There's a mountain near where I live. It's a small one-- only 12 or 13 hundred feet or so at the summit-- a monadnock created by the slow erosion of the land around it. Most folks think of it as a single peak, but it's actually a curved string of peaked ridges. Most people also don't seem to be aware that it's private land, despite the explanatory signs posted at the entrance and parking areas, nor of the fact that they owe a debt of gratitude to the graciousness and foresight of an early-twentieth century industrial magnate. That man, the magnate, bought the mountain and much of the land surrounding it back in the 1920's or so. He built a couple of mansions on it for himself and his family. Before he died, he established a trust to maintain the land for the "recreational and educational use of the public". The foundation that's supported by the trust has done just that-- building a trail system and overlooks, and monitoring the environment of the mountain and the wildlife that exists within it. It's an extremely beautiful place.
What I thought was my first time on the mountain was a bit over 20 years ago. I was still in my high school punk rock phase, with buzz-cut hair, Converse sneakers, and ripped blue jeans, and had just moved out of my parents' house in Virginia into my own apartment in Maryland. I spent much of my spare time in the car, driving around exploring my new territory, discovering not only the lay of the land but also an abiding love for the semi-rural back-roads I found at the edges of the suburbs. One day, one of those back-road drives brought me to the mountain. Being in an exploratory mood, I parked at one of the overlooks near the summit and wandered onto one of the trails. As I went along, it began to feel somehow familiar. Flashbacks from buried memories began popping into my mind's eye until recognition finally dawned-- I had been there before. At some point in my childhood, I remembered that my parents had brought my Girl Scout troop to that same mountain for a hike along that same trail. Childhood in general and Girl Scouts in particular had not been a thrill for me, so I'd not held on to the memory. But I got a kick out of the synchronicity anyway.
And I fell in love with the mountain. The beauty of the woods, the pastoral views from the summit and overlooks, and the solitude-- Combined with the new-found freedom of living on my own, the things I discovered on the mountain opened a new chapter for me and it wasn't long before the Converse sneakers were replaced by hiking boots.
Unfortunately, the population of the D.C. suburbs exploded not long after. As the suburbs expanded and began to encroach upon the area around the mountain, a whole lot of other people began to fall in love with the place, too. The picnic areas and trails began to be overrun. It got to the point that you could sit at the summit and hear radios and loud voices in the parking lot at the base of the cliff. So I stopped going there. Began driving further out and finding other places that hadn't yet been discovered by the masses. Though it didn't take long for those places, as well.
At this point, I'm constantly on the lookout for out-of-the-way wildlife management areas, tucked-away nooks in state parks, or any old abandoned road I can explore in solitude. But one day I wandered back to the mountain via an old road that comes in from the back, all the way around the other side from the main road that heads up towards the overlooks. One of the longer hiking trails swings down and crosses over the old road and there was, at that time, just enough space for a car or two to park along the side. Amazingly, the spot was empty. So I figured, what the hell? I'd visit the mountain for old time's sake. To my surprise, I only passed a few other folks on the trail. I've learned since then that it's a matter of timing-- early morning, late in the day, crappy weather-- and of sticking to the newer trails on the backside of the ridge, away from the main summit.
So, on this Easter morning, while the majority of people were either hunting for salvation in church or for colored eggs in the backyard, I was out in the woods at the mountain, by myself, hunting for a skull. I swear, there are times when I feel like the kid in The Sixth Sense-- He saw dead people everywhere, I see dead animals everywhere. Along the side of the road, out in the woods, if there's an animal carcass around, chances are I'll see it. The one I was checking on today was one I'd seen late-fall/early-winter of last year. I'd wandered off the trail looking for a spot to sit and take a break, only to find a recently deceased white tail deer lying a dozen feet from the fallen tree I sat down on. A buck with four-point antlers. I won't deny it, I coveted the idea of that skull and antlers. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Funny thing is, much as I love skulls and bones, I'm almost phobic-ly squeamish about decaying flesh. And skulls are surprisingly rare finds for some reason. I couldn't tell you how many headless skeletons and carcasses I've found in the woods, way out-numbering the handful of skulls I've found. Where do they go? Can't all be hunter's trophies, because most of the time I'm in parkland where hunting is prohibited (doesn't stop the occasional poacher, of course). Are they found and taken by people like me? Dragged off by predators so the brain can be picked out and devoured in peace? I dunno, but they are definitely a rarity. So I made plans to come back for this one, after nature'd taken its course and stripped it bare and clean.
Wandered back a few months later to check on it, but it was still half-covered with skin and tendon. Well ravaged, though. The hind legs were still attached to the torso, but the front legs had been strewn several feet away, and the lower mandible was lying behind the carcass. The skull, antlers still attached, had been dragged down to the edge of a nearby small stream. Still not clean enough to pick up and bring home, though.
With all the snow and rain the area had through the end of winter and beginning of spring, I figured the thing had to be bare by now. So I headed out this morning along the blessedly empty trail, back to the fallen tree by the little stream. Found the carcass almost in the same state I'd last seen it, now almost entirely clean, except for... the head. The thing was gone, antlers and all. I crossed the stream and tromped around through the trees, scoping the ground for any glimpse of white bone. Nothing. Where the hell could it have gone? The largest omnivorous and carnivorous wildlife in this area consists primarily of raccoons and foxes and neither of those seem big enough to drag a skull with antlers through undergrowth. There've been rumors of coyotes coming in closer to the D.C. suburbs, but I've not heard of any being seen near the mountain. And the foundation that maintains the area has posted signs warning visitors to stay on the trails (signs I ignore, obviously) because of a black bear and cubs in the area, but those signs have been up for a few years now and the bears have likely moved on. It crossed my mind to wonder if some other explorer like myself had also found the thing and beaten me to it. I ended up baffled but resigned.
It got me thinking, though, as such things always do. The sight of the white rib cage and spinal column surrounded by little white wildflowers was striking. Some might consider the image morbid, but to me it was a beautiful contrast between decay and growth, a gorgeous reminder of the cycle of nature that we forget about in day-to-day living. All around me in the woods were indications of that cycle-- The sun shining through new leaves, casting a green glow on tree trunks that were bare, dreary grey and brown just two months ago. Along the trail, little baby ferns were unfurling next to violets. Puddles created by all the recent rain were full of tadpoles. But winter wasn't over long enough ago for me to forget that it'll all turn back to grey and brown in another handful of months, as the cycle continues and the tender growth now bursting forth dies off.
This is the most profound sort of thing I've learned from the mountain-- that life is a series of cycles, but that in the end we all come to the same state as that headless deer. It's a good thing to remember when we feel that life is a constant battle. The problem is often that we don't pick our battles wisely. So many of the things we fight for and against are really just us banging our heads against a wall. And no matter who we're fighting against, both we and they will die and come to that state. What difference do so many of those trivial battles make against the knowledge that we all will end up in the ground, our decaying remains becoming food for new life?
Unless, of course, we decide to have those remains turned into a vinyl record instead.
April 24, 2011
April 2, 2011
Random babblings: Abandoned but found
So I learned over the course of this past winter that my old place along the river up in West Va is now off-limits. The land was apparently acquired by a local rafting outfitter-- On the plus side, they cleaned up the burned-out trailer and garbage along the riverbank. On the negative, though, they also put up a passel of 'no trespassing' signs all over the place, including at the beginning of the dirt road that heads upstream. But never fear, I've found a new spot. Same river, different state. And closer to home, to boot. And just as solitary, despite it being adjacent to one of the most popular parks in the area.
Ma Nature was in a mercurial mood this spring day. A gloomy, chilly overcast in the morning suddenly began alternating with teasing patches of blue sky as the wind blew banks of clouds from west to east. One such patch was overhead as I drove down the road and through the tunnel under the railroad tracks, splashing through puddles left by a just-passed rain shower. There's enough graffiti in the tunnel that it's a surprise the old farm farther down the road hasn't been taken over by the marauding vandals. Apparently the locked gate and all of the CSX and NPS property signs are enough to keep them out. Either that, or it's just too far a walk for them beyond that gate. Their loss, my gain.
My guess is that the old homestead is used for Boy Scout campouts-- There are a couple of porta-johns up near the empty, locked house, and the first time I wandered back and found the place there was actually a portable sink nearby. One of the old barns, a shed-style structure open on both ends, has been maintained by the NPS for storage of picnic tables and such. On a day like today, the shed makes a perfect spot to sit and smoke and ruminate. It looks out on the old house on one side, and an almost-collapsed livestock barn and empty cornfields on the other.
