a short story, entitled: “Teleporter Anxiety”

They’ll never persuade me into a teleporter, I once said. They’ll have to sedate me, and drag my reluctant dead weight to the antechamber. Except, that would not be desirable to the collective wisdom. One has to chose to cross the threshold. It’s a barrier that only gives way for total submission.

How does it function? First, step into the chamber. It will begin with trepidation, but subsequent journeys will erode the fear. The chamber appears similar to an “iron maiden”, the medieval period torture device.  That is how I imagine it, at least.  The inner workings cannot be discerned externally. It could be like the piercing of infinite flechettes, so many that you may drown in your own blood before internal injuries seize your life.

The conventional wisdom speaks of it as “like flying without wings”. The teleporter’s effect is apparently sharp enough to sever Earth’s bonds.

It has become more than a means of tranportation. The transferrance is a thing in itself that has eclipsed the initial purpose. It is now simply a new way of life.

In our contemporary society, laid down upon a solid concrete bed of lies, submission to the teleporter is analogous to driving a car or graduating college. It is a definition of capability and self worth. If you have teleported and returned, faced the trial, you are called Setra. Only one who is Setra may progress. All the rest are serfs and gutter poets, like me.

I could walk between cities, on blistered black feat, with sun scarred skin, but I would arrive as the same being that left it’s point of origin. I would not be Setra.

Someone told a lie about me. Setra are perfect liars. Their will is so strong and sure, whatever words emenate forth from their mouths simply rewrites whatever came before. The lie itself, or what came before, is no longer important.

As if all their awareness was linked by a router in the sky, a hand of authoritarial Blackclads closed on me. With gentle fingers restraining each of my limbs, they spoke: “Come, friend. We will relieve you of the barrier’s tension.” Their touch,  so soothing as to assure submission. In the grip now, everything from before is over. Their relentless omnipresence made everything now as it should be. They dragged me to the teleporter, as limp as a ragdoll cat.

I beheld the chamber. Ovular cylinder at the base, rising to curve into suggestions of shoulders and a head. Somehow, it was exactly my height. The question of larger or taller men became irrelevant. Barely within it’s gate, every doubt and logistic was bent and folded into one true shape.

I knew the real truth, in the previous time. You cannot shatter and reconnect a purpose-bound lattice of matter, and hope to maintain the same line of consciousness. If you shatter a glass vase, and then glue the pieces back together with the utmost care and delicacy, it may still look and function exactly as it was. You could even reseal all the edges with a precision matter tool. I still don’t believe it would be the same vase after. That is the one critical difference of opinion between the Setra and I. Society and sircumstance have elevated this difference to a divide between life and death. Now, it is to be my true mind’s death. Is there really that much to miss, though?

The chamber door drew closed, completing my fate’s assembly. I breathed deep and relaxed every muscle in my body.

In a car crash, it is best not to stiffen your body. You will be tossed and crushed regardless, but potential damage can be reduced. I held on to this last thought, as it may be my final metaphor. Does a Setra even have use for metaphors, or is all communication turned to one simple unified function? Purpose arrives instantaneous, with no room for debate or interpretation? Then, I shattered.

The only thing I could feel was being permanently held in place. The concept of two eyes once possessed became a simple bisection of light, curves into waves into a tunnel straight down, straight into me. Now, one ray of light, threaded into all the others.

I beheld the chamber, now external. It’s outline, once evocative, now simply benign. Through the window of the antechamber. A glass and concrete rise, a towering pattern. I ascend, the building descends, two perspectives as one.

Many presences all around, reaching closer. They are warm and obscuring.

My live concert history, Part One

~Mountain  -jan 03 maybe. The venue was a half-full dinner theatre in the asshair bottom woods of snowy Connecticut. I was one of a handfull of individuals under the age of 45. The tour was sponsored by VH1, for Chrissake. Despite these minor setbacks, the show was awesome. Leslie West has continued to grow as a singer and guitarist through the years. Very few people can tear through an epic blues rock composition (I believe certain genre confused hippies used to call it “fusion”) like him. Their only song to make it to the radio and mass consciousness was “Mississippi Queen” (Recently covered by Ozzy Osbourne, ensuring it’s place in the annals of history). While that was an essential single of the classic rock era, their most distinct works were longer compositions like ‘Nantucket Sleighride’. The show provided ample helpings of both sides of the band. Rounding out the trio was original era drummer Corky, who was afforded one badass Zeppelin-esque drum solo showcase. He made up half the band’s personality, entheusiastic and energetic as well as driving the rhythm with considerable power. The recently hired bass player did his job well, but his most memorable characteristic was an affinity for the color purple that permeated his entire fashion ensemble and equipment configuration.

~A Perfect Circle/Year Of The Rabbit opening – November 2003 – Providence Performing Arts Center

This is what I consider to be my first real show. First, the venue was one of the best I’ve ever been in. It’s an entirely seated theatre meant for plays and musicals. The acoustics are perfectly tuned, with bass that fills your chest without being overwhelming.

In 2003 I had recently discovered Tool, an essential band in my musical development, one I still appreciate without loving like I used to. By association I was into A Perfect Circle, singer Maynard James Keenan’s other project.  APC’s sound is more indebted to the slowly drizzling guitar arpeggios of ‘Disintegration’-era The Cure than Tool’s progressive/pop rock blend. APC’s albums have not aged that well, as my entheusiasm and hunger for more Maynard has long since subsided, but they did write a handfull of great songs.

This show was the ultimate manifestation of their sound, coming after the release of 2nd album ‘Thirteenth Step’. Josh Freese sounded better there than in any other band I’ve heard him in, even NIN (where he suffered from the unfortunate Matt Cameron/Pearl Jam effect of a great drummer not fitting with a great band). His massive and rhythmically intricate playing was the main attraction. Maynard’s Gollum dance was much appreciated, though. Former Smashing Pumpkins guitarist James Iha skulked in the shadows, earning his paycheck. Twiggy rocked it on bass, and like his future NIN touring mate Freese, had much more creative input and personal investment here. I want to say something nice about lead guitarist/main songwriter Billy Howerdel, but he made the unfortunate choice of letting Maynard overshadow him in his own band. This was far from a Martin Gore/David Gahan (of Depeche Mode) healthy songwriter/frontman relationship, this was a dictatorship of opportunity.

