in the visitor's center. The valley was filled by a thick, cottony-white blanket of fog that had totally dispersed by the time I drove back an hour later. The breakfast spot was very cool: A place called the 'G' Lodge, that's temporarily going by the name of "Filbert's". Apparently, M. Night Shyamalan recently filmed scenes at the restaurant for the upcoming film The Happening, and the owner hasn't yet taken down the signs used for the movie. The food is unfortunately only mediocre, but the atmosphere was very M. Night. Very rustic and lodge-like inside, the place has obviously been there for a long time. It looks cozy from the exterior, but inside is vaguely creepy. Adding to that sensation were the four regulars at the counter, gentlemen who appeared as old and rustic as the 'G' Lodge itself, and who sat and ate their breakfasts in stone-cold silence. I've never eaten in a quieter place. Wanted to get a photo to show that I ate in the restaurant that's going to be in The Happening, but because the camera batteries died you'll just have to take my word for it.
- Another spot that had me fuming over the camera batteries was the Washington Memorial Chapel. Wandering over from Varnum's Quarters on Sunday afternoon, I found a very pretty cemetery tucked into the woods behind Route 23:
Turns out, it's part of the chapel. And, of course, there were deer:
Wandering back toward the car, I stopped for some photos of the old rectory:
Continuing down the road, I almost gave myself whiplash when the chapel itself came into view. It was already closed by that time, but the architecture and grounds are the real draw:
It was at this point that I really began cussing. I managed one single freaking photo of this beautifully haunting statue before the camera died on me:
Also of note on this trip was having dinner with a new on-line pal (one of the folks I met at the Philly Chris Cornell show in July). I've been on quite the friend-making spree this year, between my cycling/kayaking buddies and the people at the Cornell forum. So far it's been fun getting to know these people and spending time with them, but I still can't get used to the scheduling issues. My calendar for the next couple of months is getting pretty crowded and I need to make sure I leave some days to be on my own. All this socializing leaves little time for introspection, which means less self-absorbed blogs. And that'd be a pity
More and larger photos here.
August 1, 2007
Philly weekend: Sunday (with Chris Cornell)
Sunday in Philly was much less busy and more focused. Started out with eggs and scrapple (a Philly favorite!) at the Midtown IV 24-hour cocktail lounge/restaurant. Let me repeat: a 24-hour cocktail lounge/restaurant. In the middle of Center City. There's character for you. By the time I was done it had begun to rain, which created the perfect atmosphere for wandering around a cemetery. Laurel Hill Cemetery, to be precise, a huge, gorgeous hillside spot overlooking the Schuylkill River and Fairmount Park.
With the cemetery wander out of the way, the rest of the day centered around that night's Chris Cornell gig. Not only was I seeing the man perform, I was going to attempt to meet up with folks from the fan forum and try to get a spot up front at the general admission show. I've mentioned before that GA is pretty much the only way I want to see shows anymore, but that there are disadvantages for someone of my height (or lack thereof). So, my plan was to get to the venue and be in line early enough to get up to the rail. Meeting the forum folks there was definitely advantageous, as they took over the front of the line. After over three hours of standing and waiting (under broiling sun, as the rain had totally cleared out), we all managed to get up front and center and were fairly giddy with anticipation.
