“When is this gonna stop?!”

A piggyback to the last post. These last few are all in the same vein. Sorry, life has come into clear focus the last few weeks, when I first saw High Fidelity as an adult: that is, a non-20-year-old, ha ha. Just now, I remembered the harsh light it first shed on me those few weeks ago. I was vague and obfuscating a bit in the last post, as always, and these help explain it better, more poetically, and more succinctly. Fitting, since they were the catalyst for this short run of posts.

Clip #1: remember the setup for this scene, as it is his words at the very end this clip that are at the core of what I was getting at the other day

Clip #2: within a minute or so of the scene in the first clip comes the scene in second clip, which explains in more detail the last line of clip #1. I alluded to this scene before, here it is in its entirety. My favorite scene, and for me, the heart of the film.

Subtract the relationship angle and this is the overall point I was trying to make. (It’s not totally immaterial, I’d love to even have the opportunity to commit to someone.) See, this is what I should be doing! Even if I’m using music or movie clips, using art to articulate instead of blogs and words. (Ideally, it would be my own art doing the articulating, but someday.)

And the answer is…

High Fidelity! I haven’t in written in close to two months, and watching this film for the first time in years (probably since it was released in theaters– 2000, whoa) is the trigger. I think the main reason is not that I haven’t felt like talking, but that I didn’t feel like whining. I felt like if I had written, it would have been this semi-loathing-soul-searching-tormented catharsis. One thing that my ex and still friend taught me is that people don’t like to hear whining all the time. It sounds obvious, but I learned this before I left Seattle the first time (which I say because I may very well soon leave a second time, but that’s another blog entry, or not). She simply said that whenever she talked to me on the phone, I was always negative or depressing.  Which was true, lots of moaning. I mean, that’s what friends are for, but eventually you have to get over yourself. I don’t care what your fucking problems are, negativity is not fun to be around.  And I try to minimize that. Lots of people are aware that I don’t like small talk, nor am I good at it. But I’m trying to work on my small-talk skills because it allows the topic to be the other person, rather than me and my neurosis of the day. I guess that’s a function of age. Being a bit self-absorbed, mopey, or dramatic is part of being young. (You may argue that I’m only 30, but I certainly feel like an adult. This kind of rambling perspective is part of it, I thing.) I’m not saying I’m accomplished in life yet, but from the time my ex told me straight out “you’re a downer” I’ve realized that that kinda thing is just going to hold you back. One of the reasons I love being around people and conversing is because it allows me to forget myself for a bit, and just enjoy the other person and where I am. I mean, we all have to solve our own crap ourselves, so why wallow in it any more? If I’m in a good environment or situation, obviously I’m going to feel positive, which is a much better state of mind with which to deal with personal issues.

Anyway, I suppose I won’t talk about the nuts and bolts of the film too much, because I’d have to watch it again, take notes, and drop quotes, and I wouldn’t get to bed until the sun came up. As it is, it’s 230a, so I only have about 2.5 hours. But when I first saw it, I was 22 or 23. Eh, I thought. Of course now, two months from my 31st birthday, oh god. Anyone who has not graduated from their 20s probably can’t understand this, but this is clearly more than a film about a relationship.  First off, I have to say the conceit of the fourth-wall-shattering protagonist rubbed me the wrong way. A story that is aware of itself loses a little something. However, as the film goes on, and John Cusack’s character Rob pores over things, you see how his dialogue with the camera, his overanalytic confessions, are necessary to the story. Anyone who knows anything about me knows that this is my curse. I savor the details of things too much, I lose track of the simplicity of what the thing is. Too much think-y, not enough act-y. And the thing is, I started to get frustrated with the character’s selfish need to know what it all means and how to make everything nice and neat, when of course, guess who I’m really frustrated with. It’s like my friend saying “you’re a downer”— it’s all well and good hash things over and analyze them to death, but at the end of the day, chapter, or story, something has to be done. It’s kind of a heavy-handed, too-aware moment (despite that he’s been talking to us the whole time), but after Rob leaves the funeral, he comes to the following realization about Laura, and everything else, as I see it:

“…I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things. Like thinking about my future and— I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. It’s really just suicide. By tiny, tiny increments.”

I had a conversation with my friend Ruben the other night about age, the idea of Saturn returns, and the need to do something bold and assertive in re-assessing one’s life. He opined that it was bold for me to come back out to Seattle, but I disagreed that it wasn’t. For starters, I’ve lived here before, it’s familiar. Even moving to New York City sight unseen didn’t strike me as bold, because I know I am a very adaptable person, and that I would find work and settle in. I wasn’t worried about me, because I know I can count on me. Adaptation is one of my strengths. I disagreed because to me, boldness is risk, doing something when you absolutely don’t know everything will be okay, and doing it anyway. If I moved back to TX, it would be not so much to achieve something specific, but at the very least know that I am even capable of taking a risk or a leap of faith. This may not sound like the best reason to do something, and it’s not really a reason, anyway. (FYI, there are some personal details regarding this potential return that I am intentionally omitting. I normally am free with details, so vagueness is usually intentional with me.)