“Thinking Of You” was amped up in intensity compared to it’s original studio version, making a great late set highlight. “The Package” featured Maynard’s most dramatic squat thrusting. “Judith”, the lead single from first album ‘Mer De Noms’, engaged more as the set closer than it ever did on it’s own. Not bad for a side project!

Opening band “Year Of The Rabbit”, featuring Ken Andrews of ‘Failure’, sucked. Their opening song was a cover of “I Wanna Be Adored” by The Stone Roses, which was actually quite excellent, perfectly suited to Ken’s vocal drone and opiated moods. What followed, however, was a series of indistinguishable and startlingly boring songs from Ken’s brief and unfortunate attempt at a sellout band, following the dissolution of Failure.  Poor Ken. He looked nice in that dark red velvet button up shirt, though. Maynard brought him out onstage to duet for APC’s cover of “The Nurse Who Loved Me”, originally by Failure. Besides it being a weak cover to start with, Ken looked more pissed off than any other human being I’ve ever seen. It could’ve just been a bad coke comedown, but if I was asked (or compelled by the potential for exposure) to sing backing vocals on a vastly inferior cover of one of my own songs with my singer friend who just happens to be roughly 1,000 times as famous as me, I might be a little bit mad too.

~Mountain, again -  Toad’s Place, Connecticut – 2004

Same set, same show, worse venue. “Toad’s Place” is a cancer pit. If you find yourself walking down the street, and are overcome with the sudden urge to puke up $20 worth of bar drinks, don’t puke in the gutter. Run in to Toad’s Place. They don’t give a shit. Fuck Connecticut.

~Muse – Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel, Providence RI – April 2004

I hate these guys now, but at the time I had just downloaded their album “Absolution”, which has a few good songs.  I suddenly became aware of the Lupos show, and it was only 9 dollars (Sponsored by the WBRU “Cheap Date” concert series, hilarious for a band that filled stadiums in the UK. How much payola does it take to become a Cheap Date, I wonder?), so I figured why the hell not. Their live show had a good reputation, too. However, “Absolution” wasn’t even out in the USA yet, due to genius major label marketing techniques. Hence, the venue was half full, with a crowd that must have all downloaded the new album instead of waiting for the privilege of paying for it in a US store. The band was at least well known enough to have about 10-15 kids jumping up and down up front during the faster paced songs, though. I found it hard to believe that even that minor amount of enthusiasm for the band was possible, leaving me dumbfounded when they exploded in popularity worldwide in 2006.

I can understand how the band might have been a little bummed to be playing to a fraction of the stadium crowd that they knew in their hearts they deserved. This show is all I have to go on, though. When I hear people talking about Muse’s amazing, earth shattering, larger than life, bigger than friggin Queen live esperience, I have no earthly idea what the fuck they are talking about. I saw a band competently and consistently sleepwalk through a set that was 2/3 boring midtempo ballads and 1/3 mildly engaging up tempo wailing rockers. At every opportunity, they sacrificed performance and instead used technology to recreate the layers of the studio performance. Hire a rhythm guitarist if you want two guitars at once on most of the songs, buddy. Matt Bellamy is a deft manipulator of pedals and effects, but the overall effect was still something like a band playing to a backing track. For the last song, standout single “Stockholm Syndrome”, they had white balloons drop on the crowd. Friggin’ balloons, can you believe that? Live experience of the MILLENIUM!

~Sonic Youth – April 2004 – Lupos

If I remember correctly, this show was less than a month after the Muse show, at the same venue. It proved to be an excellent way to wash the taste of that crap out of my mouth.

Even approaching their mid-40s (that seemed really old to me at the time, I didn’t know many bands yet that still made good album after hitting 40), Sonic Youth put on a live show as vital and explorative as ever. The setlist was overstuffed with riches, from the best songs on ‘Sister’ to lesser known choices from ‘Washing Machine’ and ‘Trash’. The recent material from “comeback” efforts ‘Sonic Nurse’ and ‘Murray Street’ held their own, but mainly due to the instrumental work. The band’s best songwriting and hooks remain in the Sister/Daydream Nation/Goo/Dirty era, which was very well represented without over-relying on ‘Daydream Nation’, but a good 10 minute feedback freakout makes anything go down easy.

The crowd was mostly 30-ish former Gen-Xers turned yuppies, and young hipster couples in training just beginning to learn how to find a way to use their cellphone for the entire show (Ah, 2004, so distant now…texting was a luxury then, not an essential bodily function). It wasn’t as distracting as having a shirtless brodude beer-singing in your ear the entire show though, so I’ll give this crowd a pass.

~Sparta, opening for Incubus – The Friggin’ Dunkin Donuts Center, Providence RI – July 2004

I was willing to pay Incubus prices for 40 minutes of Sparta. At The Drive-In was still my favorite band, and just seeing 3 of their former members on stage would be enough to get me in the door. Sparta was a great band in their own right (I say “was”, unfortunately, due to their dissapointing 3rd and final album in 2006), though. Their 40 minute set had me hooked from the first note, delivering perfect renditions of 4-5 songs from 2004’s ‘Porcelain’, and debut single “Cut Your Ribbon” from ‘Wiretap Scars’. The band’s style was a continuation of the post-Fugazi punk strains that ran through ATDI, but grew into a more ambitious and intense pop/rock mode once Jim Ward has his own ship to steer. “While Oceania Sleeps” is the best example of this affecting mix of plaintive reflection and sing-along wailing.