A bit of digression: I recently made a comment at a Cornell forum about how Chris now writes "happy music", as compared to what came out of Soundgarden and his first solo album. It seems that my comment might have struck a chord with one of my forum mates, as she soon after posted a very thoughtful discussion of the tone of Cornell's recent lyrics and music which, of course, got me thinking about my own off-the-cuff comment. In retrospect, it's not so much Chris' lyrical content that's happy these days (though any fan would have to admit that the love songs to his wife are decidedly cheerful), it's his whole outlook on life and how it permeates the music he's writing now. His lyrics often do still have a dark quality to them, seeing as how he's recently addressed tragic killings along the lines of the Virginia Tech murders ("No Such Thing") and the chaos of war ("Silence the Voices"). Then there are the more obscure, yet eerie and somewhat intimidating, pieces such as "Poison Eye" and "Killing Birds". Even his "bubblegum pop" song, "Arms Around Your Love" isn't a happy chirpy love song, it's a painful depiction of what men often go through when they don't show appreciation for the woman they supposedly love. But the music is so perky in many of these songs, and that's where I think his more optimistic and cheerful attitude is creeping in and coloring his songs. Gone are the swirling, Oriental-influenced tones of pieces like "Pretty Noose" and the pounding assault of "Outshined". They've been replaced in many instances by very upbeat, tap-your-toe rhythms that are sometimes at odds with the lyrical content with which they're paired. In other places, the resigned hopefulness of classic SG lyrics like "The Day I Tried to Live" has been replaced by a more optimistic, rosy-eyed hope such as in "Safe and Sound". Chris is happier, and his music unconsciously reflects that. He can still reach into the dark side of the human soul for lyrical content, but he no longer dwells there and, to my ears, neither does the music he's creating.
I can't recall where I saw it, but I read an interview not too long ago in which Chris mentioned that one of his regrets is that he and the guys in SG didn't get more joy out of what they were doing at the time. That's definitely not the case now. From the moment he hit the stage, the show in Philly was a joyous event. Whether Chris was performing old tunes like "Let Me Drown" and "Spoonman" or new stuff from Carry On, he put his soul into it. He was so obviously enjoying every moment of what he was doing, and carried the audience along with him. Whenever he began that signature move of swinging his head and upper body from side to side like an autistic in self-stim mode, you could tell he was totally absorbed in the music. Being right up front made it a bit hard to hear things clearly, but the man could have been gargling hot razor blades and he still would have been mesmerizing. But he definitely wasn't having any problems with his voice-- even with a less than clear mix and what seemed to me to be sometimes off-key backing vocals, it was apparent that he was hitting every note with that slightly road-wearied, husky voice.
Instead of starting out with a rocking number, as he did in Baltimore with "Cochise", Chris shifted gears and began this show with the dramatic anthem "Silence the Voices". Now, this is one of the songs that I normally skip when listening to Carry On. The lyrics are actually very meaningful and moving, but the music and vocals are so dirge-like and there's some bizarre keyboards (apparently played by Chris himself) that I just can't listen to. Live, though, the song lives up to its lyrics. Without the keyboards and with a slightly quicker tempo, the new band brings more energy to the song, giving it more of an edge to go along with Chris' emotional delivery. From there, he launched into a head-banging performance of "Original Fire", followed by a tune I was ecstatic to hear, the SG classic "Let Me Drown".
One of the highlights of the evening for me was during his short acoustic set. He began to introduce one song by saying that he'd never performed it anywhere for anyone, except for his wife. My first thought was that he was referring to "Finally Forever", but I was delighted when instead he launched into "Roads We Choose" (lyrics n/a), a quirky tune that seems like a love song but that has some slightly strange lyrics. There's been debate on the fan forum as to whether he sings the word "bed" or "debt" at the end of the second verse, so I was intent on watching him sing the song so I could tell once and for all what the word is. As he got to that particular line, I was staring at his lips and… he flubbed it, singing the first line of the verse again as a lead-in to the part about "…all you ever do is treat me with respect." Chris, dude, yer killin' me. In spite of that, though, I loved hearing the acoustic version of the song.
Another touching moment was when he sang "Out of Exile", after explaining that it was about his wife and the baby girl they had together. At one point during the song, he walked to the side of the stage and held out his hand towards someone apparently sitting in the wings. I have to assume that he was trying to lure baby Toni out onto the stage with him, as he's recently done at other shows. He gave up after a few attempts, but it was funny and cute to watch him keep reaching out to someone who clearly was feeling stage-shy.
The rest of the set held few surprises, but every song was performed with energy and dead-on vocals from Chris. The crowd ate it up, even surprising him by launching into an a capella rendition of "Be Yourself" when he faked us out by holding out the mic instead of beginning to sing himself. At the very end, after a three-song encore, many of us refused to disperse even as roadies came out to break down the equipment. We wanted more, and Chris had better come back soon to give it to us.