Anyway, a great thing about the film is that the ex-girlfriend, Laura (played by Danish actress Iben Hjejle), is more than just an object or the one that got away. You get to see where she’s coming from too. One of my favorite devices the film uses is just after she leaves his place to pick up the last of his stuff. Cut to Rob on the street, talking to the camera about the things he misses about Laura, and how the #1 on the top 5 list is her dry, but often warm and forgiving sense of humor, and the way she laughs. Then, near the end, after they’ve reunited, Rob indirectly proposes marriage, and the way she handles the situation is amazing. We know how ridiculous he is to propose in that moment, but she never rubs it in, and you see the cutting yet forgiving laughter he referred to. She laughs heartily and takes a couple of shots at Rob, but as he then awkwardly explains his clumsy proposal, she hunkers down and listens gently but intently.  These are the last lines of the scene:

Laura: I think I know what you mean. But were you really expecting me to say yes?
Rob: I don’t know. I didn’t think about it really. I thought asking was the important part.
Laura: Well, you’ve asked. Thank you.

Despite all Rob’s lines, and no offense to Mr. Cusack,  the scene is Laura’s. She gives him room to make his small step forward, then recognizes it and accepts it. Later, I rewound to that scene and it stood out even more. Neither actor goes for “aw shucks, love me, its okay I forgive you”, they play it true, and it’s possibly the sweetest, most resonant part of the film. There is no promise of a happily ever after, just two people being respectful and honest with one another in the moment. One person doing the nervous talking thing (yes, a callback to John Cusack in Say Anything, which I’ve re-viewed recently, and a phrase I’ve stolen to describe myself), and one person listening. (Refreshingly, the whole film bears this out. They may be the two principals, but the film treats every other character with respect as well.)

Of course, having this sort-of mini-epiphany, I am utterly compelled to write this. But, as with all things, it’s ephemeral. You can’t be constantly inspired, just like you can’t be head-over-heels in love every moment of every day. We’re not wired that way. We need downtime, if nothing else to figure out how to deal with it. So tomorrow morning, will I feel as excited to write and share as I am now? Most definitely no. Will I feel positive and not-so-fearful about the decisions I have to make in the next month or so? I’m cheating since I’m editing this and it’s tomorrow, so I can definitely say no. To paraphrase a writer/producer from a Simpsons commentary (NERD!), you have to remember what inspired you, and what was good, and to not lose track of it, re-evaluate it, or doubt it, because it was there, and it was real. There is a reason an idea or feeling was there in the first place. The spark that starts the fire, and it’s one’s own job to stoke the fire and figure out how to get it roaring, to make a trite and cheesy analogy.  Or at the very least to explore it, to try it. Creativity, love, life, all that crap. Those who do, versus those who would like to do. I’m not just talking about career or artistic aspirations, I’m always hoping to meet anyone like that.

Anyway, I’m cheating again since I’m editing this the next morning and saying wow, this was very idealistic vibe I was running with, almost “yuck” even. Though, even last night, I realized it’s a pretty small story, it ain’t gonna solve the world’s problems, or even mine. But if nothing else, I can utter a familiar refrain: I fucking love film.

Children, death, and beautiful endings

While trying to ignore the sting of reality/unemployment/hopelessness this morning (it took me over an hour to get out of bed, and that was just to let the cat out, it was probably two hours total), I listened to some music and came upon the soundtrack for the Swedish/Russian film Lilja 4-ever, which our class saw in the theater in Stockholm in spring 2003. I’ve only seen it that once, mainly because it’s hard to watch it more than once.  The soundtrack is mostly techno and dance, which I actively dislike, but because of the film, it was okay for me to buy the soundtrack. Why not buy it in a country where it’s readily available, instead of waiting back home where it will be much more difficult and expensive to locate? Honestly, there are only a handful of tracks I can say I actively like, but, as good filmmaking does, the music was made organic to and inseparable from the film. (See: “Just Like Honey”, Lost in Translation.) If I am moved by any of these songs, it is because of their context, even after six years and only one viewing.