Incubus…yeah, they were Incubus. They’re an instrumentally talented bunch of guys with good intentions, who manage to write a catchy song once in a while, in between the pandering bland bullshit. They peaked early on with the Red Hot Chili Peppers meets Faith No More meets Korn amalgamation ‘Science’ in 1998. We got one song from that album, and a whole bunch of other stuff that’s best forgotten.

In addition, they blessed us with a moronic 20 minute bongo jam, and closed with “Black Hole Sun”. Unfortunately, they were Incubus, and not fucking Soundgarden. Hell, they might as well have just played Foo Fighters songs for the whole set, no one would have cared.

~The Roots and 311 – Tweeter/Verizon Ampitheatre, Mansfield MA – July 2004

This seemed like a good idea at the time, because my friends were going, and I hadn’t heard 311 in a while, so I didn’t remember how much they sucked. We were also supposed to see the 1st band on the bill, jam jazz trio Medeski Martin and Wood, but that time was instead spent by our driver filling out an application for a Shaws card so he could get his full discount on the hamburger patties for our parking lot barbecue.

The Roots are an entertaining live band even for someone who barely knows their albums. ?uestlove gets down with impeccable style and sophistication on the drums, and the band is filled out with rock and funk adept musicians. They morph in and out of rock cover band mode throughout the set, even throwing in friggin’ “Iron Man” somewhere in the middle of a medley. Somehow, it all seemed natural. Pretty much the complete opposite of Incubus doing “Black Hole Sun”.

Then, 311 came on. It’s a damn shame when you let your opening band upstage you. I felt embarassed for them when they attempted a scripted bass solo (“Hey P-Nut! BEAT THAT THING!”) that was a complete joke compared to the Roots funky bass solo we had just seen. And, hey, another 20 minute bongo jam! These guys had been doing it a little longer than Incubus, though. They earned their bongo cred back when Incubus was still in middle school.

At one point, the band asked us to yell and cheer for 1 of 2 possible songs they were considering playing. The song with the louder response would win. They said this was supposed to be “practice” for the upcoming 2004 election, a real working example of democracy in action. Then, later, they played the losing  song anyways. The irony.

~Pearl Jam – Sovereign Center, Reading PA – October 2004

Reading, what a shithole. To single out one particular place in Pennsylvania as a shithole, it must be a really deep shithole. A nail salon and a pawn shop on every block. Air choked with despair. Heads hung low in defeat. It wasn’t quite Baltimore, but it made Cherry Hill,  New Jersey look like San Francisco.

I had just belatedly discovered Pearl Jam, and combined with my 90s nostalgia fetish, I had enough motivation to get somebody to travel 6 hours to see this show (and an 11 hour bus ride back, but that’s another story).  The 2003 Pearl Jam live DVD was also one of the best in my collection, so I knew I would be in for something special. I also wanted to see them before they got old and crappy. As of now, they haven’t released a good album since 2000, so you be the judge of that.

This was an in-between albums special tour, so thankfully the set was light on song from 2002’s ‘Riot Act’. It wasn’t one of their better setlists overall, but the larger than life presence of the band and overwhelming positive vibes (god, it sounds like I’m reviewing a Phish show) smoothed over the handfull of mediocre numbers. A few weak tunes in a 3 hour set is about as good as it gets, anyways.

Even after hearing “Alive” 10 billion times on the radio, that song still managed to enthrall me along with the entire audience, as Eddie jigged away along the edge of the stage, with Mike McCready’s extended solo blazing. Pearl Jam is a live band that knows how to take the familiar and make it extraordinary, at least in the moment.

The set list anomolies were “Sad”, from the B-side collection ‘Lost Dogs’, and a tune with guest Tim Robbins. It sucked. Tim Robbins, you’re a great actor, but you can’t hang with Pearl Jam. Neil Young can hang with Pearl Jam. You’re just a wannabe.

…and that concluded Part One of this feature. Only 22 more shows to go!

Chapter 1

tasted the cartilage of the raw men
in peasant shoes

then the shroud was lifted

the mass obscured in the corner began to resemble

crawled across to sudden realization
I knew the sentence was forming, so suppression

flashbacks consuming from every angle
sailing over verdant
~
take it with a grain of salt and some humility
wash it down with the cool attention
youre always getting

not saying you don’t deserve it,
not bothering wondering what one does to earn it

it’s my fault for getting all worked up again
pent up passion can get a little inbred

unsightly repelling repugnant
not something you want to be around
I understand better than anyone
~

a pulsing sound in the hallway

one foot and then the other and then the hand on the doorknob

wondering what have I done or is he just making the rounds

is he just beating his feat
simply because he does not tread lightly

who administered the discipline that slurred your compassion
who kicked the back of your legs and brought the belt down
who sold their spirit for the clothes on your back
regardless, stay down

sleep on the couch but too tired to dream
loneliness is the only privacy I get

my spine keeps twisting
I’m not getting any younger, am I?

the drip of acid tooth
that burns my throat the most

every day it gets easier

I’m folding into myself then torn in half and discarded

and once the initial rush wears off youre an insect carcass for the rest of the night

can’t we just build a cage for her
a little pen where she can scratch at the walls

until she gets so tired
and lies down
then we close the lid on that

sprakling blue eye
after the first few you just go deaf

neglected inner demons
(and a loss of hope)

the idle sloth that just needs some time to think
of where to idly project his affections next

enough charm to get him through the door before
the pillar cracks and he falls right to the floor

~

stumble forward into the rising tide
with your open mouth and dead dog eyes

theres already cracks in the porcelain vase
but you fill it with water and lylacs

you deliver the news
and those shamefully emotive curled lips become a twisted smile
the message, delivered with understatement
the last hope dried and tossed in the bin

temporary empathy

I still have your old ring
you can always dream back to the cradle of the woods
blissed out

when the day of labor’s ended,
you drive away so fast
you flow my blood for me

I can’t imagine how you survive it on your own

is the glance a glance through
smiling at the mirror

this island only has one citizen
what you hear is the sound
of the earth pressed up against your ear
you can’t fool everyone all the time
when it’s only you

you can’t inhale ignorance anymore
you can’t burn bliss and stare directly into the flame

burial in space
growing old on the planet earth
attempting to become self aware

your paranoid piercing blue eyes followed me around the room

synth wash on mercy street

~

Fifty-five straight hours of nausea is the breaking point.

