I don't know if this phenomenon occurs outside New York, but here in NYC, people buy Lottery tickets at little bodegas, which are corner shops that sell beer and snacks, and sometime a small amount of groceries, and they vary in size, with small ones that have little to nothing on the shelves that are obviously drug fronts to ones that are a small step away from a supermarket, although they are usually pretty dingy, and occasionally even have rats (you don't even want to know). Anyway, these Lottery ticket purchasers (L.T.P.'s) are perhaps the most anoying sub-genre of New Yorkers I can think of. Picture if you will a small crowded dingy bodega that is cramped with shelves of various bodega-like items. In front of the register are 5 or 6 L.T.P.'s simply standing there filling in pick 6 cards or scratching instant win cards, and they are all huched over their cards, and they are all facing different directions, and none of them move for a long time, making acomplishing anything in the bodega, like actually purchasing food/beer/soda/newspaper virtually impossible. And these people do not respond to "Excuse me!" or "Pardon me!" or even mild jostleing. I have so far avoided the out and out shove, but I can feel it coming on. My wife claims that these people make up a small social scene at the bodega. And there definitely are social scenes at these bodegas, but I have seen no evidence of the L.T.P.'s participating in this social scene. In fact, I have never even heard an L.T.P. converse other than in the transaction involved in purchasing said Lottery tickets. Do I tell these people that are being duped by a system that is designed to rip off the working class, and frankly the tax payers as well, or do I just start wildly shoving them out of the way? Personally, I'm leaning towards the shove.
When I was in college, I got really into 60's avant garde jazz, which was very tied up with Black Nationalism, and I read all sorts of cool radical stuff that was sometimes on the verge of racism, and sometimes white liberal apologist, but often merely a cry of rage at fucked up race relations here in America. It made listening to Charlie Parker really exciting when you viewed what he was doing as a big FUCK YOU to white America, especially watching him up on the band stand with white musicians thinking that all the while he was jamming with them and smiling he was really thinking fuck you and the horse you rode in on. What was particularly frustrating for some of these musicians was this whole free-jazz as a form of a more African type of expression that was rejected by audiences often for it's musical difficulty but when it's supposed to be an expression of your black identity you can't help but feel your black identity is being rejected.
It's coming towards the end of the evening, I'm getting drowsy, there's nothing on TV (at least since they stopped showing the Simpsons at 11... stupid network execs... wish they were dead), I go to the bathroom and take out the contacts, brush my teeth, turn out the lights, and head towrds the bedroom. Now I should state here something about my apartment. They guy that lived there before we did was some sort of interior decorator/designer, and he did all sorts of cool stuff to what is basically a one bedroom railroad apartment. There are built in shelves everywhere, the kitchen and bathroom are redone recently, the bedroom has massive shelves, a counter, built in drawers, including file cabinet size drawers, and a built in loft, wich is not like a college style wooden bunk bed type contraption, but really like a second floor with a low ceiling. Now, there are some problems. Mainly, he was only about two thirds done when he left for mysterious reasons (mysterious equals I have no idea why he left). Also, he seems to have used non-standard sizes all over the place, making things difficult to replace when they brake. And lastly, for an interior decorator, he had horrible taste in color. When we moved in, everything, and I mean EVERYTHING was a shade of brown. Needless to say, we quickly repainted much of the apartment. But really, the crowning achievement has got to be the loft. When we first moved in, we were afraid it was going to be clausterphobic, but the reality of the situation is that the loft is actually the most comfortable place on Earth, which leads me to the end of this story. So, the lights are off, I come into the bedroom, climb the stairs and the moment I touch the bed, my body insta-relaxes. "Oh, I could just curl up here at the foot of the bed and I'd be fine." "No, no, just a few more feet and you'll be stretched out under the blanket next to your wife!" "Oh, but I'm really comfortable right here." "Come on, you can do, just a little farther..." "Please, I just want to sleep." "Do it now or you'll reget it!" So I stretched out and was promptly asleep in less than thirty seconds.