Anyway, the point is that it reminded me of the film, specifically the ending of film, more specifically the last 90 seconds, and even more specifically the last 35 seconds. On the 0.00001% chance someone ends up seeing this film, I won’t give out any details. However, the staggering, heart-wrenching beauty of those final seconds was so singular, it reminded me of the last time I had the same exact experience, that of Pan’s Labyrinth. Plot and detail aside, it follows a very similar route to Lilja in the way it presents the characters and they arrive at the end. And, of course, it is the very final scenes and images that, both times I saw it, moved me more than anything I’ve seen recently. (The only other thing I can think of that I was moved by by a film I saw in the theater was in Persepolis, when little Marjane and her uncle are talking for what they realize will be the last time.) What’s interesting to me is how both films arrive at the same kind of beauty, and yet the contrasts are obvious. I wish I could spill details, but I can’t. By intent, of course, you can glean some of what I’m talking about by the title of the post. But you could also just watch both.

Caveat though: if you do, though, make sure that you have a strong heart, and failing that, that the sun is shining outside, you have something to look forward to that day or the next, or you have someone to hug or talk with afterwards. See? I have nothing against dramatic film

One divine hammer

It’s 15 years too late, but I’d still like to fill that position, Kim. It’s funny how this song wasn’t even in my life and it fills me with warm, fuzzy 90s nostalgia. The only thing I remember is that one of my sisters had Last Splash. She and her friends were much hipper than I, so before I got into music, they were the reason I was remotely familiar with The Cure, indie-label Green Day, Toad the Wet Sprocket, The Smiths, Davíd Garza, or Operation Ivy. However, the Breeders is the exception in that I remember her having them, but it wasn’t until I started listening to Pixies (which I only have been the last couple of years, and only then because a crush of mine gave me “Gigantic” on a mix CD) that I became familiar with Ms. Deal, and only last year that I started listening to the Breeders. This is such a sweet song, whether or not you know what it’s about, that I can’t see how this wouldn’t make someone happy, or at least smitten. Hey, the same as girls can swoon over guys with instruments, I can swoon over Kim. (Girl, every time you say “bang, bang” and look in my eyes, I’m all yours.)

This is the same song, but a live performance that I just had to include because of the good sound quality, and because they’re all so adorable and seem to be genuinely having fun (excepting the bass player).

Finally, the alternate music video, featuring lots of Flying Nun Kim (there were glimpses in the official version). Looking at her when she’s in the white nun outfit well aware of how goofy this is just warms my heart.

Snob talk

Rather than have either an endless post, or a one-liner, I transcribed something and gave it its own page but am commenting here. The following to be read after you read the transcript.

I include the part about prefacing statements because it’s funny, but mainly because I tend to preface myself so much. While not so bitter towards acting, I wholehearedly agree with Jerry’s assessment that comedy, and by extension, writing, is wholly underappreciated. His implicit indictment of feelings, or at least, the emphasis on emotion, is correct, in my opinion. It’s easier to get someone to feel than to laugh. Objectively, emoting is a selfish act, whereas comedy, at its best, incorporates both the emotional or mundane, and the intellectual. What separates humans from animals are the abilities to emote and reason, making comedy, in my opinion, the purer and more human art form. If nothing else, it serves to lighten people up. (Hey, it’s healthier to laugh than to have breakdowns.) I in no way am saying I dislike drama or emotion, I’m just saying I have far more respect for comedy. If I think of my favorite movies, they all contain genuinely comedic and dramatic elements. I’ve always been a fan of balance. (That being said, Garry is right with his assessment of the core “need to be seen”. Artists are pretty dysfunctional people ) But I agree, Jerry— here’s to less yawning chasms of insecurity.

One other point, that Jerry didn’t go into really, was writing. I didn’t know too many details about the writers’ strike, but I definitely knew which side I was on. I am very democratic, and would never argue that one person is better than another, because if you’ve been part of any production process, you know how collaborative it is, but I’m sorry, folks, you can’t do shit without a script or an idea. I can’t think of anything more daunting and impressive than creating something out of nothing (which is also why I have the utmost respect for improvisation). That, and I just hate how actors are treated like hot shit, even though in many cases, they’re interchangeable. The writers, designers, and artisans (and to an extent, directors) create an entire world before the actor ever gets near it. (Honestly, like the previous paragraph, I have nothing against actors. That’s just college drama department experience talking.) I just think there are too many things and people in this world that go unappreciated, and these are just a couple of them. But maybe I pay attention to stuff too much.

Biomusicology (sort of)

The concept, not the Ted Leo song, although that’s certainly a good example of the point I hope to make. Rather than keep replying to Lisa’s comment, I thought I’d clarify it here. (I know you weren’t trying to start a ruckus, but nonetheless, you got me thinking.)