They are watching from all eight corners
with ten eyes open
you’ll think about this later.

Embrace the crippling paranoia,
anticipate the acidic aftertaste,
grit your teeth and bite your tongue,
nerve tree leaking sap,
this is the breaking point.

The handwritten pages filled with letters
of varying shapes and sizes
in direct ratio to the subject’s emotional pole
at that particular millisecond
indicates that this, beyond the shadow of a doubt,
is the breaking point.

~

when youve been awake all night
and the sun cuts through the airspace in halo shaped stratus gaps,
and you find yourself cautiously optimistic
you know it’s either going to be a good day
or it’s the smile that was the first sign of the apocalypse

dawning crawling from the tide tentacles raching and eye stalks pointing at your feet
dark purple neon streaks
post apocalyptic tweaking

disconnected thoughts, the escalator’s moving backwards now

power lines wrapped around your neck
standing with good posture 30 feet off the ground
this music is so beautiful, but I can’t get any air
vultures passing over the skylight in 30 second intervals, whats with all this negativity

I heard it and all of a sudden I smelled your scent, synesthasia
I’m feeling winds in a sealed cage, why is your face blurred
please let me see the real thing again, clearly

the tide’s coming in
get one more shot of the beached whale

~

shape shifting through panes of glass
eating off vertical countertops
twisting a phrase to the advantage of
tasting the eyeshadow
grey matters of the soul
grey matters of the heart

It’s no wonder you can’t make it through the forest alone
they are healing trees

strange people wear pruposes on their face. I don’t care anymore.

I know I’ll hear that word again. Smoke poured in the window.

Don’t go to the party, it’s a massacre.

sweating through my pores what I’m having trouble putting into words

a certain piece of the family is still alive on the exterior

so many meaningless phrases barked into my ear
so many jagged shards dragged along the surface of these youthfull years
coming on at a mile a minute
deadstop
come into my den tonight
we will consume the last
not one day has passed

~

Caithlin De Marrais at The Middle East Upstairs, Boston, December 2 2008

Even a well informed modern music fan likely has no idea who Caithlin De Marrais is. Over the course of roughly 11 years and 5 albums, she was the singer and bass player for Rainer Maria. In the field of late 90s/early 2000s indie rock they were so potent and distinct that they tended to be ignored, with all the media attention going to lesser bands with similar stylistic surfaces. Instead, we got to see the remarkably mediocre likes of Rilo Kiley on late night TV and magazine covers.

This is not Rainer Maria’s story, however . No prior knowledge is required to appreciate Caithlin’s new songs. I was able to get in about 4-5 good listens to her debut album “My Magic City” before seeing her show, just enough time to start recognizing the album’s qualities. In short, it delivers the goods. The words and vocal melodies are sticking to my consciousness like glue,  popping into my head as the soundtrack to walking down the street or standing at the counter at work. It’s too soon for a true appraisal and analytic breakdown, but so far it’s one of the most memorable album I’ve heard released in 2008.

This was the first show I’ve seen at The Middle East’s Upstairs room. I’d only been in the much more metal-appropriate Downstairs space, with it’s low ceiling, ample moshing space, and ear destroying sound system. The Upstairs has a much more delicate sound setup. Unless you stand in the horizontal center of the tiny square of floorspace, at least 50% distance away from the stage, you aren’t going to hear the music coherently. There are two small ceiling mounted PAs pointed at odd angles. If you aren’t in the center, one ear or the other will be overwhelmed. The volume was skimpy, as if the artists on the bill that night weren’t deserving of being heard because they make “quiet” music, but it was just enough to be effective.

Caithlin 4 days later at the Mercury Lounge. Photo by Bob Sanderson

I had misinterpreted one of Caithlin’s Myspace posts to mean that she was touring with a new baby. It turns out that she was touring “with child” in the Olde English meaning of the phrase, as in pregnant. Hopefully, she will soon join the tradition of ass kicking touring moms like Kristin Hersh, but that might be a selfish wish on my part.

Her facial expression as she took the stage looked somewhere between woozy and queasy from where I was standing. Whatever the state of her mindbody at the time, it didn’t detract at all from the experience. It may have actually shed a different light on the songs. Her determination and coiled intensity was even more apparent in this intimate musical style, as opposed to when she was the eye of Rainer Maria’s storm.

Her Charlie Brown-esque shuffle dance as she worked her way into the groove of “Serpentine” was utterly profound in it’s simple grace. I was riveted as one of my favorite artists discovered and created a new stage persona for herself in that moment. Seeing someone simply doing their thing with such bravery was inspiring, especially in front of this polite but indifferent audience made up primarily of Owen (the headlining act) fans.

Describing the sparse instrumental construction of the songs feels secondary next to the personal connection that was made, but the supporting players are very deserving of a mention. Guitarist Josh Kaufman made a comfortable, friendly bed for Caithlin to rest on. His variety of tones and styles evoked the album while tweaking it with different twists and flourishes. His soulful and skilled playing elevated the performance to another level, and was at times the only other element to accompany the voice. El May also joined on piano and backing vocals, on one song providing charmingly shy harmony through the center mic stand while Caithlin sat at the piano to the right.

Caithlin is one of the few singers I’ve seen live that makes me realize how limiting a recording is in terms of resonance and subtle frequencies. There is no comparison to having the real thing right in front of you, amplified with minimal change. The way she projects and enunciates seems to clarify her intent, bringing you even closer to understanding what she means. I use ‘understanding’ in the indescribable musical sense, not the literal sense.

The highlights of the set were “The Fire”, with it’s building vocal intensity, and “Voicemail”, with it’s irresistable piano hook, melody, and relatable sentiments. The 45 minute show as a whole was the highlight of my recent concert going history.

