Loving right now… June 19, 2008

OK. So, every time I log into WordPress lately, I type out some diatribe against Joe Lieberman, the Republican party, American corporations who build land mine parts, or ethanol.

And you, dear readers, paying $4 for gas and most likely counting the weeks until 43 & co. are out of office… I just don’t think you feel like hearing more of that. So without further ado, let’s talk about a list of random stuff I’m into right now that you should consider, too. I’ll try to make it a regular thing.

First stop: Monday’s show at the Black Cat rocked. The band was Firewater, and they’re self-described as gypsy punk jammers. Unfortunately, that immediately brings Gogol Bordello to mind, and they happen to be much less obnoxious and much more groovy than that. Think tribal drums, a gleefully unchained lead singer, and a freestyling trombone/French horn player. Their MySpace is here.

Next up is the Palace of Wonders (also in Washington, DC. I know…) If you could find a bar out of a Tarrantino set that didn’t actually make the final cut, this would be it. The bar is the kind of total don’t-give-a-f, 70s jukebox deep cuts and sweating bottled beers joint you see in movies but don’t think actually exists. The boundless cool of indie-burlesque tattoo girls combine with a kitschy antique sideshow collection in this venue, which hosts different acts every night of the week. Last time, we saw a babealicious bellydancer swallow two-foot swords, spit fire, and dance with a seven-foot python. Her equally badass husband escaped from a suspended straitjacket, and their performance was interspersed with a guy who shoved acupuncture needles the whole way through his arm and walked on broken wine bottles.

In other news, the ultimate babymaking song has arrived. For a while, Dmitri was all about Sensual Seduction by Snoop Dogg (sorry, but that’s weak compared to my O’Jays and Teddy Pendergrass playlist)… but it appears there’s a tiebreaker. Al Green & John Legend have recorded a song. Together. Wait for it… it’s called “Stay with Me.” I don’t know how this slipped under my radar, but it is literally just a babymakin’ jam. It’s as if someone mixed “Lifted” and “Let’s Get Married” into one sweet, sweet jam. Sexy jam ’08. Last summer I was about waking up to “Mary Jane” by Rick James (don’t laugh) and a little “Crush” by Daaaave. But you just can’t step to the Reverend.

Last thing I’m into that you have to try because I’m such a trendsetter: cucumber sandwiches. Open-faced, on toast a bit of whipped cream cheese and a sprinkling of fresh dill. It is delicious, and now it’s in my keyboard. I hope the tastiness makes it into the blog post here. Peel the cukes a little bit (make them stripey) before you slice ‘em.

Right now, Mike Meyers is on Jon Stewart’s Daily Show. We’re not worthy!! We’re not worthy!!

Art, like pornography: you know it when you see it? April 17, 2008

I’m all for pushing the boundaries of what’s acceptable in art. Especially when it offends, but doesn’t necessarily hurt, anyone, I have few qualms about contentious installations. Andres Serrano’s crucifix of Jesus submerged in urine (Piss Christ), for example, doesn’t fit my definition of “master works”; nevertheless, if a gallery wants post it and some collector wants to buy it, be my guest. But for my taste, what follows is completely over the line.

Costa Rican artist Guillermo Vargas Habacuc decided it would be acceptable– further, artistic– to take a stray dog from the streets, give it the ironic name “Natividad,” and string it to a wire in the corner of a gallery– in fact, the gallery space within Costa Rica’s National Center for Culture. His artistic decision, for this presentation, was to deprive the dog of food and water, causing the diseased animal to slowly starve to death under the eyes of gallery patrons. Let me take the sugar-coating off that for you: this dude tied a dog to a wall so people could watch it die.

And they did.

Yes, a few people stopped to protest. But the vast majority continued through the exhibit, obliviously or uncomfortably ignoring the incredible suffering before their eyes. In my sentimental view, there is a special level of wrongness in mistreating an animal; beyond the fundamental wrong in abusing any living thing, there’s the extra layer that the animal cannot rationalize why, or even that, it is being tortured. It’s an especially sick form of abuse.

Habacuc claims that the dog would have died without his intervention, and further says the purpose of the exhibit was to highlight human suffering (indeed, the point of all art?). Some gallery patrons justified this torture for its artistic message. And some critics enjoyed it so much that Habacuc has been invited to re-create the exhibit in Honduras.