I didn’t mean to piss off any poets or lovers of poetry, I meant to emphasize that while I love words, it is music that gives them their meaning. I mean, what’s more fun, singing and humming, or reciting? Lyrics without music are just words, poetry. Most of the time (though not all), esepcially these days, poetry/lyrics are personal or idiosyncratic— in effect, “this is what I’m thinking or feeling.” Ironically, this strikes even me, the king, as self-important. Reading a little about the concept of biomusicology, but not too much, as not to stay up all night, I came across an interesting perspective. It appears it comes from the New York Times a few years back:

But music has a power unique among forms of human communication: it can teach itself. Gradually over repeated hearings, without the use of a dictionary or any reference to the world outside, music shows how it is to be understood. The listener begins to hear patterns, repeated motifs and changes in meter and realizes that something is happening, that sounds have punctuation, that phrases are being manipulated, transformed and recombined.
Gradually, the listener gains a form of knowledge without ever referring to anything outside the music. Sounds create their own context. They begin to make sense. Similar processes with varying richness and power take place in all forms of music, which is why it is much easier to understand another culture’s music than another culture’s language.
Nothing else is quite like this self-contained, self-teaching world. Music may be the ultimate self-revealing code; it can be comprehended in a locked room.

Anyway, enough nerdspeak. I will certainly not deny that lyrical content is important, but think of any classic pop song from the 50s or 60s, especially. When you examine the lyrics, they’re rather innocuous and inane. But they’re timeless. We remember the words only because they belong to the melody. Music is its own independent entity. Granted, it takes a special, gifted person to compose and arrange music into singular and interesting permutations, but once it’s done, the song no longer needs the songwriter, so to speak.  ”Okay, sir/ma’am, your job is done, thank you for your services.” Even though I am a fan of Dr. Frank’s writing style, it would be useless and uninteresting without his ability to compose and arrange melodies to carry them. Even though I have particular favorite artists, they’re all just hired hands, if you think about it.

I love words and writing, so it must be noted, of course, that I’m speaking of words in lyrical form. Words in prose or story form, are entirely different. But in the same sense, they serve to tell a story. Words alone, with no direction, are inherently self-centered. They are merely an extension of the writer. But put those words to use towards a song, story, or character, then they can suggest something beyond the person they came out of.

It knows nothing about me, and yet, my little peabrain is soothed or calmed by it. (That’s the main thrust of the article, by the way, the biological and neurological mechanisms of music.) In the spirit of the topic at hand, this is the long, confusing way of saying I love music. Why am I a very musical person? I have no idea. It’s in my blood, I don’t question it. It’s a hell of a blessing, when you think about it: whatever state we’re in at any given moment, it gets us out of our worrisome little heads and into a realm where you don’t have to think or ask why, because certain things, thank goodness, make sense of themselves. They just do.

(Thank you to Lisa, who inadvertently helped me get excited about writing this piece of meandering hoo-ha that no one cares about, I’m sure, BUT at least I’m out of my dramatic boo-hoo-ey little funk I was in the last couple of days. I always find the most effective way to calm down is to get out of your little head and think of something or one outside yourself. The perspective that comes with realizing how self-involved you are is utterly, genuinely liberating. It doesn’t solve my issues, but it makes it far easier to deal with. Reminds of two quotes, one attributed to Marcus Aurelius: “take away the complaint ’I have been harmed’ and the harm is taken away.” Or to put it Björk’s way: “I’m no fucking Buddhist, but this is enlightenment.” No offense, Lise, I think that’s a funny line :-P Grazie, dear.)

Self-reflection + insecurity = The Mr. T Experience

(Note: I’m trying to find a way to put the 1st song on here to hear to do the song more justice.)
Don’t let the mean little swear word put you off, “Fucked Up on Life”, like “Shut I Am Dreaming of Place Where Lovers Have Wings”, is one of the most absolutely beautiful songs I’ve ever heard, but for the opposite reason. Because it is personal, insecure, and heart-on-the-sleeve. And yet, the music is buoyant, the melodies plentiful. Listen to these songs (if you can find them), the music is a perfect counterpoint to the lyrical content (much as Elizabeth Elmore’s voice was to the things she sang about in the band Sarge). The last 1:30 of this song is everything a coda should be. Stunning, leaves me breathless every time.

I don’t have many friends
Just some pretty loose and dead ends
Even one can be
A bit much for me
And they call me but I never end up calling them back
They lose patience as I lose track
I don’t care any more
If I ever did before
But I’m not really paying attention
People say what reflects well on them
Everyone’s lying like rugs
And everyone thinks I’m on drugs
But I’m just fucked up on life

‘Cause it doesn’t add up and I never know what should be done
I know I’m far from the only one
I stay out of the fray
I figure I do less damage that way
I’m outstanding in my field and all I ever wanna do is just get plowed
I always feel outnumbered in a crowd
And if the truth be known,
I feel outnumbered when I’m all alone
If you’re wondering why there’s no affect
when I speak, when you look in my eyes
I couldn’t begin to explain
I’m almost perfectly sane
But I’m just fucked up, fucked up on life

Dum-a-do0-dum-doo-ba-da-dum-dum-day
I never know what I should do or say
Whenever words fail me
I react reciprocally
I’m just fucked up on life
I’m just fucked up, fucked up on life

This one, “Everbody Knows You’re Crying”, isn’t a personal favorite, but it’s in the same vein, plus, I still don’t know whether he’s being completely dramatic and wallowy, or savagely mocking.