Give or take a song , the setlist was: The Cottage, Outer Space Is Still Sexy, The Fire, Voicemail, Serpentine (rockin’ electric guitar and foot stomp beat version), Sparrow,  I’ll Make You Mine (a more low key version of the Rainer Maria song, with palm muted electric guitar).

Buy “My Magic City” for 10 bucks in 320kbps MP3 format (the only way to get the album) here:

http://endup.org/artists/caithlindemarrais/merch/

Listen to samples and find out more info here:

http://www.myspace.com/caithlindemarrais

This Week

It’s been a pretty rough week. I’m in a sleep deprivation cycle, something I’ve been going through every few months. It’s not fun.

A major part of it may be psychological. There is a part of me deep down that doesn’t want to sleep. The rational part of my mind knows I need it, but this destructive instinct is overwhelming.

I’ll probably come out of it in a few days, settling on a bedtime between midnight and 7am. In the meantime, I remain completely crazy and irritable. It’s best to just stay away from me right now.

So, in honor of irrational mental states, here’s some short attention span musings on what I’ve been thinking about lately.

The new album by The Cure, 4:13 Dream is out. It’s just about good enough. There is nothing to truly distinguish it from the other post-Wish albums, but the good/bad song ratio is definitely ahead of 2004’s self titled album, and even overall with 1996’s Wild Mood Swings.

It has the sound of the Cure (in their guitar rock mode), and the same skillfull arrangements and performance, but it doesn’t have it’s own unique emotional hook. These aren’t the kinds of songs you associate new memories and lifetimes with, they instead try to recreate the attachment with Cure songs of old. It flows nicely in the background, and it’s more than up to the task when you want to set that Cure mood in your room without putting on one of the classic LPs you’ve already memorized. That’s enough for it to warrant a purchase from this particular hardcore fan, but it serves a narrow purpose.

Caithlin De Marrais has released her eagerly anticipated (by me and 85 other people) solo album, My Magic City. I’m approaching it delicately, with only 2 carefully considered listens so far. Her previous band Rainer Maria is one of my all time favorites, so it’s difficult not to burden it with expectations. I can’t tell how much depth or longevity is in there yet, but it’s a sharp take on the female indie acoustic style, with her strong lyrical attitude preserved. There are quirks and off kilter arrangements, and sometimes even a little Carole King pops out, but thankfully no concessions to the Feist-esque perceptions of what a modern female indie artist is supposed to be. She’s still the same ass-kicking Caithlin, with the occasional painfully awkward lyric (“Can you tame all the tigers in your bloodstream?” -Rainer Maria) that somehow only adds to the charm.

I’ll be braving commuter trains and Boston subway molemen buskers (who only play an instrumental version of Dust In The Wind by Kansas) to see her show at Middle East Upstairs on December 5th.

This Sunday is the big one, though: my 2nd Nine Inch Nails show. If I survive the floor pit, I’ll have some thoughts on that after.

That’s all for now.

The bus.

This past year, I’ve ridden the RIPTA (Rhode Island Public Transit Authority) bus at least 100 times. Specifically, the “60 line”, Newport to Providence.

Since July, I’ve been riding it at least 6 times a week, going back and forth between home and my job in Portsmouth.

Rarely does anything particularly exciting happen. Mind you, I ride the bus specifically for transportation, not for intense terror action, so I have little reason to complain. 99% of the time, the bus gets it’s job done without a hitch, except when they fail to stop and pick me up becase, A- My grey sweatshirt causes me to blend in with a telephone pole (“No shit, dude! Look at the pole! It’s the exact same color!“-Driver, after I chased him down), or B- My body language indicated I did not really want to get on the bus that badly. In the case of B, I was elaborately twisting and spinning while reaching deep into the French catacombs of my cargo pants for quarters. So, it could be argued I was conducting a performance art display at 10:45 at night on the side of the road in front of a deserted grocery store parking lot, not waiting for a bus.

If that were the case, it would be blatant discrimination, because they never fail to pick up Spinboy when passing through Bristol. This young gentlemen is probably afflicted with a neurological disorder of some kind, so don’t go thinking I’ve given him a cruel demeaning nickname, it’s an entirely accurate monicker. He is male, and spinning is what he does. After paying the driver, he always does a full 360, then grabs the nearest pole, topping it off with a bonus 180 into the seat. If there are no seats near the front, he continues with at least another full 360 while traversing the aisle. Several times he boarded wearing pajama pants, and carrying a blue blanket. In terms of surface appearance, he is a short Hispanic man of about 30, with an “escaped mental patient” style haphazardly shaved head.

The last time I saw him, his demeanor was more assertive. He spent the ride barking into a cell phone, and nursing an unlit Newport cigarette with rabid anticipation. These behavioral details gave me some powerful new insights into the depths of his soul, and the content of his character. Firstly, he has the ability to harness the power of technology. There are people that he knows, and he communicates with them freely. They may even be friends. More likely, it’s a doctor at Brown University’s Behavioral Science Facility, trying to get him in for overnight observation and testing (Spinboy’s sole source of income). Not until I smoke my Newport, says Spinboy.

Then, there is Cracker Jack. He typically rides between Warren and Bristol, a trip less than 10 minutes. He has important business in both towns. Get the money in Bristol, get the crack in Warren. Once fully crackenated, he’ll get back on the bus in Warren, twitch wildly, look over his shoulder constantly, air drum with rapid intensity to the music leaking from soneone’s headphones, wonder “Why doesn’t everyone in the whole world want to be my friend?”, then get off in front of Dunkin Dohnuts (The cultural hotspot of the quaint Bristol main street) and jive on down the block, into…oblivion? His unseen fate does not bode well, as his bus ride was the exact length of the average crack high.