With the cemetery wander out of the way, the rest of the day centered around that night's Chris Cornell gig. Not only was I seeing the man perform, I was going to attempt to meet up with folks from the fan forum and try to get a spot up front at the general admission show. I've mentioned before that GA is pretty much the only way I want to see shows anymore, but that there are disadvantages for someone of my height (or lack thereof). So, my plan was to get to the venue and be in line early enough to get up to the rail. Meeting the forum folks there was definitely advantageous, as they took over the front of the line. After over three hours of standing and waiting (under broiling sun, as the rain had totally cleared out), we all managed to get up front and center and were fairly giddy with anticipation.
A bit of digression: I recently made a comment at a Cornell forum about how Chris now writes "happy music", as compared to what came out of Soundgarden and his first solo album. It seems that my comment might have struck a chord with one of my forum mates, as she soon after posted a very thoughtful discussion of the tone of Cornell's recent lyrics and music which, of course, got me thinking about my own off-the-cuff comment. In retrospect, it's not so much Chris' lyrical content that's happy these days (though any fan would have to admit that the love songs to his wife are decidedly cheerful), it's his whole outlook on life and how it permeates the music he's writing now. His lyrics often do still have a dark quality to them, seeing as how he's recently addressed tragic killings along the lines of the Virginia Tech murders ("No Such Thing") and the chaos of war ("Silence the Voices"). Then there are the more obscure, yet eerie and somewhat intimidating, pieces such as "Poison Eye" and "Killing Birds". Even his "bubblegum pop" song, "Arms Around Your Love" isn't a happy chirpy love song, it's a painful depiction of what men often go through when they don't show appreciation for the woman they supposedly love. But the music is so perky in many of these songs, and that's where I think his more optimistic and cheerful attitude is creeping in and coloring his songs. Gone are the swirling, Oriental-influenced tones of pieces like "Pretty Noose" and the pounding assault of "Outshined". They've been replaced in many instances by very upbeat, tap-your-toe rhythms that are sometimes at odds with the lyrical content with which they're paired. In other places, the resigned hopefulness of classic SG lyrics like "The Day I Tried to Live" has been replaced by a more optimistic, rosy-eyed hope such as in "Safe and Sound". Chris is happier, and his music unconsciously reflects that. He can still reach into the dark side of the human soul for lyrical content, but he no longer dwells there and, to my ears, neither does the music he's creating.
I can't recall where I saw it, but I read an interview not too long ago in which Chris mentioned that one of his regrets is that he and the guys in SG didn't get more joy out of what they were doing at the time. That's definitely not the case now. From the moment he hit the stage, the show in Philly was a joyous event. Whether Chris was performing old tunes like "Let Me Drown" and "Spoonman" or new stuff from Carry On, he put his soul into it. He was so obviously enjoying every moment of what he was doing, and carried the audience along with him. Whenever he began that signature move of swinging his head and upper body from side to side like an autistic in self-stim mode, you could tell he was totally absorbed in the music. Being right up front made it a bit hard to hear things clearly, but the man could have been gargling hot razor blades and he still would have been mesmerizing. But he definitely wasn't having any problems with his voice-- even with a less than clear mix and what seemed to me to be sometimes off-key backing vocals, it was apparent that he was hitting every note with that slightly road-wearied, husky voice.
Instead of starting out with a rocking number, as he did in Baltimore with "Cochise", Chris shifted gears and began this show with the dramatic anthem "Silence the Voices". Now, this is one of the songs that I normally skip when listening to Carry On. The lyrics are actually very meaningful and moving, but the music and vocals are so dirge-like and there's some bizarre keyboards (apparently played by Chris himself) that I just can't listen to. Live, though, the song lives up to its lyrics. Without the keyboards and with a slightly quicker tempo, the new band brings more energy to the song, giving it more of an edge to go along with Chris' emotional delivery. From there, he launched into a head-banging performance of "Original Fire", followed by a tune I was ecstatic to hear, the SG classic "Let Me Drown".