Everybody says you shouldn’t cry
Everybody’s standing by
And everybody’s gonna roll their eyes, if you ever do
Everybody says it’s not too late,
you can still participate
And you take everybody’s bait, and everybody laughs at you
They’ll leave you crying all alone
They’ll say they wouldn’t have, if they had only known
But you see the reality behind their indulgent stares
Everybody knows you’re crying, no one ever really cares

Everybody thinks you’re a little slow
Everyone wants you to know
They went through the same thing long ago, and it wasn’t that hard to to
Everybody says they sympathize
You stand by while they describe
Someone you don’t even recognize, that’s supposed to look like you
But they never can explain
How to live with such spectacular pain
And when you’re at your weakest, they advise you to be strong
Everybody says they’ve been there, everybody must be wrong
Everybody knows you’re crying

They send their love, and love is loud
They feel it’s greatly to their credit, and they’re proud
of their compassion, and it’s true
But it doesn’t have a lot to do with you

And you can’t escape the conclusion, though you don’t like what it was
Everybody says they love you, no one ever really does

Old times

What a weird set of coincidences. I mean, of all the thoughts to run through my head, and all the things that remind me of other things. And they just happened. I wasn’t in a nostalgic mood or anything. First of all I started watching “The Wire” again, which is why I’m up so late— four episodes, I told myself I’d stop there. Granted, it was only a year a half ago, and it was memories of a freaking show, but just the idea of “remember when?” with something that was memorable for any number of reasons, and yes, I’ve said elsewhere that “The Wire” is one of the most draining, impressive, special works of art I’ve ever experiences. Like reading a incredibly long, but commensurately satifsying novel. Still, it was only a few months after I had moved back to Texas after leaving New York City.

Speaking of which, I logged on to myspace just now, and I have my “top friends” on shuffle because I don’t believe in ordering people, and one of the people who came up was my roommate in New York, Katrina, profile photo standing on an outdoor subway platform with her new baby. Ah, memories. I remember standing on an outdoor platform in Queens with Manhattan behind me and someone from the guesthouse came out to take photos with me, except I screwed up and lost the roll, probably to exposure, stupid me. It didn’t help that earlier in the day, due to some completely unknown trigger, I found myself thinking about walking along Prince and Spring Streets, passing the innumerable shops and finding some cafe or little diner to eat in, or buy pastries in. Like the diner in Boerum or Cobble Hill, a little south of downtown Brooklyn where I saw a movie and had a bite with the only classmate I’ve seen since I’ve graduated high school over 12.5 years ago. Movie, diner food, late night on a weekend, old classmate— breaks my heart thinking about it. Even though I bitched about the crazy girl I briefly dated, and I was the one who had to make plans every single time we went anywhere (FYI I hate that “the man’s supposed to makes all the moves, decisions, and plans” bullshit, equal opportunity ladies, show some imagination, it gets tiring, for chrissakes), at least we went places. It’s New York, so it’s awfully easy to do, but here so far, or back in Texas (with what few people I knew), just going out and doing shit, you know? Coffee, drink, sit on a fucking park bench, stay in and watch a movie and cook dinner. When did doing something, anything become obsolete? (Don’t blame the economy neither. I think technology, laziness, and isolation/insulation have something to do with it.) Like I said, one of the people I stayed in the guesthouse with in Queens before getting an apartment, didn’t know me all that well, but came out and saw a movie with me because I wanted to get out. Same girl who took picture of me around the city because I didn’t have any new photos to show people of my time in the city. (Makes me feel bad I lost those photos, they were good. The one on the platform, for instance.) Someone I barely fucking knew couldn’t stand being in there either and came out with me. Same thing happened with the crazy girl I ended up dating, it was 8 or 9 at night and I had to get out, and she said yes.  There does come a time though, when your calls and voice or text messages don’t get responded to,  or you get nothing but two-sentence reply emails, and you figure why bother. Which is why I actually stopped complaining and worrying a long time ago. If I don’t register in someone’s mind, fine. I guess my flaw is I gave people too much friend credit when it wasn’t deserved. I’m too idealistic for my own good, I give at least as good as I get, even if I get very little. I try not to expect the same from others that I do from myself, but at least for people to understand that I’m being sincere about it— that’s my personality, I have no choice. People matter to me as long as I matter to them. I kind of am still selfish and idealistic that way. Friendship and love are of the utmost importance to me (more than my own self) and yet I’m finding things aren’t what I thought they were. It’s frustrating, and things do get a bit empty sometimes. Fucking Christ, going out doing shit, that’s all. This the type of thing that makes someone fly off the handle and blog. And that can’t be good for anyone.