He has only made one brief appearance so far, but The Pointer splashed onto the scene with dramatic flair and style. A white male in his late 20s, I at first took him for a typical jerk, shooting beams of fear down the aisle with his Ghetto Stare.  What up yo, why you in my field of vision, custy bitch? Then, he sat down next to an unsuspecting Roger Williams student, even though there were unoccupied double seats nearby. He made a loud, exaggerated effort to make sure the RW student didn’t mind. After being assured for the 4th or 5th time that it was ok, he settled into his seat. From behind, I could now see The Pointer was rockin’ the ever popular “escaped mental patient” buzz cut. With multiple random triangles of raw bare skin amidst the fuzz, it was a true representation of the hippest new fashion trend in Rhode Island.

After a few minutes, he raised his left hand to head level. His left index finger: extended fully. This man had a point to make. In a blatant dereliction of journalistic duty, I had my headphones on, so I know not what tender vocalizations accompanied the gesture. I imagine it was something along the lines of “No, no, NO! DON’T DO THAT! AAAAAAAHGAGAGA ffmphdeh.”, followed by a little drooling. The finger took over, wagging up and down in a tense, tight rhythm, yet with a loose wristed technique, like one of Cracker Jack’s invisible drumsticks. Once that particular verse was over, the finger curled and uncurled repeatedly , as if trying to meakly apologize for those (no doubt fully justified) points it had to make.

My stop was just before Kennedy Plaza, and I managed one brief up close glimpse of him on my way off. Both fingers had sprung to life, in an alternating frenzy of blame laying. The one snippet of his jibber jabber I heard was something along the lines of “I…I…I did that! I said that! No, no, yeah! I said I was…I DID!”.

What kinds of unimaginable experiments experiments are Brown University running on the cognitively disadvantaged citizens of Rhode Island? Are they so cruel as to make these test subjects ride the bus back and forth, not even giving them the dignity of being loaded up on Thorazine and tossed out of a white van in front of Dunkin Donuts?

Don’t let this highly condensed profile fool you, usually the bus is pretty fucking boring. These people are by far the most interestings things I’ve seen on the RIPTA. Only one in every three or four rides yields something worth peering up from my journal or taking off my headphones.

It’s not always bizarre and morbidly fascinating, though. The other day I had a confrontationally friendly conversation forced on me by an old woman named Estella. I was standing at the fron of the packed bus, holding the rail for support. Estella looked up and asked me “Why don’t you sit here?”. I barely managed to squeeze my way in next to her before she barraged me with questions. “How come you didn’t sit next to me before? You’re not scared of me, are you, HAHA!?”. I didn’t sit there because, between your fat ass and the fat ass of the other guy two seats over, about 75% of the seat was already acounted for, bitch. But I didn’t say that, I politely lied and pretended to be lackadaisacally unaware of my surroundings (which I usually am) with “I guess I just didn’t look hard enough (*durrr)!”.She then described me as “a trip”. That sums up my existence fairly succinctly.

After exchanging names, star signs, and brief life histories giving context to our mutual reliance on public transportation, she resumed browbeating the other residents of the front of the bus. “Hey, girl! You’re a Taurus, right? That means you always got to git what you want, AWHAW YEAH GIRL! Hey, you’re really pretty. You could be a model, seriously! I know this stuff, my brother was a fashion photographer for 25 years! He had his own studio in Boston! He worked for Vogue magazine in Germany! You could be one of those girls with Tyra Banks!”

What if I wanted to be one of those girls with Tyra, huh? Would Estella validate my dreams, or does she only work her magic on the young and the beautiful? She had the air and presence of a powerfull witch, wielding dominance and influence, casting glamour charms and curses in equal turn. Which side of fate did I fall on that day? Perhaps I’ll never truly know.

I should officially petition the city of Providence to make me part of it’s “Rennaisance City” campaign, to improve the city’s image. My artistic portrayels of the RIPTA experience would motivate other adventurous spirits to visit the city via the bus, reducing congestion on Route 95 by .358%. This could be just the thing to avert the coming of a new Dark Age.

Gay Coffee Shop

This afternoon, whilst drinking a near hallucinatory amount of espresso at the “gay” coffee shop (not my descriptor! Though, it is a happy place), I stumbled aboard a certain train of thought.

I soaked in the atmosphere. It was around 5:30pm, just after Wickenden street had finished coughing up the rush hour traffic. There were people reading books, newspapers, typing on laptops with headphones, and chatting about Brown University minutiae. That last one is par for the course, given my proximity to College Hill. it’s a nexus of…I haven’t quite figured it out yet. A hive of intellectual activity? A grotesque gallery of Ivy league elite? A garbage disposal patte’ of thick rimmed glasses and white earbuds and regrettably hip fashions?

The relaxed crowd wasn’t giving me any straight answers. I was simply enjoying the flow of the atmosphere, like a light social breeze relieving the stifled friction that can creep up on my when I’ve been in my room too long.

Now that I’m back in my room, recharged from briefly dipping my toe into the social moors, I realize how distant and disengaged my poise and mannerisms were. I was so soothed and pacified by my perception of the din, if one of these people actually came up to me and said hello or asked a question, I would’ve freaked. I was intensely drilling my pen into my notebook, searching for the unknown mission I’d commited to.

How are you supposed to act in a coffee shop? How should you act in this situation, social and isolated simultanesously?  Is not knowing the answer to that the whole point? Does the allure lie in the struggle to simply be there? How do you want to act? Which of these questions should you take in consideration to reflect the true intentions of your inner self? Do you want to be true to yourself in there, or just sway along with the prevailing vibe? These are the questions that race through the mind of this particular recovering social anxiety case, faster than a Japanese bullet train.

It’s more comfort than contact, when the feeling connects. You can feel like you’re not alone in there. Physically, you are occupying the same space as these other beings, and you are theoretically there under similar pretenses. You have things in common! Coffee, sitting, and purposefully holding reading materials out in front of you with a rigid death grip.

Originally, this post was going to be about the current generation, and how new communication technologies are rapidly changing (destroying?) social environments and personal relationships. Then, I just started going off about the coffee shop I had that thought in, and it turned into a little example to sort of illustrate my muddled point of view. Isn’t that nice?