What is it that draws me to spots like this? It's more than just the solitude, certainly. That's something that can be found fairly easily-- along a trail in the woods, in a kayak in the middle of the river, in my car flying down a country road, hell, at home in my apartment if I'm desperate enough. But there's something to these abandoned places that were once lived in, an inexplicable something that I find comforting despite the eeriness of their emptiness. It has to do with the history of them, I think, and the time period in which they were inhabited. It's an easily romanticized time, that era that ended six or more decades ago, a time that was in many ways more full of hardship than now, but is always cast with a nostalgic glow of authenticity and simplicity that so often seems lacking these days. It was a time when one of the most important things people strove for was survival-- not just day-to-day, but of the spirit. Something that I have a hard time finding in the crowded hustle of today's society.
One of the first times I visited this place, I was stopped on the way in by a young park ranger who first informed me that "this is Park Service property", which didn't fool me for a minute, and then warned that the nearby woods were full of hunters. Which also didn't faze me, seeing as how hunting is illegal on Park Service property, but random wandering isn't. I played dumb and stayed at the car, though, pretending that I had just been looking for a quiet place to sit and read and didn't realize that there was anything worthwhile back there. Today, though, I was caught all the way back at the farm when a pair of rangers drove back to check the place out. Dark clouds had rolled in again and I was just heading back to the road when they pulled up next to me and the older of them very courteously explained that they were looking for "sheds" and had noticed the turkey feather on the dashboard of my car back out by the gate. He asked if I was looking for feathers and I realized that "sheds" was a reference to feathers and probably, in their lingo, a sign of poachers. I grinned at him and said that, no, I was just looking for a place with no other people around. He smiled back and apologized for interrupting me in that pursuit, then they drove on down to the barns. He must've taken me at my word, because when they passed again on their way out, as the rain began falling, they waved and kept going. Which was fine. A lonesome walk in the rain ain't ever a bad thing.
Ma Nature was in a mercurial mood this spring day. A gloomy, chilly overcast in the morning suddenly began alternating with teasing patches of blue sky as the wind blew banks of clouds from west to east. One such patch was overhead as I drove down the road and through the tunnel under the railroad tracks, splashing through puddles left by a just-passed rain shower. There's enough graffiti in the tunnel that it's a surprise the old farm farther down the road hasn't been taken over by the marauding vandals. Apparently the locked gate and all of the CSX and NPS property signs are enough to keep them out. Either that, or it's just too far a walk for them beyond that gate. Their loss, my gain.
 |
| The old farm gate, not the newer Park Service one at the beginning of the road |
What is it that draws me to spots like this? It's more than just the solitude, certainly. That's something that can be found fairly easily-- along a trail in the woods, in a kayak in the middle of the river, in my car flying down a country road, hell, at home in my apartment if I'm desperate enough. But there's something to these abandoned places that were once lived in, an inexplicable something that I find comforting despite the eeriness of their emptiness. It has to do with the history of them, I think, and the time period in which they were inhabited. It's an easily romanticized time, that era that ended six or more decades ago, a time that was in many ways more full of hardship than now, but is always cast with a nostalgic glow of authenticity and simplicity that so often seems lacking these days. It was a time when one of the most important things people strove for was survival-- not just day-to-day, but of the spirit. Something that I have a hard time finding in the crowded hustle of today's society.
One of the first times I visited this place, I was stopped on the way in by a young park ranger who first informed me that "this is Park Service property", which didn't fool me for a minute, and then warned that the nearby woods were full of hunters. Which also didn't faze me, seeing as how hunting is illegal on Park Service property, but random wandering isn't. I played dumb and stayed at the car, though, pretending that I had just been looking for a quiet place to sit and read and didn't realize that there was anything worthwhile back there. Today, though, I was caught all the way back at the farm when a pair of rangers drove back to check the place out. Dark clouds had rolled in again and I was just heading back to the road when they pulled up next to me and the older of them very courteously explained that they were looking for "sheds" and had noticed the turkey feather on the dashboard of my car back out by the gate. He asked if I was looking for feathers and I realized that "sheds" was a reference to feathers and probably, in their lingo, a sign of poachers. I grinned at him and said that, no, I was just looking for a place with no other people around. He smiled back and apologized for interrupting me in that pursuit, then they drove on down to the barns. He must've taken me at my word, because when they passed again on their way out, as the rain began falling, they waved and kept going. Which was fine. A lonesome walk in the rain ain't ever a bad thing.
February 13, 2011
Random babblings: On keys, seeking, doors, and music
There are moments in our lives when we come across things that open doors for us. The frame of it can be anything-- a book, a song, a place, a person --but what provides the key? So often we walk by doors that seem interesting, yet they remain locked because we aren't drawn to explore what's on the other side. It seems we have to be at the right place intellectually and/or emotionally for the door to swing open and that first step to be taken over the threshold.
I can easily think of the times when this has happened to me and every one of them relates to a significant interest in my life --
Reading Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment in high school was the first big one. Class discussions of Nietzsche's idea of man vs. superman led to an exploration of existentialism that opened out into the entire field of philosophy.
A similar opening occurred upon hearing 46+2 by Tool, as I stepped straight from that song into Carl Jung's writings about the psyche and, specifically, the shadow.
It didn't take long after moving to Maryland in my early 20's to begin finding all of the U.S. Civil War battlefields that are practically in my backyard. The beauty of these preserved places drew me to the door, but the fascination of learning about the battles and the experiences of the people who lived (or died) during them was what pulled me through. It's continuously amazing to me just how much can be learned from such a short period in history.
One thing I've never written about is the vision quest that led to my discovery of Buddhism. The path through that door was a convoluted one but its eventual impact has probably made a bigger difference in my life than any other.
So what is it that puts the key into our hand? In Animals in Translation, Temple Grandin talks about the four primal emotions that drive animals: Rage, prey chase drive, fear, and curiosity/interest/anticipation. Obviously, these can easily be applied to human behavior and it's that last, curiosity/interest/anticipation, that opens these pivotal doors and pushes us through--
"...this part of the brain [is called] the SEEKING circuit. Animals and humans share a powerful and primal urge to seek out what they need in life. We depend on this emotion to stay alive, because curiosity and active interest in the environment help animals and people find good things, like food, shelter, and a mate, and it helps us stay away from bad things, like predators."
When projected beyond our most basic needs, such seeking keeps us not only alive but also sane by triggering our reception to those things that will stimulate us and make us grow intellectually and emotionally. Without it, we become stagnant and stunted, stumbling down an ever darkening hallway of locked doors.
I babbled recently about being stuck in that hallway and casting about for a key. Which is funny, really, because at the same time that I've felt stuck in so many ways, I've also been busy exploring an extraordinarily stimulating set of doors opened around this time last year by my discovery of Jack White. Anyone following this blog who's not a fan of Jack is probably becoming tired of seeing his name, but it's not going to end any time soon because the further I go the more I get. First was a compulsion to explore his music, then it was the blues music that inspires him, and now, suddenly, it's a desire to understand music in general. Why now? I've been exposed to a wide variety of music since I was old enough to hear-- No one in my family sang or played an instrument, but my parents constantly had music playing on the radio or stereo. You name a musical artist in the 60's-70's, from Burl Ives to the Beatles, and I listened to them at some point. Branching off into my own exploration of music took me down some unfortunate roads (Kiss and hair-metal), and perhaps that's why music was always an important soundtrack to my life, but not quite an inspiration. But Jack's passion for music is infectious and watching him play has apparently stimulated that SEEKING circuit in my brain.
The latest door opened yesterday when I picked up a copy of This Is Your Brain On Music, The Science of a Human Obsession, by Daniel Levitin. The combination of the words 'music' and 'obsession' in the title made me grab the book off of the shelf. The idea of understanding not only what music is but also why it's so addictive (a favorite theme of mine) is exactly where my head is at these days, and Levitin's book started out on just the right note: a comparison of how "the work of both artists and scientists is ultimately the pursuit of truth" leading into concise explanations of musical concepts such as pitch, timbre, melody, and harmony had me squirming in my chair in excitement. When he used the way children sing the alphabet song to explain rhythm, I almost laughed out loud because it was so simple and perfect. And yet so much of what this book is about is not simple, and that makes it intriguing.