One of the highlights of the evening for me was during his short acoustic set. He began to introduce one song by saying that he'd never performed it anywhere for anyone, except for his wife. My first thought was that he was referring to "Finally Forever", but I was delighted when instead he launched into "Roads We Choose" (lyrics n/a), a quirky tune that seems like a love song but that has some slightly strange lyrics. There's been debate on the fan forum as to whether he sings the word "bed" or "debt" at the end of the second verse, so I was intent on watching him sing the song so I could tell once and for all what the word is. As he got to that particular line, I was staring at his lips and… he flubbed it, singing the first line of the verse again as a lead-in to the part about "…all you ever do is treat me with respect." Chris, dude, yer killin' me. In spite of that, though, I loved hearing the acoustic version of the song.
Another touching moment was when he sang "Out of Exile", after explaining that it was about his wife and the baby girl they had together. At one point during the song, he walked to the side of the stage and held out his hand towards someone apparently sitting in the wings. I have to assume that he was trying to lure baby Toni out onto the stage with him, as he's recently done at other shows. He gave up after a few attempts, but it was funny and cute to watch him keep reaching out to someone who clearly was feeling stage-shy.
The rest of the set held few surprises, but every song was performed with energy and dead-on vocals from Chris. The crowd ate it up, even surprising him by launching into an a capella rendition of "Be Yourself" when he faked us out by holding out the mic instead of beginning to sing himself. At the very end, after a three-song encore, many of us refused to disperse even as roadies came out to break down the equipment. We wanted more, and Chris had better come back soon to give it to us.
July 31, 2007
Philly weekend: Saturday
I headed to Philly this weekend for a much-anticipated three-day trip, the main focus of which was to see Chris Cornell perform at the Electric Factory on Sunday evening. I had also figured on taking my bike and getting in a ride along the Schuylkill River Trail on Saturday, but the weather forecast was iffy and my bike was filthy, so that plan was scratched at the last minute. I threw a bag of clothes, my camera, and myself in the car Saturday morning and headed off into traffic that felt like a weekday rush hour. An accident on the bridge over the Susquehanna River and a whole freaking lot of cars on the road ended up stretching the 2.5 hour drive to 4 and putting my mood on edge.
Driving into Philly, though, things began to turn around. Once on the city streets, I began seeing bicycles everywhere. The streets of downtown Philly have a dedicated bicycle/bus (what a safe combo!) lane during rush hour, and the narrowness of the streets seems to keep auto traffic at reasonable speeds. I could easily see myself cruising those streets, and immediately wished I had taken the time to clean my bike and braved the weather report.
Ah well. Instead, after checking into the excellent Club Quarters hotel, I set out to explore.
I ended up wandering around for as many hours as I had driven, from Center City over to the Old City and back, stopping to chill out in a few great parks here and there. The parks in Philly really are refuges, with tall, very old, amazingly healthy trees. It was surprising to see such majestic sycamores in the middle of a crowded city. Of the parks, my favorite was Rittenhouse Square, which is a wonderful place to sit and soak up some atmosphere. The square is obviously a popular hangout for the local hippie/yuppie crowd. People were painting, playing guitar, having Saturday evening picnic dinners, even getting married over in a corner of the park. I sat for a long while watching an older gentleman wade around in one of the fountains creating huge iridescent bubbles. He was so intent on what he was doing, and it was cool to watch people approach and break into smiles as they saw the bubbles floating and bursting over the pool of the fountain.
A group who sat down near me and pulled out great looking carry-out dinners directed me what turned out to be the perfect spot for dinner: A teeny little hole in the wall @ 21st and Walnut called Tampopo. On the way there, I was able to catch up on the Tour de France individual time trial stage that had taken place that day when I overheard a guy explaining it to his girlfriend and joined their conversation as we walked down the street. After ordering the Tuna Bi-Bim-Bop (sashimi tuna over brown rice, cucumber, jicama and avocado, with a sweet/spicy sauce- very tasty) I settled down at a table next to three guys who were deep in discussion of the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons. It was a bit easier to refrain from jumping into that conversation, though it was a kick to listen to. After dinner, on the way back to the hotel, I found a great little used book shop called Whodunit? and picked up a few irresistible finds. It wasn't at all the day that I had originally planned, but turned out to be a string of nice little individual moments that left me a very happy camper.