The biggest negative of digital connection and communication that I’ve percieved is it breeds an attitude of apathy and meaninglessness. The epitome of this is the Internet message board. Never has one person’s opinion or feelings been so inconsequential. Any thought on any subject can be dismissed or picked apart any infinite number of ways. A thought could also be lauded, blindly followed, quoted or mimmicked by a chorus of yes men. Which opinions are the ones to take to heart?

When you are forced to pick and choose the responses you want to believe, the ones you decide are true, it can be dizzying, nauseating. You are forced to create your own reality among the bile and refuse and falsehoods and fluff and rare gems of truth.

This is a mammoth, herculean task, especially for someone of sensitive perception like myself. The infinite array of angles of attack and dissection completely dwarf whatever the original discussion was supposed to be, swallowing it whole.

In the coffee shop, things are simple, yet no more real. My overactive mind is left to create imagenary attitudes and views for all my fellow patrons, what they might be thinking as they notice me wildly scribbling in the notebook. Why does that feel more alive to me than sitting in here alone? Why is it such an effective mental stimulant and motivator? Why do these anonymous faces lift my spirits?

As this new age slowly seeps into all of us, I’m left wondering if it’s a new golden dawn or the spark that set fire to Rome. Is anyone going to stop and wonder, is this all too much too fast? What are we leaving behind? Are we taking everything with us from the past that we’ll need to survive in this new form of society? Are real human emotions going to survive? When compassion and humanity can be crushed from a thousand different angles at once, what’s the appeal in acting human anymore?

This streak of old fashioned thought is surprising me. I’ve been a hardcore computer nerd since birth. I’ve also seen how people and attitudes have changed since the Internet began to exponentially explode in 1997. All I know is, as time goes on, I’ll be struggling to stay balanced between the infinite connections and intimate proximity, and I hope I won’t be alone.

“The Double Life Of Veronique” Criterion Collection DVD

The film was sculpted and whittled down to 90-odd minutes, consisting of impressionistic editing, visual poetry, and whisps and strings of inconsequential plot.

In the supplementary interviews, director Krzysztof Kieslowski says he creates films about “what unites us, not what divides us”. Connections are formed between our characters regardless of geographic distance, regardless of whether we have ever met.

The focal point is the stylistic break in reality: Veronique and Weronika, two different women, identical in appearance, played by the same actress. They briefly catch sight of one another in the distance, amid a sea of chaos. Are they the same person, in two different bodies? Long lost twins? Clones? The embodiment of the ideal someone out there just like me?

It’s a very moving concept, if you can manage to catch sight of  it. Kieslowski avoids stating anything outright. He doesn’t want to tell us any lies. Putting labels or definitions or marks of significance on any particular moment would pull you further away from the moment itself. Words are infrequent, and only serve to distract Veronika from her search, her struggle, whatever makes up the essence of her experience.

In the end, we’re left with only questions. That’s the best gift a film can give. Why should a film end when the credits roll?

Raidiohead “In Rainbows” review

Ah, writing about Radiohead. It’s the right of passage for any wannabe internet journalist or music message board poster.

Forget about the “innovative” download release method. That whole thing was a gigantic cock tease, since people couldn’t even hear the album in it’s intended full sound quality unless they waited for the CD. The download scheme was pure marketing, and it created the media shitstorm they needed, since they no longer had a major label promotion budget. Now that I have the CD in hand, I’m glad to forget the whole thing ever happened.

So, this is the new Radiohead album. After 10 months, I finally feel I’ve had time to digest it and recognize some of it’s true character. Radiohead inevitably takes time to sink in for anybody. A listener’s affair with the band may initially start with rejection due to distaste for the surface elements of a given album, whether it be the schizo black mood clang and clatter of Amnesiac, the spectral hypnotics and swamp gas of Kid A, the wailing walls of OK Computer’s drama, or the subdued flavor and repetitive guitar chords of In Rainbows. No matter, the fascination will always remain, desire to solve the mystery of the band’s appeal churning below the surface.

Fans of the band, when describing their musical effect, often use powerful and evocative imagery such as “Oh, yeah! I like Radiohead! I definitely dig their…sound! They’re just so…so…I don’t know! I hear they’re AMAZING live!”. I’m not sure I can do any better.

When the In Rainbows download was released in October 2007 (followed by the CD in January), it had been four and a half years since Hail To The Thief was released, their longest development period between albums. People thought 3 years was a long time to wait between OK Computer and Kid A, this was an even more unbearable stretch. Unlike that recording timeframe, though, this new one did not result in experimentation or the destruction and reconceptualization of the band’s sound. In Rainbows is, more or less, ten rock songs with light interwoven electronic elements.

Instead of the sprawling, wildly inconsistent Hail To The Thief, this is streamlined and efficient, traveling in a perfect straight line. This isn’t the band that succeeded in bursting open rock music from within. The dust has settled, only the bare open spaces and empty frames of houses remain.

At first, it doesn’t sound like enough. I couldn’t tell if they were purposely holding back more than they revealed, or if they lost sight of their trajectory and landed on Earth to settle down. Eventually, one starts to see arcing lines connecting between the songs, hanging them on display, changing their meaning by spatial relation to each other. It starts out seemingly unfinished, until the blank half of the canvas is filled in mentally. The abstract is, by design, the only way to accurately describe or perceive Radiohead.

It’s just barely enough. The first half is far superior, with 15 step, All I Need, Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, and Nude supplying the real emotional fix. The rest of the songs feel like they just want to have a lovely chat, not pour out their hearts.

“Videotape” is an exception, standing alone from the rest, with small digital pops and taps playing tricks on themselves and chasing behind their own rhythm until they collapse and roll down the hill. It’s the most startling composition of the lot, and serves to recontextualize the entire album. Maybe there was more to this than I thought, you’ll want to say. The song sounds like it wants to spiral out forever, but it’s cut short just as the leap over the abyss is taken. Is “In Rainbows” about being happy with what you have, not what could be?