Today's music lesson is on the element of harmony. As described by Levitin--
"Harmony has to do with relationships between the pitches of different tones, and with tonal contexts that these pitches set up that ultimately lead to expectations for what will come next in a musical piece-- expectations that a skillful composer can either meet or violate for artistic and expressive purposes."
As a band, the Raconteurs are a terrific example of this concept. Anyone who followed the White Stripes might have had trouble imagining Jack working in harmony with other musicians. Meg was as much muse as partner for him, a springboard that launched his ideas and allowed him the freedom to explore them in a different direction every night on stage. But sitting down with a song-writing partner? Adding not only that second singer/guitarist/songwriter, but also an experienced drummer and bass player to the equation? In many ways, working with these other musicians could have been as difficult a set of constraints for Jack as the red and white box he created for the music of the Stripes.
Typically, the results confounded the sort of expectations that Levitin described. The Racs created moments of gorgeous harmony in songs such as Together and These Stones Will Shout. Other songs like Intimate Secretary were a combination of both meeting and violating harmonic expectation, when Jack's voice or Patrick Keeler's crashing cymbals would be used as a jarring contrast to the mellowness of Brendan Benson's singing. Then they'd throw in an entire song that would be dissonant to the rest of the album, as with Broken Boy Soldier or Five On the Five. But one song sums up for me the dynamic that defined this band, that balance of harmony and dissonance that electrified them. From the glorious blending to the quirky separation of Jack and Brendan's voices and guitars, the only thing wrong with this song is that it's just too short.
Official video of the studio version of Level--
Live version recorded on set--
I've come to feel that discovering Jack has been like walking up to a huge mansion and being handed a ring of keys to every door inside it. It's led into one room after another, each containing new sounds, new genres, new understandings, new experiences... and for that I couldn't possibly thank him enough.
I can easily think of the times when this has happened to me and every one of them relates to a significant interest in my life --
Reading Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment in high school was the first big one. Class discussions of Nietzsche's idea of man vs. superman led to an exploration of existentialism that opened out into the entire field of philosophy.
A similar opening occurred upon hearing 46+2 by Tool, as I stepped straight from that song into Carl Jung's writings about the psyche and, specifically, the shadow.
It didn't take long after moving to Maryland in my early 20's to begin finding all of the U.S. Civil War battlefields that are practically in my backyard. The beauty of these preserved places drew me to the door, but the fascination of learning about the battles and the experiences of the people who lived (or died) during them was what pulled me through. It's continuously amazing to me just how much can be learned from such a short period in history.
One thing I've never written about is the vision quest that led to my discovery of Buddhism. The path through that door was a convoluted one but its eventual impact has probably made a bigger difference in my life than any other.
So what is it that puts the key into our hand? In Animals in Translation, Temple Grandin talks about the four primal emotions that drive animals: Rage, prey chase drive, fear, and curiosity/interest/anticipation. Obviously, these can easily be applied to human behavior and it's that last, curiosity/interest/anticipation, that opens these pivotal doors and pushes us through--
"...this part of the brain [is called] the SEEKING circuit. Animals and humans share a powerful and primal urge to seek out what they need in life. We depend on this emotion to stay alive, because curiosity and active interest in the environment help animals and people find good things, like food, shelter, and a mate, and it helps us stay away from bad things, like predators."
When projected beyond our most basic needs, such seeking keeps us not only alive but also sane by triggering our reception to those things that will stimulate us and make us grow intellectually and emotionally. Without it, we become stagnant and stunted, stumbling down an ever darkening hallway of locked doors.
I babbled recently about being stuck in that hallway and casting about for a key. Which is funny, really, because at the same time that I've felt stuck in so many ways, I've also been busy exploring an extraordinarily stimulating set of doors opened around this time last year by my discovery of Jack White. Anyone following this blog who's not a fan of Jack is probably becoming tired of seeing his name, but it's not going to end any time soon because the further I go the more I get. First was a compulsion to explore his music, then it was the blues music that inspires him, and now, suddenly, it's a desire to understand music in general. Why now? I've been exposed to a wide variety of music since I was old enough to hear-- No one in my family sang or played an instrument, but my parents constantly had music playing on the radio or stereo. You name a musical artist in the 60's-70's, from Burl Ives to the Beatles, and I listened to them at some point. Branching off into my own exploration of music took me down some unfortunate roads (Kiss and hair-metal), and perhaps that's why music was always an important soundtrack to my life, but not quite an inspiration. But Jack's passion for music is infectious and watching him play has apparently stimulated that SEEKING circuit in my brain.
The latest door opened yesterday when I picked up a copy of This Is Your Brain On Music, The Science of a Human Obsession, by Daniel Levitin. The combination of the words 'music' and 'obsession' in the title made me grab the book off of the shelf. The idea of understanding not only what music is but also why it's so addictive (a favorite theme of mine) is exactly where my head is at these days, and Levitin's book started out on just the right note: a comparison of how "the work of both artists and scientists is ultimately the pursuit of truth" leading into concise explanations of musical concepts such as pitch, timbre, melody, and harmony had me squirming in my chair in excitement. When he used the way children sing the alphabet song to explain rhythm, I almost laughed out loud because it was so simple and perfect. And yet so much of what this book is about is not simple, and that makes it intriguing.
Today's music lesson is on the element of harmony. As described by Levitin--
"Harmony has to do with relationships between the pitches of different tones, and with tonal contexts that these pitches set up that ultimately lead to expectations for what will come next in a musical piece-- expectations that a skillful composer can either meet or violate for artistic and expressive purposes."
As a band, the Raconteurs are a terrific example of this concept. Anyone who followed the White Stripes might have had trouble imagining Jack working in harmony with other musicians. Meg was as much muse as partner for him, a springboard that launched his ideas and allowed him the freedom to explore them in a different direction every night on stage. But sitting down with a song-writing partner? Adding not only that second singer/guitarist/songwriter, but also an experienced drummer and bass player to the equation? In many ways, working with these other musicians could have been as difficult a set of constraints for Jack as the red and white box he created for the music of the Stripes.
Typically, the results confounded the sort of expectations that Levitin described. The Racs created moments of gorgeous harmony in songs such as Together and These Stones Will Shout. Other songs like Intimate Secretary were a combination of both meeting and violating harmonic expectation, when Jack's voice or Patrick Keeler's crashing cymbals would be used as a jarring contrast to the mellowness of Brendan Benson's singing. Then they'd throw in an entire song that would be dissonant to the rest of the album, as with Broken Boy Soldier or Five On the Five. But one song sums up for me the dynamic that defined this band, that balance of harmony and dissonance that electrified them. From the glorious blending to the quirky separation of Jack and Brendan's voices and guitars, the only thing wrong with this song is that it's just too short.
Official video of the studio version of Level--
Live version recorded on set--
I've come to feel that discovering Jack has been like walking up to a huge mansion and being handed a ring of keys to every door inside it. It's led into one room after another, each containing new sounds, new genres, new understandings, new experiences... and for that I couldn't possibly thank him enough.
February 7, 2011
Three bands, three songs, one strange bird
In a blurb in the December 2010 issue of Vanity Fair, Jack White was asked whether he prefers playing guitar or drums. He replied, "The guitar is a strange bird for me. I never really had a desire to be a guitar player-- it just fell on me. The drums would be an actual passion of my life." Fans the world over probably sat frowning and scratching their heads over that one. The man plays as if the guitar is both a natural extension of himself and at the same time some alien creature that he's dead set on beating into submission.
In each of his three bands (the three that most people know about, I mean), there's been one song that became a showcase for his bizarrely contradictory relationship with the guitar. One song played at pretty much every show, during which he seemed to turn himself inside out and wrench forth a part of his soul. All three are impressive enough in their studio versions, but became something definitive when performed live.
In the White Stripes, that song was Death Letter. The choice is fairly obvious-- originally performed by Son House, this is what the Stripes were all about. Jack has stated that everything about the band, from their child-like demeanor to the color scheme, all of the "gimmicks", were intended as a distraction from the fact that they were two white kids from Detroit playing the blues. In some of the best performances of this song, Jack would segue into House's Grinnin' In Your Face or Blind Willie Johnson's Motherless Children at the end of his solo, but this version from the 2005 Glastonbury Festival contains no extras. It doesn't need them.