Obviously, I don’t consider this exhibit to be anything more than a sick trick aimed at shock factor. The knee-jerk reaction of disgust, compounded by some high-minded ideals about artistic expression and the historic persecution of visionary artists, are my best guesses as to what mindset led others to label this exhibit art. But the exhibit does bring two distinct topics worth probing: How do we define art, and mob mentality, or what will we walk right past?

Much great art depicts or deals with suffering. As a society, we don’t shrink away from images of emaciated children, abused animals, or neglected neighborhoods. We find these images instructive and emotion-inducing, and they serve to teach us about the recognition of suffering. There are moments, however, when artists take this pursuit so far that their actions cease to be art. I can only hope that Habacuc is misguided and genuinely believes his work is a visionary example of suffering, because otherwise he is a flat-out psychopath and abuser of animals. To passively allow that dog to continue suffering in the streets, to photograph its suffering without intervention, or to allow myriad stray animals to remain wild are all deemed generally socially acceptable behaviors. Confining the dog and consciously deciding to allow it to suffer is something different. Let me be clear about this: Because a work generates outrage and demands self-reflection does not deem something art, or else genocide and FGM would be considered art.

Further, those who chose to walk past the exhibit without attempting to free the animal (and worse, those who wish to re-create the exhibit) display an interesting example of mob mentality. In a big enough group, something that assaults the conscience of the individual becomes “someone else’s problem.” A classic example: You’re more likely to assist a person who has tripped on a deserted sidewalk and dropped a sheaf of papers than you are to assist a Metro passenger who’s spilled their briefcase at the height of pedestrian rush hour. I’d like to think I’d be overcome by emotion if I saw such an exhibit, that I would immediately begin working to free the dog or that I’d ask a curator if the dog had only been given the appearance of suffering. But I can’t promise how I would react; after all, hundreds saw the exhibit and the dog still died.

Finally, consider the Joshua Bell example. He’s a lauded violinist (responsible for the soundtrack to The Red Violin) who gave a concert in a DC Metro station, for free. On a Stradivarius. As an experiment. The question: Who will acknowledge this musician, and why? The result: Less than 50 people out of a thousand paid him the time of day. I suspect that the passengers who hurried by, not making eye contact, were experiencing a bit of desensitization mixed with some of that same mob mentality. Just as something beautiful doesn’t always register, so something awful doesn’t always register with a single face in the crowd.

But forcing people to acknowledge everyday horror can be done by something other than killing a dog for show. When it comes to defining trash disguised as art, I’ll appropriate the words of Justice Potter Stewart on pornography: “I know it when I see it.” And that’s all I see in this exhibit.

Update: In another bizarre twist, a Yale art student claims to have performed repeated abortions on herself in order to “inspire some sort of discourse.” If you’re going to do this, at least make damn sure you have an articulate statement on the purpose… Well, at least she’ll probably never be able to reproduce.

I’ve never done this sort of thing before… July 30, 2007

After some recent consideration of the current state of my life (disaster), I’ve been figuring out what isn’t working for me. One thing I’ve wondered is, if I don’t find the pursuit of a 9-5 job and a picket-fenced house inherently satisfying, why am I doing it? I stop and look at my lifestyle, and while I’m not materialistic, I have configured my life in such a way that I am working to stay ahead of the rat race.  I have a lovely one-bedroom apartment. I have a car with insurance, air conditioning, furniture, clothes. But even that is becoming unaffordable; thank you, Baltimore Gas & Electric!

So I start looking for wiggle room. No, I definitely have to keep the car. I got too good of a deal on it, and I’d lose money if I got out of it today. The rent of my one-bedroom is some of the best in the city. The gas & electric bills aren’t going to decline anytime soon– electricity rates have increased 73% and
gas rates have skyrocketed since deregulation. [As an aside, Constellation Energy has become one of the most successful for-profit utility companies in the nation; shocking!]  Basically, I’m stuck.

What do I want to do with my time? Right now, I’m bartending and waitressing to pay rent. I constantly worry about money, a wholly absorbing concern. I want to do less of that. I want to go on little daytrips. I want to be able to budget money and time for quilting projects, painting, and other visual arts and craft work. I want to write every morning, and I want to cook. I want to stay organic and expend as few natural resources as possible.  I want to break my life down to the smallest components and rebuild it from scratch.