Philly really has what I consider to be true diversity. There's the typical inner-city, hip-hoppie, African-American contingency, there are business types, yuppies, hippies and punks, and sprinkled over them all are tourists from every culture imaginable. There are high-tone, very chi-chi restaurants just a block over from dollar stores and human-hair wig shops. There's a strong artistic bent, as well, considering the place is chock-full of art schools and museums.
And there's the tremendous history of the place, which really is amazing when you look below the veneer of tourist schlock. I found that I feel much more at home in Philly than I do in DC. DC's all business, from tourism to banking to politics, and the false polish allows scant space for anything edgy or gritty. Philly's more like Baltimore in that it's found a way to comfortably blend polish with a rougher edge. It's got history, character, beauty and flavor in spades. Just gotta find a good tea shop there...
Sunday's tale to follow--
Driving into Philly, though, things began to turn around. Once on the city streets, I began seeing bicycles everywhere. The streets of downtown Philly have a dedicated bicycle/bus (what a safe combo!) lane during rush hour, and the narrowness of the streets seems to keep auto traffic at reasonable speeds. I could easily see myself cruising those streets, and immediately wished I had taken the time to clean my bike and braved the weather report.
Ah well. Instead, after checking into the excellent Club Quarters hotel, I set out to explore.
I ended up wandering around for as many hours as I had driven, from Center City over to the Old City and back, stopping to chill out in a few great parks here and there. The parks in Philly really are refuges, with tall, very old, amazingly healthy trees. It was surprising to see such majestic sycamores in the middle of a crowded city. Of the parks, my favorite was Rittenhouse Square, which is a wonderful place to sit and soak up some atmosphere. The square is obviously a popular hangout for the local hippie/yuppie crowd. People were painting, playing guitar, having Saturday evening picnic dinners, even getting married over in a corner of the park. I sat for a long while watching an older gentleman wade around in one of the fountains creating huge iridescent bubbles. He was so intent on what he was doing, and it was cool to watch people approach and break into smiles as they saw the bubbles floating and bursting over the pool of the fountain.
A group who sat down near me and pulled out great looking carry-out dinners directed me what turned out to be the perfect spot for dinner: A teeny little hole in the wall @ 21st and Walnut called Tampopo. On the way there, I was able to catch up on the Tour de France individual time trial stage that had taken place that day when I overheard a guy explaining it to his girlfriend and joined their conversation as we walked down the street. After ordering the Tuna Bi-Bim-Bop (sashimi tuna over brown rice, cucumber, jicama and avocado, with a sweet/spicy sauce- very tasty) I settled down at a table next to three guys who were deep in discussion of the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons. It was a bit easier to refrain from jumping into that conversation, though it was a kick to listen to. After dinner, on the way back to the hotel, I found a great little used book shop called Whodunit? and picked up a few irresistible finds. It wasn't at all the day that I had originally planned, but turned out to be a string of nice little individual moments that left me a very happy camper.
Philly really has what I consider to be true diversity. There's the typical inner-city, hip-hoppie, African-American contingency, there are business types, yuppies, hippies and punks, and sprinkled over them all are tourists from every culture imaginable. There are high-tone, very chi-chi restaurants just a block over from dollar stores and human-hair wig shops. There's a strong artistic bent, as well, considering the place is chock-full of art schools and museums.
And there's the tremendous history of the place, which really is amazing when you look below the veneer of tourist schlock. I found that I feel much more at home in Philly than I do in DC. DC's all business, from tourism to banking to politics, and the false polish allows scant space for anything edgy or gritty. Philly's more like Baltimore in that it's found a way to comfortably blend polish with a rougher edge. It's got history, character, beauty and flavor in spades. Just gotta find a good tea shop there...
Sunday's tale to follow--
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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