Much has been made of the scene in the film It Might Get Loud in which Jack smears blood all over his guitar during the solo of the Raconteurs song, Blue Veins. It's certainly amazing to think he'd be so possessed as to keep shredding after slicing open a finger. My own personal favorite performance of this song is one in which he's so overcome that he stops playing and stands transfixed at the mic for an entire, electric minute. But the performance that most people would direct you to, the one so intense that Jack demolishes his guitar, a monitor, three mics, and then stalks off the stage a jittery mess, is the one from the 2008 Bonnaroo Festival.
Though he went back to the drums for the Dead Weather, any fan will tell you that the highlight of that band's shows was the moment each night when he stepped out from behind the kit to play guitar on Will There Be Enough Water. The song is sparse lyrically but gives Jack multiple opportunities to open up on the guitar. Even on one occasion when he was seemingly trashed to the point of needing to lean against a speaker stack for support, he was still able to rip incredible sounds from his guitar. But just about the best performance of this song I've found is one that I was fortunate enough to witness, at the 9:30 Club in DC in 2010. (Recorded in two parts, be sure to watch both.)
With the Stripes finally officially ended, and his band-mates from both the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather off playing with their original outfits, there's a lot of speculation currently amongst fans about what Jack will do this year. The one thing that every single one of us seems to agree on is that we desperately hope he'll continue his weird relationship with the guitar, that thing he's apparently never had a passion for yet plays so damned passionately.
Edit 9/29/2011: Here's another take on this theme-- The Many Shades of Jack White from Gilles LeBlanc at ROCKthusiast.
In each of his three bands (the three that most people know about, I mean), there's been one song that became a showcase for his bizarrely contradictory relationship with the guitar. One song played at pretty much every show, during which he seemed to turn himself inside out and wrench forth a part of his soul. All three are impressive enough in their studio versions, but became something definitive when performed live.
In the White Stripes, that song was Death Letter. The choice is fairly obvious-- originally performed by Son House, this is what the Stripes were all about. Jack has stated that everything about the band, from their child-like demeanor to the color scheme, all of the "gimmicks", were intended as a distraction from the fact that they were two white kids from Detroit playing the blues. In some of the best performances of this song, Jack would segue into House's Grinnin' In Your Face or Blind Willie Johnson's Motherless Children at the end of his solo, but this version from the 2005 Glastonbury Festival contains no extras. It doesn't need them.
Much has been made of the scene in the film It Might Get Loud in which Jack smears blood all over his guitar during the solo of the Raconteurs song, Blue Veins. It's certainly amazing to think he'd be so possessed as to keep shredding after slicing open a finger. My own personal favorite performance of this song is one in which he's so overcome that he stops playing and stands transfixed at the mic for an entire, electric minute. But the performance that most people would direct you to, the one so intense that Jack demolishes his guitar, a monitor, three mics, and then stalks off the stage a jittery mess, is the one from the 2008 Bonnaroo Festival.
Though he went back to the drums for the Dead Weather, any fan will tell you that the highlight of that band's shows was the moment each night when he stepped out from behind the kit to play guitar on Will There Be Enough Water. The song is sparse lyrically but gives Jack multiple opportunities to open up on the guitar. Even on one occasion when he was seemingly trashed to the point of needing to lean against a speaker stack for support, he was still able to rip incredible sounds from his guitar. But just about the best performance of this song I've found is one that I was fortunate enough to witness, at the 9:30 Club in DC in 2010. (Recorded in two parts, be sure to watch both.)
With the Stripes finally officially ended, and his band-mates from both the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather off playing with their original outfits, there's a lot of speculation currently amongst fans about what Jack will do this year. The one thing that every single one of us seems to agree on is that we desperately hope he'll continue his weird relationship with the guitar, that thing he's apparently never had a passion for yet plays so damned passionately.
Edit 9/29/2011: Here's another take on this theme-- The Many Shades of Jack White from Gilles LeBlanc at ROCKthusiast.
February 5, 2011
A White weekend: The Meg version
I wasn't going to write any further about the end of the White Stripes. I've read so many wonderful articles and blogs about it, it seems like every music writer out there has already had a crack at saying anything I might say better than I possibly could. But this weekend is the first anniversary of my "White weekend", when I was stuck at home during the 2010 east coast blizzard and spent five days watching It Might Get Loud and trolling YouTube, discovered the fantastic White Stripes message board called The Little Room, and became hopelessly addicted to Jack White's music. So the occasion seems to call for expounding just a bit about the most special of his three known bands.
Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to see this band in their element. Back when I first heard of the White Stripes, a bit after the release of Icky Thump, they were taking Canada by storm and titillating the whole world by playing surprise shows at bowling alleys, back-country bars, on fishing boats, even, most famously, on a municipal bus. I listened to the album, heard the stories from that tour, and thought that this was a band I should be into. For whatever reason, though, I didn't latch onto them at the time. By the time I realized my mistake last year and dove headfirst into their albums, it was too late. They were already over, though no one knew it at the time.
This is not as gutting for me as it is for those people who were in the right place at the right time and avoided my error. For those fans who were attached to this band for years, who were actually fortunate enough to experience them live, last week's announcement must have seemed like a bomb had dropped. I can't fully know what that felt like, though I definitely recognize the sadness of it and feel regret at being so very late to what was such an incredible party.
Fortunately, I still have much to look forward to from one half of the band. It sounds cliché to say it, but Jack's a force of nature. He'll always make music, it's apparently as essential to him as oxygen. Whether he'll revive the Raconteurs or the Dead Weather, create a new band, finally make that long-asked-about solo album, or just contribute searing guitar riffs on the recordings of other musicians he produces at Third Man Records, he's sure to continue providing the world with excitement and stimulation for years to come.
But what about Meg? It seems that many people overlook her contribution to the White Stripes. There are endless debates at message boards and in YouTube video comments about her abilities as a drummer. And, even if it was subconsciously, Jack must have realized how having a cute bare-footed girl with pigtails behind the drums would attract attention and make people stop to listen to his music. But just like the debate over her and Jack's marital status vs sibling-hood, any question of Meg's contribution to the band is entirely academic. She was essential because she did something undefinable that inspired Jack to tremendous heights. Jack's said that he wrote the majority, if not all, of the songs in the Stripes catalog on his own, on piano or acoustic guitar, and then brought them into the studio where they became White Stripes "covers" of his initial words and music. What would any of those songs have been without Meg? It was her "childlike, caveman" drumming that inspired him to begin with, she brought some spark to the equation that alchemized his writing and created magic. As Jack put it:
“Meg is the best part of this band. It never would have worked with anybody else, because it would have been too complicated. When she started to play drums with me, just on a lark, it felt liberating and refreshing. There was something in it that opened me up. It was my doorway to playing the blues, without anyone over my shoulder going, 'Oh, white-boy blues, white-boy bar band.' I could really get down to something.”
And he was fiercely protective of her as his partner and band-mate. In one of the many blogs written about the Stripes in the last few days, one writer mentioned that Jack would "turn vicious when people would slag Meg, because they just didn’t get it." In a thread at the Little Room forum, someone mentioned the belief that Jack wrote the song Truth Doesn't Make a Noise about Meg, which is something I've also felt--
My baby's got a heart of stone
can't you people just leave her alone
she never did nothing to hurt you
so just leave her alone
The motion of her tiny hands
and the quiver of her bones below
are the signs of a girl alone
and tell you everything
you need to know
I can't explain it
I feel it often
every time I see her face
but the way you treat her
fills me with rage and I
want to tear apart the place
You try to tell her what to do
and all she does is stare at you
her stare is louder than your voice
because truth doesn't make a noise
For all Meg's silence, the moments when she did use her voice made a difference.
Aside from fan favorites such as In the Cold, Cold Night, her accompanying vocals on songs like This Protector and Little Ghost add a subtle touch that couldn't be achieved with Jack's voice alone. And Rag and Bone is probably the best example of a song that just did not work without Meg's participation-- There were three versions of the song recorded for the album. One was never pressed and has apparently never been heard. The version on the vinyl release of the album is Jack singing altered lyrics alone. While the words and delivery are still clever, the tune falls flat. It's the addition of Meg on the cd version that provides the sass necessary to bring Jack's part to life and elevate this song to one of the best on the album.