But anyway, back to New York… It’s actually where I caught my first glimpse of “The Wire” before I even knew what it was about. The two girls I roomed with for two weeks in Park Slope were fans, and later when I was watching the fourth season on my own, I thought “hey, that’s the scene I remember walking in on when they were watching it!” It’s all connected, wow. (That’s actually one of the slogans or pieces of dialogue from the show.) The fact that the apartment we were in was in a brownstone-type building too, that makes me smile. Going down to Battery Park to do nothing but smell the sea air, look over at downtown Brooklyn, the Verrazano, the Statue, Jersey, even. Then again, I’d be happy with anything. Coffee, tea, hot cocoa, some sweet, some convo, and a big fucking hug. What with all my high-falutin’ pontificating, I’m rather simple and easy to please at heart. So far, one fucking person. (Ouch, how you doing there, self-esteem?)

And the last thing goes even further back. For some mysterious reason, I woke up this morning and immediately began humming “Legend” by Nelly Furtado, first album. I remember the days, when I was so eager to satisfy you, and few people knew who she was so you could see her at a venue like the Showbox. Even the Paramount isn’t so big for a musical act. What’s that, 2001, 2002? Haven’t felt the urge to listen to her in a long time, and for some reason, I listened to her all the way to work this morning. Nothing special was going on then, living here, still in school, in the first year or so of my then-relationship, Bush had only begun to fuck up. I still remember going to those show though, seeing tiny little Nelly on that stage, mere feet away from us, doing the whole album because she only had one, doing some 80s covers too, the next year waiting 45 minutes to meet her after the Paramount show (and realizing on the way to the show I forgot my damn camera, but at least she signed my album and drew a flower on it, yay). Another reason to be in a relationship, you always have at least one person to go out with, hey? And yes, she’s on tour, she was hungry, she just did a fucking show, and she gracious enough to come out and see some of us. That’s a stand-up person, right there. And she’s busier than all of us! Grace. Not a big, big fan of hers, but I liked the music, liked the shows. Back when she had one single, and a smidge of airplay on VH1, MTV2. Now those are some old times, man.

There you have it— “The Wire”, dreams of a cafes and restaurants in New York, and an eight-year-old Nelly Furtado song, joining forces for the noble cause of making me into a reminiscent fusspot.

P.S. You should see what Diona had to say a couple weeks back.

You don’t deconstruct beauty

I just had a cultured, thoughtful evening. I think I was cleaning, and had a playlist on shuffle, but still skipping songs, and “Shut Up I Am Dreaming of Places Where Lovers Have Wings” came on, and I went from shuffle to Sunset Rubdown only. It’s not something you throw on just for the hell of it, but there’s something about that music that’s very familiar, tuneful, otherwordly, and heartfelt and passionate. Most music we listen to, we have to relate to it on some level, whether the voice, the style, or the lyrical content. It has to fit with a specific aspect of our personality. We are by nature self-centered, that’s how it is. But listening to this music, it seems to push boundaries of how personal something needs to be in order to be understood. The lyrics are mostly cryptic, to me anyway, but everything about the songs is meticulously and carefully crafted and disregards the idea that something has to be “relatable” to be appealing. To this day, the song “Shut Up I Am Dreaming…” is possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever heard (even if it’s not my favorite song). And that’s saying something, being a person who has little patience for songs past 4-5  minutes (the word indulgent comes to mind)– the song is over seven minutes long. I think I like to come back to this music because I can kind of forget myself and just admire how pretty it is. There’s poetry and mystery to people and things who exist on their own terms, and I just tend to be drawn to them. You don’t know why you’re drawn, you just are. I may not understand exactly what songwriter Spencer Krug was thinking, and yet I feel I get what he set out to convey. Then again, I don’t even really need to. Unless you’re soulless, sexless, and simple-minded, you don’t deconstruct beauty.