It's the big day. Homecoming. The band is playing in Philadelphia, where I grew up. This is like gig number 4 in Philly, and the past reception has been overwhemingly good. At our first show here, all kinds of people I haven't seen in years crawled out of the woodwork... friends from high school, friends from summer camp (which sound weirder than it is... I keep in touch with many of those people, and even married one), the girl I had a crush on when I was twelve... Needless to say, a good turn out. On subsequent gigs, we began to develop a following of people who weren't even our friends. Once, this women asked Rollo before the show "Wanna make out?" The tonsil hockey continued after the show, until poor Rollo found out she was married with two kids, which is when he promptly ran away. So, this most recent show was an all ages show, an idea that seemed like a god one beuase we often attract fans who are under 21, but we failed to realize that Philly just isn't a go out on Sunday kind of town, and it is also not an under 21 kind of town, a fact that used to always bug the shit out of me when I was under 21. We show up, the first band, Jive Turkey, hasn't even started yet. They eventually get 1 fan, plus the booking guy, Budzilla, and the sound guy. They are actually pretty good. They're from Ohio, on a short tour, a phenomenon that so far has eluded our ability to decipher how anyone pays for that, and they play quirky songs that are pretty interesting. Definitely a step up from the bands we usually share a bill with. When we go on, we have three fans, my parents, and my friend Val. Of course (ie: when no one is watching), we play a really tight, high energy show. Thriller was busted out, choreography and all, to prep for Halloween. One thing I am noticing about the band. As we have gotten tighter, the crazy musical style hopping we do stands out less to me than it used to. At first I thought it was because we weren't doing it any more, but now I think it is because we have gotten really smooth at it, and so it simply feels like that's the way the song should go, instead of sounding like the stylistic medly that it really is if you pay attention to what's going on. Is this a good thing? I have no idea.
Exhausted. God the band has been very busy as of late, and I feelin the wear and tear. Long drives, playting to empty venues, wishing I was with my wife instaed of in some club where I don't know anyone. Life on the road seems less than appealing right now.
SLogging through JR. I wish I had more time to read. When I just read on the Subway, and not even every day, it takes forever. This is especially problamatic with longer difficult novels where you really need some momentum to power through. You hit a stride. Plus, JR has no chapters so everytime I pick it up I have to back up a page to remember what the hell is happening vbecause no matter where I stop, it's always the middle of something.
Every once in a while I'll have these epiphanic moments while listening to music that help me to grasp some underlying fundamental "truth" about music, which, since music is such a huge part of my life, this "truth" might be considered a "truth" of life, at least as I live it. We were driving back in the van from a gig at the Brighton Bar in New Jersey and we were listening to a mix tape I had made a while ago (summer 2000 I think) and a stretch of maybe 4 or 5 tracks came to my attention. Predominantly, this epiphany had to do with "live" music, music that captures a performance of musicians in the same room playing music together, as opposed to music created in the studio with lots of overdubs. Listening to the song Can You Get To That by Funkadelic I was struck by the constant shifting of the music around a fundamental beat. This beat was a slow two, sort of a lurching 2 step, but the musicians were filling in all the space around these beats in various ways. What is amazing about the performance is the seeming lack of arrangement versus that ability of the group to move as a whole. Now, obviously, there was some sort of arrangement... there are versus and choruses, but only occasionally are these signified by abrupt changes in the music. There is definitely a shift in the energy from one section to the next, but it's not always the same, and yet the band seems to follow the shifts together as a unit. Does the amount of acid Funkadelic was consuming in 1971 play a part in this? If anything, the song is more amazing because they were able to pull it off in their drug addled state. I listen to a performance like this and am astounded at the complexity of thought and will that is exhibited by a group of musicians standing together and playing music and simply following their instincts. And a shining example such as this only reinforces my sheer amazement at something I regularly participate in but continue to not fully understand. What are the musicians hearing in their head that allows them to stay together. I can't answer that even if I can actually do it myself. Another example of this sort of stunning performance was a clip from Live Dead, a live Grateful Dead album from 1971. It's track three, but I don't know the name of the song. Again, the same sort of mystifying groove locked together and yet totally loose. The Dead example is also a ridiculous display of musicianship. Phil Lesh's bass performance might be the most technically astounding electric bass performance I've ever heard. Essentially, everyone is soloing at the same time, and yet the groove is so strong, and melodically it all works. On top of that, the groove is in some odd time signature, although it feels like the musicians are working off the groove and not really paying attention to structure much. It's just flabbergasting. Two tracks we listened two in comparison were Sexy Sadie by the Beatles, and Cold Opening, a track from my band's first record. These tracks were created by overdubs, that is to say the instruments were recorded seperately in the recording studio. Both are really great tracks, but very controlled and structured. I like them both very much, but they represent a totally different way of making music. I waffle back and forth between preferring one type of recording over the other. One appeals to the musician in me, and the other appeals to the studio rat I briefly became in the late 90's when I worked at recording studios.