But while her effect in the studio might still have been all but invisible to people not paying attention, it was blatantly apparent on stage. I envy anyone fortunate enough to have seen this live. I've watched it countless times in recorded performances and the writer of a tribute article in the Chicago Tribune described it perfectly:
"In concert, the interaction between Jack White’s vocals and guitar and the way Meg White answered him on drums was as snappy, witty and cutting as the dialogue in a Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall movie. Play out the scene a little further, and anything from a kiss to a gun could be produced.
Meg White took a lot of heat for not being a particularly accomplished drummer, at least technically. But she was the perfect drummer for the White Stripes, listening to and playing off Jack White better than any other human being on the planet could have. The body language, the glances between the two, were a theater all their own. That’s why the element I will miss most about the band is not the recordings, great as many of them are, but the live performances. The 'tension' that Jack White spoke of was real, and it could be revealed in a smile, a smirk, a flick of Jack’s hip or the way Meg came crashing down on a cymbal with just a little extra force to punctuate one of Jack’s lyrics."
The chances of Jack ever finding anyone else who creates the same seemingly psychic, magnetically endearing interaction with him are slim. I would assume that Meg's going to continue living her life as discreetly as she has since the Stripes first went on hiatus back in 2007. She obviously never felt the compulsion to perform that Jack does and is probably very happy to be out of the spotlight. But for 10 magical years, she gave it her all and was a true partner in a band that made so many people so very happy. How could anyone not love her for that?
Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to see this band in their element. Back when I first heard of the White Stripes, a bit after the release of Icky Thump, they were taking Canada by storm and titillating the whole world by playing surprise shows at bowling alleys, back-country bars, on fishing boats, even, most famously, on a municipal bus. I listened to the album, heard the stories from that tour, and thought that this was a band I should be into. For whatever reason, though, I didn't latch onto them at the time. By the time I realized my mistake last year and dove headfirst into their albums, it was too late. They were already over, though no one knew it at the time.
This is not as gutting for me as it is for those people who were in the right place at the right time and avoided my error. For those fans who were attached to this band for years, who were actually fortunate enough to experience them live, last week's announcement must have seemed like a bomb had dropped. I can't fully know what that felt like, though I definitely recognize the sadness of it and feel regret at being so very late to what was such an incredible party.
Fortunately, I still have much to look forward to from one half of the band. It sounds cliché to say it, but Jack's a force of nature. He'll always make music, it's apparently as essential to him as oxygen. Whether he'll revive the Raconteurs or the Dead Weather, create a new band, finally make that long-asked-about solo album, or just contribute searing guitar riffs on the recordings of other musicians he produces at Third Man Records, he's sure to continue providing the world with excitement and stimulation for years to come.
But what about Meg? It seems that many people overlook her contribution to the White Stripes. There are endless debates at message boards and in YouTube video comments about her abilities as a drummer. And, even if it was subconsciously, Jack must have realized how having a cute bare-footed girl with pigtails behind the drums would attract attention and make people stop to listen to his music. But just like the debate over her and Jack's marital status vs sibling-hood, any question of Meg's contribution to the band is entirely academic. She was essential because she did something undefinable that inspired Jack to tremendous heights. Jack's said that he wrote the majority, if not all, of the songs in the Stripes catalog on his own, on piano or acoustic guitar, and then brought them into the studio where they became White Stripes "covers" of his initial words and music. What would any of those songs have been without Meg? It was her "childlike, caveman" drumming that inspired him to begin with, she brought some spark to the equation that alchemized his writing and created magic. As Jack put it:
“Meg is the best part of this band. It never would have worked with anybody else, because it would have been too complicated. When she started to play drums with me, just on a lark, it felt liberating and refreshing. There was something in it that opened me up. It was my doorway to playing the blues, without anyone over my shoulder going, 'Oh, white-boy blues, white-boy bar band.' I could really get down to something.”
And he was fiercely protective of her as his partner and band-mate. In one of the many blogs written about the Stripes in the last few days, one writer mentioned that Jack would "turn vicious when people would slag Meg, because they just didn’t get it." In a thread at the Little Room forum, someone mentioned the belief that Jack wrote the song Truth Doesn't Make a Noise about Meg, which is something I've also felt--
My baby's got a heart of stone
can't you people just leave her alone
she never did nothing to hurt you
so just leave her alone
The motion of her tiny hands
and the quiver of her bones below
are the signs of a girl alone
and tell you everything
you need to know
I can't explain it
I feel it often
every time I see her face
but the way you treat her
fills me with rage and I
want to tear apart the place
You try to tell her what to do
and all she does is stare at you
her stare is louder than your voice
because truth doesn't make a noise
For all Meg's silence, the moments when she did use her voice made a difference.
Aside from fan favorites such as In the Cold, Cold Night, her accompanying vocals on songs like This Protector and Little Ghost add a subtle touch that couldn't be achieved with Jack's voice alone. And Rag and Bone is probably the best example of a song that just did not work without Meg's participation-- There were three versions of the song recorded for the album. One was never pressed and has apparently never been heard. The version on the vinyl release of the album is Jack singing altered lyrics alone. While the words and delivery are still clever, the tune falls flat. It's the addition of Meg on the cd version that provides the sass necessary to bring Jack's part to life and elevate this song to one of the best on the album.
But while her effect in the studio might still have been all but invisible to people not paying attention, it was blatantly apparent on stage. I envy anyone fortunate enough to have seen this live. I've watched it countless times in recorded performances and the writer of a tribute article in the Chicago Tribune described it perfectly:
"In concert, the interaction between Jack White’s vocals and guitar and the way Meg White answered him on drums was as snappy, witty and cutting as the dialogue in a Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall movie. Play out the scene a little further, and anything from a kiss to a gun could be produced.
Meg White took a lot of heat for not being a particularly accomplished drummer, at least technically. But she was the perfect drummer for the White Stripes, listening to and playing off Jack White better than any other human being on the planet could have. The body language, the glances between the two, were a theater all their own. That’s why the element I will miss most about the band is not the recordings, great as many of them are, but the live performances. The 'tension' that Jack White spoke of was real, and it could be revealed in a smile, a smirk, a flick of Jack’s hip or the way Meg came crashing down on a cymbal with just a little extra force to punctuate one of Jack’s lyrics."
The chances of Jack ever finding anyone else who creates the same seemingly psychic, magnetically endearing interaction with him are slim. I would assume that Meg's going to continue living her life as discreetly as she has since the Stripes first went on hiatus back in 2007. She obviously never felt the compulsion to perform that Jack does and is probably very happy to be out of the spotlight. But for 10 magical years, she gave it her all and was a true partner in a band that made so many people so very happy. How could anyone not love her for that?
February 3, 2011
My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight.
I may or may not write more about this later, still processing how I feel about it. In the grand scheme of things, it's not monumental. It's not even a surprise. But the emotional impact this band has had on the people who connected with their music is a special, special thing. This announcement is gracefully worded, yet so utterly sad in its finality...
The White Stripes would like to announce that today, February 2nd, 2011,
their band has officially ended and will make no further new recordings or perform live.
The reason is not due to artistic differences or lack of wanting to continue, nor any health issues as both Meg and Jack are feeling fine and in good health.
It is for a myriad of reasons, but mostly to preserve What is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way.
Meg and Jack want to thank every one of their fans and admirers for the incredible support they have given throughout the 13 plus years of the White Stripes’ intense and incredible career.
Third Man Records will continue to put out unreleased live and studio recordings from The White Stripes in their Vault Subscription record club, as well as through regular channels.
Both Meg and Jack hope this decision isn’t met with sorrow by their fans but that it is seen as a positive move done out of respect for the art and music that the band has created. It is also done with the utmost respect to those fans who’ve shared in those creations, with their feelings considered greatly.
With that in mind the band have this to say:
“The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful.”
Sincerely,
Meg and Jack White
The White Stripes
their band has officially ended and will make no further new recordings or perform live.
The reason is not due to artistic differences or lack of wanting to continue, nor any health issues as both Meg and Jack are feeling fine and in good health.
It is for a myriad of reasons, but mostly to preserve What is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way.
Meg and Jack want to thank every one of their fans and admirers for the incredible support they have given throughout the 13 plus years of the White Stripes’ intense and incredible career.
Third Man Records will continue to put out unreleased live and studio recordings from The White Stripes in their Vault Subscription record club, as well as through regular channels.
Both Meg and Jack hope this decision isn’t met with sorrow by their fans but that it is seen as a positive move done out of respect for the art and music that the band has created. It is also done with the utmost respect to those fans who’ve shared in those creations, with their feelings considered greatly.
