What happens when you mix half a pot of tea, stretching, a workout, and Sleep's Dopesmoker at 1:30 am? A great forking time is what happens.
It's good to realize that you can at least exert a little control over yourself. You can realize that you have little muscles and tendons that you never even dreamed of, even at 23, or 39, or 64, or 12. It just feels good to move, and to think.
Not a lot of profundity here, but I felt like writing. Also, the picture up top is of Al's bass rig from Sleep (and Om too, I reckon). That's eight 15" speakers there. That's six more than most people use. Ridiculous. And completely appropriate, for a band with a song called "Dopesmoker" that writhes around a single theme for 60 minutes without once getting boring.
Sometimes I just want to throw a fucking tantrum. I want to ignore all my scruples and ideals and just start flailing around, embarrassing myself fully in the meantime. I think that sometimes people see me as passive or naive or withdrawn. A good tantrum would really nail those perceptions straight to the cross.
Why a tantrum, you might ask? To answer, we must go to a certain restaurant on a certain Saturday night. My party (who will remain unnamed, for their own good) entered, and our host, the callous fucktard that he is, immediately says to me "Cambridge? Really?" (in reference to my shirt). One of my party, who studied in Cambridge over the summer, gave me this particular shirt. I tell this to our fucktard host. I am a little shaken, but okay, whatever, this hostess, he has proven himself to be a planter wart before, so I sort of accept it. But another incident occurs when ordering. I order the Masaman Curry. I suppose I pronounce it wrong, as he repeats it back to me "Masaman, huh" in a sort of "you are an idiot and I am your intellectual superior" kind of way. I decide here that if he gets smart again, I am going to do something crazy. Like maybe throw my food in the floor when he brings it. Or verbally berate him in front of other tables.
Luckily, nothing else happened. We sort of shorted him on tip, only going about 10% or so. But that was the extent of our revenge. And wouldn't you know it, after the passion had died down, I felt guilty. I mean, this guy is a waiter. A thankless profession, and one that, when insulted, is usually insulted in a manner that suggests master/slave relationships. That is to say, an insult based on degradation and dehumanization. I feel very uncomfortable with that kind of insult! I do not want to wear a monocle and express my superiority through my choice of fine tobacco and willingness to insult those who puncture my fragile, enlarged ego.
Although this might read as over the top, it's these kinds of petty divisions that keep so many obnoxious, hateful power structures in place. Let's face it, the waiter and I are essentially on the same side! We're hustling about, trying to keep it all together. That's not to say that he hasn't consistently pulled dick moves. He has. It's just that I see no reason as to why we can't just respect each other and not play the whole "let's punch each other in the arm" game. Can we do that? Can we do that, asshole-waiter? I sure hope so.
Those who die in myths experience satisfying and full deaths. They luck upon an acceptance and sense of wonder that many of us will not ever possess.
To illustrate, let's say a civilian happens to find that his home has suddenly become a warzone. We will assume that he is shot by a stray bullet during a minor skirmish. This bullet was manufactured by some winding branch of Lockheed Martin. It was created for profit and sold the world over. It will fund thousands of small skirmishes. This civilian's death is nothing more than a justification for the arms-maker to continue producing arms. There is nothing even close to beauty here. No freedom secured, or ideals battled for.
Now let's say you live around Mount Etna thousands of years ago, and you are witnessing Zeus and Typhaon's final battle. Zeus is remarkable, certainly, scarred from his own lightning and clothed in light. But he pales to Typhaon's horrific majesty. His bottom half is composed of the coils of hundreds of snakes, all hissing and writhing but without mouths. His top half extends to the heavens, dragon heads bolster each of his shoulders; his form is baffling, maddening, and yet not cruel. Suppose, in your rubberneckery, that an errant coil of Typhaon smashes into you, killing you flat while also slinging your body across the sparse mountain. Your death was by a remarkable creature; Typhaon was not manufactured, designed, or drafted. He was born, ignorant of his form or his potential. He had no idea that he would father the Sphinx, the Hydra, or the Chimera. No idea that his Titan siblings would shun him for simply being too monstrous. With a bit of perspective, you were killed by something remarkably beautiful and singular.
We have hidden death away in cupboards, transforming the monstrous into the mundane and the war into the "situation." It is a detestable state of affairs, and undoubtedly a state worth struggling against.
I've started a lot of dead posts lately. One on harmonicas and their infinite uses, another on William Henry Pratt, otherwise known as Boris Karloff.
But kept running into dead ends. I felt like I was trying to affect something that I wasn't really feeling at the time. I researched Boris Karloff passionately on Sunday afternoon, but much of that passion (and the specifics that made that passion possible) have temporarily left. The harmonica bit felt too one-note, and I didn't really understand what my point was. Harmonicas are good? I think most people would agree with that.
During my glummery (invented word), I decided to pull out a few records that I haven't really listened to. One of those was Comet Gain's "Realistes." I bought this record on a whim, based both on the cool cover art and the idea of a patchquilt sort of indie-pop band; London guerillas with Rickenbackers.
I remember first listening to the album and thinking it was amateruish and forced. But tonight, something clicked. The lyrics and vocal mannerisms, which before I found cloyingly obvious, now seem charming and sweet. They are clearly in love with the Swingin' London sound, but also approach this era with a totally different, scrappy mindset. But what really hit me was this thought: "What right do I have to critique a band that is clearly in love with what it is doing?" They operate as a collective, have been a band for 17 years, and here I come along, some jerk from Georgia, thinking that I have the right to take a band's art and merely call it good or bad, filing it away for obscurity.