Sometmes I find myself stumbling through life without really feeling any sort of connection with what is going on around me and I have learned to just drift and watch as things unfold sometimes to my dismay but mostlly when I am floating along I don't feel one way or the other and it's not floating like happy floating like when I told my Mom I was getting married and she said "I'm Floating" but more like a high school grasp of existentialism floating and I sort of bounce around from happening to happening taking it all in but not really influencing things around me or being influenced by things around me and one way I knew that I was really in love was that even in the depths of a really nihilistic float being with my now wife brought me right back to reality at least as it pertained to her I even sometimes manged to maintain the float with the world around me and still connect with her but recent events have made the float more difficult to achieve because horrible reality is so crazy in it's own right that I stop and wonder what the hell is going on and why people hate so much it really makes no sense to me to hate someone so much that you would even contemplate death either theirs or yours I am much more interested in the interaction between people and if there are people you don't want to interact with you walk away and why can't you just leave well enough alone and you can practice your religion and I can practice my religion why does everyone have to fit your idea of religious and at the same time you are probably asking why we are soiling your holy land with our troops but frankly this does not quailfy as even remotelt the same as massive loss of civilian life...
It's 4 AM, the gig is done, the jamming has been shut down because of excessive obnoxious ness. Drunk doesn't even begin to describe what these people are. Although I'm not as drunk as these people, my senses are impaired. Extrasensory in a debilitating sort of way. Each moment generates thoughts of all possibilities. Having a conversation with anyone here would be difficult were my brain completely in a normal state. People are drooling, slobbering, arguing, pounding drinks, Tess punches some guy with a resounding boom. You don't mess with Tess. I hide in a corner. I don't want to hang out with these people anyway. This hotel is like out of some bad movie. It's nice but there's something slightly decayed about it. Like the land of make believe or something. We wander up to our room, but no sleep is to be had. Vagrants, I mean people from the bar are invited up to the room in what I am sure is a bad move. Not wanting to hang with these losers, I wander around in the dark, trying to find my way around. I contemplate hopping the fence to get out, but am too paranoid to actually make the leap. I finally find a door out. Air. Although the air is brusk, brick even, it feels good on my face. I sneak around and scare the bejeesus out of Rollo. All to avoid those damn drunken people.
The hotel is like some reject from the Shining. It has character, personality, but the only bad things to happen here are vomiting, and maybe some domestic violence. I wader out by the railroad tracks to a trestle crossing the tracks. The air and sky are beautifully clear. I certainly miss the wide open sky when I am in the city. I have seen pictures of the South West and the sky there seems impossibly huge for reasons I may never understand. But it is quiet here, and I enjoy the serenity. Plus, the raised bridge over the tracks is an excellent place to hide and fuck with people from. Finally, I lay down on what might be the most disgusting couch ever for a little shut eye. Amazingly, I do sleep. In my absence, the others discover a hut that for some reason is unlocked and contains a shrine to Eric Roberts, complete with signed photes of Julia as a child. It feels weird, like a set up. But Roberts does live in this town. Is the shrine his? or some deranged fan's? I may never know. Ah, Rhinecliff New York.
I'm having some trouble getting back on the waggon, Blogger wise. The first week back at work was really crazy for a whole variety of reasons. Emotionally it was really draining. Last Friday we had a company memorial service which was kind of cathartic. But now I see mindless patriotism springing up all around me, even from people who I thought were cynical free thinkers. Instead I hear things like... "I heard someone say on Larry King last night that America deserved this." "Those people Should be shot!" What are we trying to protect if people feel that way. Two firemen were practically fired because a rumor went around that they refused to ride in truck with an American Flag on it. It's like we're one step away from some sort of MacCarthy-ite hysteria. And nobody is even daring to mention the fact that for years America has bullied the rest of the world, and in recent months George Bush has practically given even our close allies the big finger. I'm not saying we deserved this... No one deserves to die, and I condemn violence from anyone, no matter what race. But America has to realize that it's actions do not occur in some vacuum. We share this world with all sorts of people and our actions have very direct consequences on those people. Economic sanction in Iraq hurt children by cutting off food supplies. Probably the same in Cuba. And let's not even get into funding dictators who are later our enemies. But instead, everyone is convinced of America's great sense of being "Right" and that we can do no wrong, which is just Bullshit. We have to wake up and start treating the rest of the world with some respect before we demand the same of them.