With that in mind the band have this to say:
“The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful.”
Sincerely,
Meg and Jack White
The White Stripes
A fellow Stripes fan summed it up best on her Facebook profile by quoting the way Jack ended so many of the band's shows:
"My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight."
"My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight."
January 27, 2011
From shiverin' to Shakin' All Over
It's taken me several days to sit down and write about this. I've talked about it so much elsewhere that I guess I forgot to babble about it over here, but some great video popped up on the intarwebs and reminded me that I needed to document the occasion. So here goes...
It was appallingly cold last Friday when I headed up to NY to see Wanda Jackson, Jack White, and the Third Man House Band play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Take-your-breath-away cold. And yet a bunch of us die-hard fans came from various places around the country to stand outside for hours waiting to get into this show just so that we could get prime spots up at the front of the stage. I've written before about the addictive effect of music and there we were, proving what junkies we all are. It was so very worth it, though, and not only for the fantastic show we finally experienced. The camaraderie we shared as our feet became increasingly numb (the one part that couldn't be warmed by our group huddles) made the long wait in the cold bearable.
One of my compatriots, apparently taken just as she arrived roughly an hour before I did. Note the gleeful anticipation on that angelic face, it's such a perfect representation of what we were all feeling, and continued to feel despite the cold that seeped into the marrow of our bones as the minutes slowly ticked by. (Did I mention it was cold...?)
About halfway through the wait, we got a little pick-me-up-- A red van pulled up and I noticed Wanda Jackson sitting in the backseat. No one else seemed to notice, so I nudged folks to get their attention as Wanda climbed out of the van and maneuvered through the snow and the crowd to head into the venue. Everyone else went back to huddling for warmth, not seeming to realize that if Wanda had just arrived, the rest of the band had to be close behind. Sure enough, within a few minutes, another van pulled up and, again, no one else seemed to notice. So after more nudging, everyone turned around to watch the entire 11-person Third Man Band, plus attendants, pile out of the van as if it were an over-sized, rock'n'roll clown car. And, of course, that meant...
One of our bunch squealed and another practically hyper-ventilated. More importantly, it made us forget the cold for at least a couple of minutes.
But freezing to the point of numbness out front paid off inside, as we all ended up in various spots in the first or second row. One element that's gotten little mention in reviews is that the opening act was the Dex Romweber Duo. For our little group, the combination of Dex and Sara with Wanda and Jack was just too mind-blowing and we were as revved up for the openers as the headliners. Dex let us know right away that they'd be playing only a 30 minute set and that was a shame, seeing as how he and Sara tore it up as usual. Too many of their great tunes had to be left out, though they included favorites such as Mexicali Baby, People, Places, and Things, and the always fantastic show closer, Grey Skies. As an added treat, they had a local friend join them on standup bass for a few tunes. And, as it turned out, they probably could have played another 10-15 minutes.
Because then the wait began. The hours standing outside suddenly seemed like nothing compared to the 45 minutes we spent fidgeting to the surprisingly low-key, sleep-inducing music that was piped in between sets. We were antsy, we'd come for raucous rockabilly. Could Wanda and Jack rip us out of the comatose state we were quickly descending into? Hah. Silly question...
It was obvious at a few points that Wanda and the Third Man Band have not had much time to gel, but in many ways that added to the charm of the show. As Jack always puts it, it created a scenario for interesting things to happen. From Wanda needing lyric sheets on a few songs (a trick she nicked from Elvis) to backup singers The Cupcakes looking at Jack blankly when he asked them for a D during the band introductions, things were a touch rocky. But he just keeps going and she's so disarming that it made the show fun rather than clumsy. The overriding feeling was one of joyous energy, as Jack danced around the stage with a grin on his face and Wanda held the crowd in the palm of her hand.
Bit of distortion in this video, keep the volume on the low side--
Much has been made in recent articles about Wanda's new Jack-produced album, The Party Ain't Over, of the fact that she opened the door back in the 50's for practically every female rock'n'roll singer after her. Beginning as a country vocalist, she was one of the first to put on a risque dress instead of a cowboy hat, and to growl out tunes about mean, mean men and wild times in Nagasaki. But it's obvious watching her now that she never lost her dignity or her class along the way, a lesson that too many of the female artists she paved the way for unfortunately never learned. With any luck, they'll pick up the new album and catch one of the shows on her current tour before it's too late.
The one and only disappointment of the night (and an incredibly minor one, at that) was that Jack had some serious equipment issues. He started out with with his Gretsch Roundup, but something happened a couple of tunes in that required them switching out not only the guitar but also one of his amps in the middle of a song. Wanda didn't skip a beat with all of that going on behind her, and it didn't seem to affect Jack at all 'cause he was all smiles even though the song was brought to a premature end. And when the audience shouted for them to finish it, Wanda & co. complied by launching into the final verse. But, aside from a couple of tunes on Claudette (one of his acoustic ladies), he ended up playing the rest of the set on his black Billy Bo which has an aunchy, hard rock tone that, to my ears, didn't provide the sweet rockabilly twang that most of the songs that night required. This is a minor nit-pick, though, because Jack will leave your jaw dropped to the floor no matter what he plays...
Priceless moments: First was when they began Fujiyama Mama and Wanda stopped Jack to make him count it down again more slowly. The second was watching him singing along to that song as he played. Totally made me forget my frostbitten toes. It's unfortunate that no one seems to have captured that on video.
Another was the clatter, bash, boom accompanying each chorus of Busted (again, careful of the sound distortion)...
And their cover of Heartbreak Hotel proves that the Queen of Rock'n'Roll could compete with the King any day of the week...
And, finally, the show ain't complete till Jack breaks a string...
Such a way to end the night. With our ears ringing and our cheeks aching from grinning, we piled out of the venue and into the Cuban bar next door to re-live the details of the night and cement them in our memories. Frostbite or no, I think we'd all do it again in a heartbeat. Until next time, y'all!
Many, many thanks to the people who recorded this show and posted videos to help sustain these wonderful memories. And for anyone who's interested, there are also some excellent photos here and here.
It was appallingly cold last Friday when I headed up to NY to see Wanda Jackson, Jack White, and the Third Man House Band play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Take-your-breath-away cold. And yet a bunch of us die-hard fans came from various places around the country to stand outside for hours waiting to get into this show just so that we could get prime spots up at the front of the stage. I've written before about the addictive effect of music and there we were, proving what junkies we all are. It was so very worth it, though, and not only for the fantastic show we finally experienced. The camaraderie we shared as our feet became increasingly numb (the one part that couldn't be warmed by our group huddles) made the long wait in the cold bearable.
 |
| Angelina Seha. Photo by Megan Vitovic |
About halfway through the wait, we got a little pick-me-up-- A red van pulled up and I noticed Wanda Jackson sitting in the backseat. No one else seemed to notice, so I nudged folks to get their attention as Wanda climbed out of the van and maneuvered through the snow and the crowd to head into the venue. Everyone else went back to huddling for warmth, not seeming to realize that if Wanda had just arrived, the rest of the band had to be close behind. Sure enough, within a few minutes, another van pulled up and, again, no one else seemed to notice. So after more nudging, everyone turned around to watch the entire 11-person Third Man Band, plus attendants, pile out of the van as if it were an over-sized, rock'n'roll clown car. And, of course, that meant...
 |
| Jack White. Photo by Peter Burdi |
But freezing to the point of numbness out front paid off inside, as we all ended up in various spots in the first or second row. One element that's gotten little mention in reviews is that the opening act was the Dex Romweber Duo. For our little group, the combination of Dex and Sara with Wanda and Jack was just too mind-blowing and we were as revved up for the openers as the headliners. Dex let us know right away that they'd be playing only a 30 minute set and that was a shame, seeing as how he and Sara tore it up as usual. Too many of their great tunes had to be left out, though they included favorites such as Mexicali Baby, People, Places, and Things, and the always fantastic show closer, Grey Skies. As an added treat, they had a local friend join them on standup bass for a few tunes. And, as it turned out, they probably could have played another 10-15 minutes.
Because then the wait began. The hours standing outside suddenly seemed like nothing compared to the 45 minutes we spent fidgeting to the surprisingly low-key, sleep-inducing music that was piped in between sets. We were antsy, we'd come for raucous rockabilly. Could Wanda and Jack rip us out of the comatose state we were quickly descending into? Hah. Silly question...