So then I made a fancy-pants peanut butter and jelly sandwich, using nut and grain bread, Bonne Maman fig preserves (ate almost the whole jar in one week), and that Adams natural peanut butter that you stir and refrigerate that I’ve never had before. (An old roommate had some once, and I thought, ooh look-at-me-I’m-so-special-you-have-to-refrigerate-me peanut butter.) It actually costs less than the more processed crap and you get four ounces more, go figure. After the first bite, I was taken aback by how fancy it was. I thought, “wow, if there’s such a thing as classy PBJ, this is it.” You should try it, you’ll feel like you’re not good enough to eat it. Stay tuned for the 8-grain bread and four-berry preserve report.

Then I watched May. I saw it once almost five years ago but didn’t remember it well, and I didn’t have anything on my Netflix queue to put ahead of it, along with a lot of other movies I’ve seen but wanted to re-visit. For 15 minutes near the end, it’s kind of a horror movie, but only in tone, but the rest of it is a touching, freakish character study. My hat must go off to Angela Bettis, who made a very odd character sympathetic, despite the fact that most people, even well-meaning ones, would be extremely put off had they met such a person in real life. I would think many people who seek this film out fancy themselves “different” in that they do not feel part of any crowd. It’s just part of individualism. Whether we try or not, we like to think there is something about us that separates us from the pack. It’s vogue to be “different” or “nerdy” or “alternative” or “weird”– it’s all about fitting in and looking cool for anyone, not just the popular kids– but May Canady makes charlatans of us all. From the first few minutes, you see that she is genuinely different– she’s not cutesy, adorable, or misunderstood, she’s weird. You accept her for what she is (a credit to the actress), and yet the reactions of every character who comes into contact her are understandable. You want to reach out and comfort her, then you realize you’d probably react the same way. I’m not judging anyone, but we have our limits. Like people who say “I’m all for free speech, but…” or “I listen to all kinds of music… except country/rap/metal” or how everyone says they believe in being honest, but they really don’t. Objectively, few people can face the truth (though most people probably don’t care either way). Like always, it’s the small touches that make the performance. Her body language is invaluable, the blink-or-you’ll-miss-it gestures, e.g. when she is walking down the street to run into her crush, and he stops and turns away to light a cigarette, and she abruptly has to shift her attention forward again and keep walking in order to look normal. I mean, look at every single social interaction she has and put yourself in the shoes of the “normal” character. I think it’s amazing that I can care so about a character, yet feel a little false about it. I fancy myself sincerely open-hearted, tolerant, and accepting, but I’ve never known anyone remotely similar to May. And therein lies the magic of good storytelling and seamless acting– pondering hypothetical issues and trying to relate to fictional people. I nearly failed to mention that May makes her own clothes, and being so involved in her character, I was going to praise her for her unique design, when it is indeed the costume designer, not the work of fiction, who deserves props. The clothes are a bit off-center, definitely not trendy, but I thought they were cute and well-done. Confusing fiction with reality even on csotume issues? That’s seamless for you.

After viewing it, I considered listening to one of the commentaries, but am now wondering if I shoul just return it, then buy it and listen at my leisure. The ultimate compliment I can give a film is to purchase it, to deem it worthy enough to sit on my shelf, and I’m certainly leaning this way. It seems like an odd choice, but given the diversity of the few films I do own, it would fit right in, in that it’s not much like the others. Then, I’ve always been averse to comparing films on an absolute scale (letter grades, stars, etc.). How can Beavis and Butt-head Do America, Enchanted, Go, Out of Sight, Ghostbusters, South Park, Lost in Translation, Batman Begins, Saving Private Ryan, Adaptation, The Fugitive, Eternal Sunshine, Jerry Maguire, This Is Spinal Tap, and Moulin Rouge be fairly measured against one another without being insulted? Most people would qualify May as a genre film, which would be completely incorrect. To paraphrase a film critic I once read, quite possibly Roger Ebert, a film should be measured by one criterion: does the film achieve what it set out to do? Hey, films are just like people– we shouldn’t be measured according to any scale, we should be measured on our own merits. The one criterion is pretty much the same– are we true to ourselves?

Bonus for watching the film a second time: having embraced Pixies since then, I was able to identify Kim Deal’s voice in a couple of songs– there was some Kelley Deal to boot– and was so thrilled to be now-enlightened enough to appreciate that. Then I listened to a Breeders album I’ve neglecting for a while (but will no more) while taking care of a final late-night errand. All it took was one scene and the song “Oh!” Funny what film and music can do for each other when it’s right– can’t you feel the synergistic love? I love film. I love music.

“There is so much joy in what we do up here on stage…”

If only more bands had as much honesty and ability to back up this statement. I’m finally able to write about The Hold Steady again, since I saw them Wednesday night again, but I don’t know what more I can say having already written about them and seen them previously. I don’t know if they end every show with “Killer Parties”, but they did both times I was there, and during the coda of that song, lead singer Craig Finn utters this line, usually preceded by some stuttering, then “…I’m just gonna say it. I know we say this every night, but…” and followed by “thank you for coming to share this joy with us tonight.” Now that I remember, he did say it last time. The awkwardness with which he declares this now seems a little calculated, but no less sincere.