"Our mixtapes are memories for unseen histories," Comet Gain sing. This is the lyric that did me in. For me, every song that I have ever loved has a memory attached to it. Shared moments, intimate things. What Comet Gain embody best, for me at least, is the fun that a group of friends can have together. You put something together because you love it, and you let it be what it is without trying to gloss it up or make it more appealing to more people (There is, however, a difference between "glossing up" and "refining.").
I am aware that this post makes me seem a blaring sentamentalist. I cry in movies at the drop of the hat, and Kurt Vonnegut's short story "D.P." moves me terribly. I'm okay with that.
And for the three people who read this, I would love for you to post a song and a memory that is permantently attached to said song. Go!
The epiphany is a fairly wonderful thing. I've been lucky enough to experience a few (of genuine stock, too) in my lifetime, and the paradigm shift they bring on is refreshing and freeing. But the more years I've accumulated, the more silly things I've become concerned about. I'll make a list of them.
1. Amplifiers. It's true, and it's downright goofy. My current amp, a Marshall JCM 800, is a wonderful tool, capable of a wide range of fairly cool sounds. But as I have become more and more aware of my musical stylings (barf), I second guess myself, as well as my amp. I start to think "but wait, this amp is for Slayer-tones and post-hardcore bands," becoming convinced that what I TRULY need is a nice clean amp, like a Fender Twin or a Vox. These are stupid concerns. Coming from a punk aesthetic (I know, I know), I shouldn't even be concerned over such priveleged bullshit. I thought to myself "Heath, you should fuck off for getting so wrapped up in such nonsense. People are killing each other for water in Somalia. Shut the fuck up about your amp already."
All of the artists I have loved have simply put their heads down and played their music. I have doubts that they were really worried about the quality of their speakers or string gauges.
2. Being in a band. I've always just wanted to play music with people, put out records, design sleeves, tour in a van. Playing with sympathetic folks is one of the great pleasures of life, and I've become downright obsessed with the notion. I moved to Athens to see this idea to fruition, and those who know me well know how that turned out. I learned that when you don't have anyone around you who cares about you, it's hard to care about music. Friends are way, way, way more important than that. It doesn't really matter, the band thing. As long as I can play my own tunes in my bedroom or for friends, I think I'll be okay.
There are no doubt more unimportant obsessions that I could expound on, but I've sort of run out of steam for the moment. If you read the title, you will notice that this little piece was intended to have a much angrier tone. Hearing about C.E.O's and C.F.O's who think that a million dollars a year isn't enough right before a story on the Somalian drought makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me long for a guillotine and an angry mob. But in the midst of my anger, I began to think about all the nonsense that I concern myself with, and I felt it more honest to lay down my own sins than indict others. If I appear shallow or muddled, forgive me, but the last thing I want to become is a judge-penitent.
Being a fat 14 year old is a rough business. Being old and fat is more excused, mostly because being old is a drag and people don't blame you for indulging in food and drink. But a fat 14 year old? You really have no excuses. Imagine a fat puppy. It's pathetic, isn't it? You really have to go out of your way to be a fat puppy. I know that I certainly went out of my way to be a fat 14 year old.
On one of my less fat days, I decided to walk from my mother's workplace (in downtown Gainesville) to Chapter 11, a local record/book shop. It was quite a jaunt, at least a few miles. I was wearing Fisherman's sandals, a most curious piece of footwear for anyone, let alone a 14 year old. The leather cut into my feet badly, and I remember being mostly uncomfortable on my walk. The heat, the grit, the honking cars, the exhaust from said cars, and my pudgy, not-used-to-walking feet. Despite the physical discomfort, I do remember taking in my surroundings more than I ever had before and feeling all the better for it. I noticed that there was a little green lot parallel to the Quinlan Art Center. I remember thinking that I could have a protest there quite easily, and all the traffic that passed by would view and tidily digest my message with no problems. How convenient! Most importantly, this was the first time that I noticed that discomfort didn't always have to be a bad thing. There are few activities more honest than walking, after all.
But to speed closer to the point, we'll go straight to Chapter 11. I remember browsing the racks, furiously wondering what album I should purchase. I was already finding much of my favorite music being classified as "punk," (more an ethos than a genre, as I would later find out) and I knew that Fugazi's name came up continuously. It's an odd name, really. A bit of Vietnam Vet slang, a subtle rudeness: Fucked Up, Got Ambushed, Zipped In. I didn't know that at the time, of course. In any event, after walking through the CD racks (all the while wringing my hands), I decided upon Fugazi's 13 Songs. I walked to the back of Corner Drugs, sat in their bushes, and proceeded to listen to my new album (I brought a CD player, of course). I was baffled. Not necessarily in a good way, understand. The liner notes were strangely minimal, with only a few pictures of the band; one of them sitting in Heathrow airport, another in a diner, and the above photo. The rest of the notes were mostly lyrics, all of which seemed to confront me on all of my insecurities. On a more musical note, I couldn't comprehend why this band kept taking little detours, staving off the big "Rock Moment" with all manners of rhythmic weirdness and guitar chatter. They certainly had their fair share of explosive moments, but they didn't indulge in them as much as the bands I was then listening to. I shelved the album for a moment, no doubt walking back to the Misfits or At The Drive-In.
A year or so later, I chanced upon the above photograph again while looking for something new to listen to. The pure kinetic energy of it rubbed off on me. We can't be sure what Guy Picciotto is doing, but his dervish-like movements come through even in a still image. I could talk about how much else this photograph secretly influenced me: the Marshall amp, the Jack Purcells, the stripped, bare aesthetic. But I'll keep those thoughts for another posting. Needless to say, the photograph triggered something. I looked down at my rounded edges with newfound determination, and soon thereafter I began a tiny little workout regimen that helped me shake off 40 or 50 pounds. It wasn't until a little bit later that Fugazi's music hit me. But the photograph wasn't a bad start.