It was obvious at a few points that Wanda and the Third Man Band have not had much time to gel, but in many ways that added to the charm of the show. As Jack always puts it, it created a scenario for interesting things to happen. From Wanda needing lyric sheets on a few songs (a trick she nicked from Elvis) to backup singers The Cupcakes looking at Jack blankly when he asked them for a D during the band introductions, things were a touch rocky. But he just keeps going and she's so disarming that it made the show fun rather than clumsy. The overriding feeling was one of joyous energy, as Jack danced around the stage with a grin on his face and Wanda held the crowd in the palm of her hand.
Bit of distortion in this video, keep the volume on the low side--
Much has been made in recent articles about Wanda's new Jack-produced album, The Party Ain't Over, of the fact that she opened the door back in the 50's for practically every female rock'n'roll singer after her. Beginning as a country vocalist, she was one of the first to put on a risque dress instead of a cowboy hat, and to growl out tunes about mean, mean men and wild times in Nagasaki. But it's obvious watching her now that she never lost her dignity or her class along the way, a lesson that too many of the female artists she paved the way for unfortunately never learned. With any luck, they'll pick up the new album and catch one of the shows on her current tour before it's too late.
The one and only disappointment of the night (and an incredibly minor one, at that) was that Jack had some serious equipment issues. He started out with with his Gretsch Roundup, but something happened a couple of tunes in that required them switching out not only the guitar but also one of his amps in the middle of a song. Wanda didn't skip a beat with all of that going on behind her, and it didn't seem to affect Jack at all 'cause he was all smiles even though the song was brought to a premature end. And when the audience shouted for them to finish it, Wanda & co. complied by launching into the final verse. But, aside from a couple of tunes on Claudette (one of his acoustic ladies), he ended up playing the rest of the set on his black Billy Bo which has an aunchy, hard rock tone that, to my ears, didn't provide the sweet rockabilly twang that most of the songs that night required. This is a minor nit-pick, though, because Jack will leave your jaw dropped to the floor no matter what he plays...
Priceless moments: First was when they began Fujiyama Mama and Wanda stopped Jack to make him count it down again more slowly. The second was watching him singing along to that song as he played. Totally made me forget my frostbitten toes. It's unfortunate that no one seems to have captured that on video.
Another was the clatter, bash, boom accompanying each chorus of Busted (again, careful of the sound distortion)...
And their cover of Heartbreak Hotel proves that the Queen of Rock'n'Roll could compete with the King any day of the week...
And, finally, the show ain't complete till Jack breaks a string...
Such a way to end the night. With our ears ringing and our cheeks aching from grinning, we piled out of the venue and into the Cuban bar next door to re-live the details of the night and cement them in our memories. Frostbite or no, I think we'd all do it again in a heartbeat. Until next time, y'all!
Many, many thanks to the people who recorded this show and posted videos to help sustain these wonderful memories. And for anyone who's interested, there are also some excellent photos here and here.
January 4, 2011
Vandals chop down famous Nevada shoe tree
Read about this in the news today:
U.S. Highway 50, billed as the “Loneliest Road in America,” lost one of its landmarks last week because of vandals.
The 70-foot cottonwood tree known as the “Shoe Tree” one mile east of Middlegate was cut down sometime late Thursday night or early Friday morning.
I passed the Shoe Tree during my cross-country road trip several years ago. It was by far one of the coolest things I saw on that trip. Such a shame that someone apparently didn't feel the same way and chose to destroy it rather than let it be.
U.S. Highway 50, billed as the “Loneliest Road in America,” lost one of its landmarks last week because of vandals.
The 70-foot cottonwood tree known as the “Shoe Tree” one mile east of Middlegate was cut down sometime late Thursday night or early Friday morning.
I passed the Shoe Tree during my cross-country road trip several years ago. It was by far one of the coolest things I saw on that trip. Such a shame that someone apparently didn't feel the same way and chose to destroy it rather than let it be.
January 2, 2011
Just don't know what to do with myself...
A buddy recently mentioned that she misses my blog. While that was gratifying to hear, I couldn't help but cringe a bit. I haven't written much lately because it feels that my focus has narrowed to the point that only two things revolve through my head anymore and I feel like the blog is full of them. One of those things gives me quite a high, providing excitement and joy in equal measure. The other has been dragging me down, somehow making me both restless and lethargic at the same time. Lately, though, the restlessness has been increasing and there is where hope lies.
In casting about for solutions, I've been looking carefully at the lives of friends and acquaintances. What I see is inspiring, though at the same time occasionally incites a frustrated envy--
One friend who's worked from home for the last several years recently had a change of position that required her to begin the daily slog into an office downtown. Rather than finding this to be a drudge, though, she's become re-energized by re-entry into the world and the change has radiated through her to affect other aspects of her life.
Another friend who not too long ago shared my lethargy expressed that state beautifully...
Last summer, she began forcing herself off the 'net and outside into her garden. More recently, she found a job putting to use a natural talent and seems not only motivated but wonderfully happy. Other friends have moved to new states, even new countries, to begin new chapters of their lives and the energy involved in such moves leaves me staggered. Where do they find it? Mine's apparently hiding with my motivation.
A fellow blogger over at The Gardener's Cottage wrote yesterday about her New Year's resolution to have more fun. Considering what she's shared with me about the challenges she's faced the last few years, it sounds like the best prescription any doctor could give to her. But it made me realize that my own problem has possibly been too much fun-- My single lifestyle allows me the freedom to spend my time off as I please, but have I been making productive use of that time? The things I do for fun are beginning to feel stale and suddenly seem to have a narcotizing effect rather than an energizing one.
The one activity that still seems to do me some good is getting out into the woods. This winter's been abundantly cold and grey and that's apparently kept a lot of people off the trails. Solitude on its own can be as much a trap as a pleasure, but throw in a good endorphin rush and it clears the mind while recharging the spirit. And Nature provides its own examples of motivation-- Yesterday's hike through a nearby conservation park brought me to a well-maintained beaver dam. The destruction wreaked on trees in the area indicated that the dam's builders haven't yet settled down into a hibernatory state and have been living up to the cliché of "busy as a beaver".
On top of all this, I recently decided I'd had enough of the Comcast monopoly and gave up cable television. I had no idea this would be such a challenge. I didn't think that I watched much television, but apparently I had grown used to having it on in the background and being able to sit down and watch for a few minutes in between other activities. It was filler. Without it, I find I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost in a panic, trying to think of things I can occupy myself with at those moments when the intarwebs have run dry and I feel like being still. Sure, I could read a book, but I find I need something that engages me visually as well as mentally.
To that end, I'm in search of a new hobby or project, even two or three. Thing is, there are potentially too many options. I've begun making lists to consider the myriad options, but can't seem to settle on anything--
- I could take up something like knitting that would engage both hands and eyes, but what the heck would I do with the product of my labors? I can only wear so many sweaters, and my family's moved to Florida so I could hardly send them scarves.
- Several years ago I got into making walking sticks. Started out one day by picking up an interestingly shaped branch, taking it home and sanding it down, varnishing it, and wrapping it with colored thread to create a handhold. Ended up making several for myself and people I knew who appreciated such things, adding such decorative elements as feathers and beads. One for a friend was even personalized with a small pouch of totem items. But I ran out of people to give them to and, as with knitting, I can't just end up with an apartment full of these things. If I began again, perhaps I could figure out some way to sell them...?
- Photography's been a hobby for a long time, but I've never really gotten serious about it. Should this be the year that I sink money into a decent SLR instead of just running around with my little point'n'shoot? Should I learn Photoshop and actually try do something with my photos? Sell 'em, enter 'em in contests...?
- Writing, like photography, is something I've long considered trying to do more with. But the (in)frequency of posts here at the blog shows just how disciplined I've been about that. Would it be worth making the effort to become more focused, find things to write about, do it more frequently? Perhaps, but part of the impetus behind this whole idea is to get out from behind the computer monitor and away from the desk.
- Music's been one of my drugs of choice for as long as I can remember, but the closest I come to practicing it myself is bellowing along with the stereo in the car. Perhaps it's time to find out whether I've actually got any musical sensibilities of my own. I've considered a few times the idea of taking voice lessons, but have lately been wondering how difficult it might be to learn to play guitar.
- And there are, of course, dozens of classes I could take for personal enrichment: Psychology, literature, philosophy... Hell, maybe I could even find a physics class for the mathematics-challenged. Again, though, the number of choices has me paralyzed.