(The limited $75 deluxe version included an 8-song, 27 minute long bonus disc of songs left off the main album. Just torrent it, since theres no other option except E-Bay.)

If you play the discs back to back in their intended order, the chords of Videotape fade into the pleasantly atmospheric puff piece of Mk1. That becomes “Down Is The New Up”, another “1984″ slogan of a song, no doubt clipped from the In Rainbows running order because it’s subject matter resembles “2+2=5″ from Hail To The Thief. Radiohead are notoriously consistent in their practice of cutting good songs from a new album because it resembles their past style in some way. The first example of this is the Bends b-sides on the My Iron Lung EP; they represented a bridge in style and songwriting between The Bends and Pablo Honey.

The rest of this disc consists of the mournful piano and minor shades the band has always specialized in, presented here in more straightforward and instantly gripping form.

The blunt prickly jangle of “Bangers And Mash” is potent as well. It could have been In Rainbows’ “Electioneering”, whether or not that’s a good thing depends on the day of the week. It’s the most prominent song on the bonus disc, making frequent concert and live video appearances.

Overall, this bonus disc has the same weight of substance as the “Airbag/How Am I Driving?” EP, with a similar trcklist structure as well. A few songs, taken individually, are even stronger than much of “In Rainbows”, though they would have shaken the album’s fragile balance if included. Radiohead didn’t want anything to distract from the primary mission of “In Rainbows”, which is…well, I have no idea. If I did, this wouldn’t be Radiohead. Now, to compulsively listen to the album a few more times to decide if I really like it or not.

Newport Folk Festival- Part 1

An experience like the Newport Folk Festival is difficult to quantify. It’s a collision of tourists, logistical nightmares, gorgeous weather, live music of wildly varying quality, and the lawns of historical landmark Fort Adams. Despite being a Newport resident for years, circumstance and work schedules have conspired to keep me from attending until this year. Was it fate, or something far more sinister that called me to the water’s edge this day?

Let’s start with the general setup of the festival. Sunday had 16 bands, spread across 3 simultaneous stages. Depending on how you managed your time, you would experience between 3 and 4 1/2 hours of music for your 90$. Out of all of Sunday’s artists, I believe only Jimmy Buffet could command over 30$ for a ticket. Any way you divide it up, you are paying a hefty Festival Tax.

As for the “worth” of the ticket, I came away satisfied, having seen Over The Rhine in my hometown in a gorgeous relaxed setting. I was also surprised by an unexpectedly great Gillian Welch set, so I discovered a new musical love as well. In the end, I left more full with musical spirit than when I had arrived. If anything is worth $90 , that is.

Unfortunately, there’s a rather large drawback to the entire experience. Every band except Jimmy Buffet had only an hour to perform. For a festival that runs from 12:30PM to 7:15PM, this is nothing short of ridiculous. The whole concept of an afternoon festival with this many bands is inevitably self defeating.

Extending the festival by 90-120 minutes would have given each band (except the OurStage contest winners that began at 12:30) time for a full 90 minute set, instead of a 60 minute one. After 60 minutes, most bands are just beginning to settle into a comfortable groove. Additional time is essential for the build and flow of a set, and to tie the whole experience together. Why bring all these bands out here, then cut their time just short of what’s needed to make a full impression? A set isn’t just something you can chop up and squeeze into a schedule, it needs room to breath, to make it’s purpose known, to sink in.

The sun sets at about 8pm this time of year in Newport. Having the festival end an hour before is a huge missed opportunity. The afternoon was beautiful and clear blue, but it would have been an amazing sight as the clouds turned colors above the high stone walls of Fort Adams. The true potential of this mixture of atmosphere and music was unfulfilled.

How was the atmosphere? What was the crowd like? If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was at the beach. Every inch of the main stage lawn was completely overtaken by the time I arrived at 1pm. Beach blankets, lawn chairs, screaming babies. A thousand indifferent faces blankly gazing out towards the stage as if it was just the tide rolling in.

The harbor at the edge of the lawn was swarmed with yachts, sailboats, and dudes in inner tubes. They floated expectantly, bellies bloated with Budweiser. They cared not what they saw and heard, for all intents and purposes, they were in self induced comas until the 6pm headliner set. It was going to be a hell of a long wait for Jimmy Buffet, but they were ready. My only question is (If I were among the Lei Legion), if I started drinking Dark n’ Stormys at noon, will I still be awake when the Margarita Messiah shines his light upon me?

This being a “festival”, there were a hundred booths selling Sally’s Shitty Seashell Jewelry and dijuridos. For food, the choice was binary. Fried dough or Ben n’ Jerry’s? I opted for the hidden third choice: the whiskey my friend smuggled in.

The portable toilets were not magical portals to another world, as I had been led to believe, but I did encounter a creature of sorts. Upon entering the cramped dank dark blue plastic closet, I was surprised to find it was already occupied by a Jewish Mud Golem sleeping in a dirty little hole. Any illusions I may have had about the progress of modern human society were promptly shattered. We all still shit together in the same hole. It’s not a very deep hole, either, so get ready to become intimately familiar with your neighbor’s insides.

These massive public gatherings tend to bring out the animal side in all of us. Everyone’s sticky stinking and sweaty, stranded away from the comforts of home, equipped only with what items you can carry. The beach towel is laid out to mark lawn territory. Unfortunately, I didn’t see anyone pissing on their spot to ward off marauders.

No crazy characters were encountered, only a few mildly eccentric hippies doing some kind of terrifying unidentifiable 60s dance. In fact, as seemingly one of the only people there that had come to rock out to some music, I felt like the big weirdo. I mean, I am a big weirdo by normal standards, but at a music festival I expect to be humbled by an array of jesters, jerks, and grotesque delights. Nope, just baby boomers here.

(Next: Newport Folk Festival impressions part deux: Over The Rhine)