So I am trying to move into the Copycat building. This is an artist space/warehouse in Baltimore with wide open living spaces, private bedrooms, and shared utilities and common areas. In this arrangement,  my cost of living would be incredibly low even after my automotive costs are included. I think this move would allow me greater flexibility to make “just enough” to live on by working a few days a week, enabling me to pursue more creative work without burning myself out.

Has anyone else tried this? It’s a very communal environment and I’ve never lived in a place like this before. Anyone have advice, thoughts, concerns?

Sting + Andy + Stewart + no egos = ROCK July 25, 2007

Oh yes… I have been remiss, my fans.

I saw the Police at Hershey Park’s Giant Stadium (in PA, yes, by the chocolate factory) on July 20. And let me tell you, it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. Performance, energy, setlist… well, here. Listen for yourself.

The show kicked off with FictionPlane, who Mark & I heard across the park and came running towards. Why? Because they sounded a lot like the Police. We were sitting there saying to each other, “Is this a new song?” You have to wonder how egotistical Sting is, really. The Police must think they’re the greatest band on Earth. We come through the gates to see this young guy with shaggy hair onstage– he’s the lead singer and bassist. He’s backed by a drummer and a guitarist. They have a vague rock.reggae vibe. The audience was just imagining the conversations that took place when the Police chose their touring support: “I like that band. They sound like a young… us.” Hilarious stuff.

I don’t mean to bash the band, though. They did a nice job, sounded clean, and were obviously thrilled to be supporting one of the most famous bands of the past 30 years. But the Police quickly wiped away any memories of the opening act with ‘Message in a Bottle’– and then, as Mark says, rewarded us for being on-time by performing ‘Synchronicity II.’ You don’t think you know that song? You do. You probably just call it ‘Many Miles Away.’

I’ll post the setlist at the end, but there’s more to the show than just the setlist. Yes, they played all the songs I was crossing my fingers for. All of them! But more excitingly, they sounded so fresh. When I’ve seen the Who, Robert Plant, and other great rockers of the ages, they laid down the rock. Especially the Who. But they always sounded a little dated. There was the feeling that we were seeing great artists who were past their prime, but still knew how to rock. The Police were the opposite. As the concert got into full swing, the sound they produced– plus the minimal, modern, well-planned lighting and screen work– felt entirely clean and new. I could have been seeing a band that was touring in support of its second album.

Stewart Copeland was definitely the highlight of the show. I’m just going to put it out there. For songs including ‘Invisible Sun’ and ‘Wrapped Around Your Finger’ the man was a true percussionist. Not only did he have the standard drum kit, he had some contraption of miniature gongs, cymbals suspended from cords, xylophones, and other percussive instruments he used to make those melodies. Think about the work in those songs. He pulled it off live, scampering back to his drum kit to make the chorus of ‘Wrapped Around Your Finger.’ Phenomenal.

I don’t mean to neglect Andy, but he just didn’t look like he was having as much fun as some of the other guys. He was taking it pretty seriously. Then again, he sounded fantastic and very on-point, so who can complain?

I’m not going to lie. Sting stepped up his game. For a guy famous for his egotism, he played well with others and actually looked like he was having a tremendous amount of fun up there. I hope he’s realized that the Police have a kind of magic few other three-piece bands attain (after all, let’s not leave Rush out of this). Instrumentally talented, cohesive, economical rock. Not a lot of extra bells and whistles, just layer upon layer of straight talent with an incredible vocal track.

And for playing in rural Pennsylvania– they really wailed. You’d have thought you were at Madison. Thanks guys!

Setlist:
Message in a Bottle
Synchronicity II
Walking on the Moon
Voices Inside My Head/When the World Is Running Down
Don’t Stand So Close To Me
Driven To Tears
Truth Hits Everybody
Bed’s Too Big Without You
Every Little Thing She Does is Magic
Wrapped Around Your Finger
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
Invisible Sun
Walking in Your Footsteps
Can’t Stand Losing You
Roxanne

Encores:
King Of Pain
So Lonely
Every Breath You Take
Next To You

P.S. I think the bootleggers were across the aisle from us… and you can maybe hear my man-holler at the beginning of ‘Don’t Stand.’ Woo! YEAH!