I need help, folks. Give me some input, ideas, advice, a kick in the ass. I'm on the verge of a crisis, in a muddle and will take any help I can get to climb out of it. Don't leave me in this state.
As for that other thing that gives me such a joyous high, it also provides many apropos accompaniments to my babblings...
In casting about for solutions, I've been looking carefully at the lives of friends and acquaintances. What I see is inspiring, though at the same time occasionally incites a frustrated envy--
One friend who's worked from home for the last several years recently had a change of position that required her to begin the daily slog into an office downtown. Rather than finding this to be a drudge, though, she's become re-energized by re-entry into the world and the change has radiated through her to affect other aspects of her life.
Another friend who not too long ago shared my lethargy expressed that state beautifully...
Where did it go?
Can someone help me find my motivation?
I left it here somewhere.
My ambition, my desire, my inclination?
I just had it in my hand,
And put it down here,
It's not where I stand,
It's not next to my beer.
I want to complete a project I start,
I want to complete a thought,
I want to do these things with all my heart,
But cannot.
Where oh where can my motivation be,
Oh where oh where can it be?
I can't see or know, or remember where I last saw it.
I can't dream or imagine or think where I hauled it.
If you see my drive, my thirst, my appetite,
Please send it right back over!
Tell it I miss it,
Tell it I'll be better,
Tell it I'm nothing with out it!
-- Tisha Christenson-Dillon I left it here somewhere.
My ambition, my desire, my inclination?
I just had it in my hand,
And put it down here,
It's not where I stand,
It's not next to my beer.
I want to complete a project I start,
I want to complete a thought,
I want to do these things with all my heart,
But cannot.
Where oh where can my motivation be,
Oh where oh where can it be?
I can't see or know, or remember where I last saw it.
I can't dream or imagine or think where I hauled it.
If you see my drive, my thirst, my appetite,
Please send it right back over!
Tell it I miss it,
Tell it I'll be better,
Tell it I'm nothing with out it!
Last summer, she began forcing herself off the 'net and outside into her garden. More recently, she found a job putting to use a natural talent and seems not only motivated but wonderfully happy. Other friends have moved to new states, even new countries, to begin new chapters of their lives and the energy involved in such moves leaves me staggered. Where do they find it? Mine's apparently hiding with my motivation.
A fellow blogger over at The Gardener's Cottage wrote yesterday about her New Year's resolution to have more fun. Considering what she's shared with me about the challenges she's faced the last few years, it sounds like the best prescription any doctor could give to her. But it made me realize that my own problem has possibly been too much fun-- My single lifestyle allows me the freedom to spend my time off as I please, but have I been making productive use of that time? The things I do for fun are beginning to feel stale and suddenly seem to have a narcotizing effect rather than an energizing one.
The one activity that still seems to do me some good is getting out into the woods. This winter's been abundantly cold and grey and that's apparently kept a lot of people off the trails. Solitude on its own can be as much a trap as a pleasure, but throw in a good endorphin rush and it clears the mind while recharging the spirit. And Nature provides its own examples of motivation-- Yesterday's hike through a nearby conservation park brought me to a well-maintained beaver dam. The destruction wreaked on trees in the area indicated that the dam's builders haven't yet settled down into a hibernatory state and have been living up to the cliché of "busy as a beaver".
On top of all this, I recently decided I'd had enough of the Comcast monopoly and gave up cable television. I had no idea this would be such a challenge. I didn't think that I watched much television, but apparently I had grown used to having it on in the background and being able to sit down and watch for a few minutes in between other activities. It was filler. Without it, I find I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost in a panic, trying to think of things I can occupy myself with at those moments when the intarwebs have run dry and I feel like being still. Sure, I could read a book, but I find I need something that engages me visually as well as mentally.
To that end, I'm in search of a new hobby or project, even two or three. Thing is, there are potentially too many options. I've begun making lists to consider the myriad options, but can't seem to settle on anything--
- I could take up something like knitting that would engage both hands and eyes, but what the heck would I do with the product of my labors? I can only wear so many sweaters, and my family's moved to Florida so I could hardly send them scarves.
- Several years ago I got into making walking sticks. Started out one day by picking up an interestingly shaped branch, taking it home and sanding it down, varnishing it, and wrapping it with colored thread to create a handhold. Ended up making several for myself and people I knew who appreciated such things, adding such decorative elements as feathers and beads. One for a friend was even personalized with a small pouch of totem items. But I ran out of people to give them to and, as with knitting, I can't just end up with an apartment full of these things. If I began again, perhaps I could figure out some way to sell them...?
- Photography's been a hobby for a long time, but I've never really gotten serious about it. Should this be the year that I sink money into a decent SLR instead of just running around with my little point'n'shoot? Should I learn Photoshop and actually try do something with my photos? Sell 'em, enter 'em in contests...?
- Writing, like photography, is something I've long considered trying to do more with. But the (in)frequency of posts here at the blog shows just how disciplined I've been about that. Would it be worth making the effort to become more focused, find things to write about, do it more frequently? Perhaps, but part of the impetus behind this whole idea is to get out from behind the computer monitor and away from the desk.
- Music's been one of my drugs of choice for as long as I can remember, but the closest I come to practicing it myself is bellowing along with the stereo in the car. Perhaps it's time to find out whether I've actually got any musical sensibilities of my own. I've considered a few times the idea of taking voice lessons, but have lately been wondering how difficult it might be to learn to play guitar.
- And there are, of course, dozens of classes I could take for personal enrichment: Psychology, literature, philosophy... Hell, maybe I could even find a physics class for the mathematics-challenged. Again, though, the number of choices has me paralyzed.
I need help, folks. Give me some input, ideas, advice, a kick in the ass. I'm on the verge of a crisis, in a muddle and will take any help I can get to climb out of it. Don't leave me in this state.
As for that other thing that gives me such a joyous high, it also provides many apropos accompaniments to my babblings...
November 14, 2010
If I die, please don't bury my soul...
Synchronicity never fails to blow me away. Through my exploration of Dex Romweber's music, I just yesterday found a new favorite song-- Last Kind Word Blues, which Dex and his sister Sara recorded with Jack White for release through Third Man Records in 2009. I had picked up the 7" single when I was at TMR in September and listened to it as soon as I got home, but didn't rip and burn it onto a cd for the car until this weekend. Much as I enjoy listening to vinyl at home, in the car is where music really sinks into my head. So, anyway, after a couple of listens, this song had its hooks into me.
"If I die, please don't bury my soul... just leave me out and let the buzzards come and eat me whole" That line was the second of the hooks. The first is the crazy contrast of the vocals. Who on earth would expect Dex's bourbon-soaked croon to work with Jack's manic wail? But it does work, to electrifying effect. Throw in some filthy guitar work and smooth piano and you've got one of the quirkiest blues covers going.
According to the TMR website, the original artist is one Geechie Wiley. I googled the song last night just to find the lyrics, but didn't go any further than that. So today, I'm sitting at lunch, reading Delta Blues: The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionized American Music, and I turn the page and find a chapter headed "let the buzzards eat me whole" (there's that synchronicity). Sure enough, it contained what little biography there is for Geechie. One of the few female blues artists of note, she apparently only recorded six songs and left not much more of herself behind. Damned shame, that, as it sounds as if she had the potential to be on a par with any of the known blues men.
Fortunately, she left a bit of her soul with us before she went.
"If I die, please don't bury my soul... just leave me out and let the buzzards come and eat me whole" That line was the second of the hooks. The first is the crazy contrast of the vocals. Who on earth would expect Dex's bourbon-soaked croon to work with Jack's manic wail? But it does work, to electrifying effect. Throw in some filthy guitar work and smooth piano and you've got one of the quirkiest blues covers going.
According to the TMR website, the original artist is one Geechie Wiley. I googled the song last night just to find the lyrics, but didn't go any further than that. So today, I'm sitting at lunch, reading Delta Blues: The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionized American Music, and I turn the page and find a chapter headed "let the buzzards eat me whole" (there's that synchronicity). Sure enough, it contained what little biography there is for Geechie. One of the few female blues artists of note, she apparently only recorded six songs and left not much more of herself behind. Damned shame, that, as it sounds as if she had the potential to be on a par with any of the known blues men.
Fortunately, she left a bit of her soul with us before she went.
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