Yes, it was another hot, sweaty, bouncy, sing-a-long show, where I felt like I was going to collapse about four or five songs in. When you’re not going crazy, you’re trying to conserve energy and catch your breath— lip-syncing, rather than shouting and singing along. I can’t say it was better than the last one, only because that was a virginal experience, but it wasn’t worse at all. They did play some songs I didn’t hear the last time that I was hoping for. I also realized I’m getting old I recall an old interview where one of the guys said that in their younger days of the band and other bands, they would go out and party late after shows, but these days, they just want to go to their hotel and get some sleep. Feels like me. I’m in great shape, but I don’t think I have the time and energy to go to late shows all the time. It took me two nights of sleep to recover (though I did work the next day). My neck and back hurt the morning after each show. Odd, because my body doesn’t feel old, and I even lost a few pounds recently.

But the fact that I was trying to keep up during the show is a credit to the band as well. You find yourself hoping for a ballad, something slower, so you can rest for five minutes. If I hadn’t mentioned it already, it’s fascinating to me because everyone in the group is in their late-30s. I love that the audience is mostly normal people, lots of middle-aged people, average looking, not too many hip, early-20s types. This band really does weed out the cool from the trying to be cool. I don’t think anyone interested in the pursuit of cool would take to this band. There’s no angle to the band, and save for Franz the keyboardist, no “look” they’re going for. Very normal-looking, without resorting to thrift or vintage stores. All you need to do is see the lead singer thrash about and hold his arms open and dance all weird on stage to know that being cool is meaningless to him. His glasses were flung from his face once as he was convulsing and jiving during one song, that was incredible. So much energy and excitement (and sweat, understandably) that your glasses fly off your face. That’s passion, folks.

It’s heartening for me, as someone who refuses to settle in to middle age, that people only a little older than me can retain such vitality and a positive outlook on life (the title of the new record, fittingly, is Stay Positive). It’s not all wan platitudes though, as you can see the stories and lives of the characters in the songs are anything but safe and happy. Granted, I have no connection to the partying, druggy, nomadic youths of the characters in Mr. Finn’s songs, but I do connect to the approach of coming out of youth and entering middle age, and dealing with it with strength and energy, rather than reservation. I’ll be the first to admit their sound isn’t expansive and adventurous, but I think if it were, it wouldn’t be the same band. With each record, all the elements are a little tighter, and there are small touches of experimenting, but nothing too artsy. But, lines like “we are our only saviors”, “we could all be something bigger”, and “we make our own movies” work because of the music, the enthusiasm, the stories the songs are built on, and most importantly, the sincerity. You don’t expect people to be able to say these things and mean it and you be moved or even inspired by them, not in this, the age of irony and disaffection.

I’m too lazy to find another interview, here’s the old one I’ve already posted. Here are a couple of snippets that explain what I’m trying to say, by Mr. Finn himself.

“I think if [the band is] a reaction against anything, it’s a reaction against everything in indie rock that just isn’t fun. I’ve said this in other interviews, but this kid said that he went to all these shows that year and us and the Drive-By Truckers were the only two bands that smiled. I thought that’s a bad thing. It’s a sad state of affairs if that’s true.”

And:

“I think we have a good time playing, and that gets contagious to the audience. They have a good time, too. These are heavy times politically in the world, so I hope when people come to our show that they really feel awesome for two hours. And probably not feel so good the next day.”

Once again, the show lived up to his promise. And finally, from a review of the last record (just go to metacritic and read the first five or so reviews, not because I’m trying to convert you even though I think it may very well be their best, but because they give a good perspective of the band as well as part of the history in the records)

“Well, my heroes are people like Joe Strummer and Bruce Springsteen. People who make you feel anything’s possible, that rock music, for instance, can be real big and important. You can’t put words on what it’s like to see Springsteen in concert – it’s so huge, so big. Do I believe in the redemptive power of rock’n’roll? Absolutely. At its peak, played with the best intentions, it can be transcendent.”

It all reminds me of what Cameron Crowe has said about some of the characters in his films: the concept of optimism as a revolutionary act.

“Stay Positive is a true testament that good music will always prevail. One can only hope that a band like this will continue to make music for years and years to come because we desperately need it.”

Now, more than ever, it’s absolutely necessary. It gives you a glimmer of hope that somewhere, some people still believe in quality and beauty and life, and some people do still care about stuff, even if it’s just putting on a solid show for the fans. All in all, not a bad way to ring in your 30th birthday a week early. Thanks, guys.