What we talk about when we talk about love.

In an earlier life, when I was younger but mostly like the person I am today, I sent this poem to a girlfriend:

Prayer to Shadows on My Wall (source)
Mark McMorris

Soon the rush-lights will go out in the flesh
of sympathetic bodies once close to my own hand
and I will go to my hammock, thinking of little
except the numbness that alone makes bearable
the wind's twisting. I want atoms to separate
like hairs or dust onto the heads of my daughters.
I want to violate the edict that traps my hunger
in cages and away from her rough shoulder
and once to be enough for this and all the loves
that flicker through my bedroom before sleep.
They keep me awake, and tonight they are fierce
as whips or as needles to make the skin crawl.
I want to drift like the poui in a southerly wind
and settle where I need to before the faces erode,
my appetite of iron caulking the egg-shell heart.


A couple days later she sent me this poem in response:

Some Days in the City (source)
Mark McMorris

Some days, the sky descends to the level of mid-thigh water
the clock-hands come loose, and language is a skiff
over land through the rhythm of your breathing, girl
then I can hear the pink oriole, the body is a metronome
of blood and syllables beating placentas of speech
and news tingles like a caress of words still to be spoken:

umbrellas, bracelets, sleepers in doorways, police and victim--

I wind these objects to strike my human self dead
so as to taste the massy hive, the bloom and sounds
following my spending to gather up the pennies, kisses
meant for you, lost in transit, I follow my own kisses
to rooms in European cities, to the bottom of a shot glass

like a piece of economy flung about the streets
I spit pronouns, you fall from my lips, bewildered
I fall to the tracks, a suicide, a trembling drunk at
Du Pont and this day is a book left ajar, next to the rain.


This exchange only recently occurred to me. My impulse is of course to put these poems in dialogue: as if they are some kind of prophecy, that this girlfriend and I were speaking through someone else’s words, more eloquent than our own.

I revisit McMorris’s poems a lot, the same ones usually. I’m floored by the rhythm of his images, his words as vehicles for a tremendously calculated stream of consciousness that can be at once calamitous and desolate. Each image is interrupted by the next, each thought is amplified just as it’s articulated. Lost in these pulses, I return to these poems like they are songs stuck in my head but I can’t make out the lyrics. Like the final line in Prayer, a weak heart mended by the heaviest desire, my infatuation with McMorris’s poems comes from consistently feeling puzzled by them, a satisfaction in absence.

In Some Days, McMorris reminds us that language fails us not just in poetry but also in the real world, like the “clock-hands” unable to point to the time. “Some days,” words lose their power of distinction, of classification: broken barometers leaving us with that watery biblical mess: nothing is imbued with meaning because nothing is (yet) distinguished. In a romantic way, that is. McMorris finds himself only able to talk around things, not about them: “umbrellas, bracelets,” only “a caress of words,” scratching the surface.

Which brings me back to this girlfriend. I sent her a poem about severe wanting, the articulation and the drive of that longing. And she sent me back one about the pain of attainment and the inability to classify and to process. And maybe there’s no common ground between these two scenarios. Maybe these were just two ideas exchanged because they shared an author and some pretty words. Or maybe they refer to a similar sentiment, a same motive of desire.

I’ve been thinking lately about how we express love. From emails in a young relationship to how I write a birthday card to my mom. How can I say what I want to say without saying it? Or because I’m not saying it?

Uncertain how to tie up these thoughts, here’s one more, much simpler poem that I exchanged with this girlfriend, this one from a much more well-known poet.

Love (source)
Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if her were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

-----------------

Links:
Audio of McMorris Readings
BUY the super-dope The Blaze of the Poui
Springsteen plays 4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy), in Passaic, NJ, 1978.


-asher.

Cobwebs In the Closet #1: Unwound

Unwound is quite possibly the greatest BAND I've ever listened to, a mercurial aural juggernaut whose remarkable ten-year career saw each record deftly navigating between extremes of volume, rhythm, melody, and texture. I came to the group off a vague recommendation from a friend and a half-remembered review from Tower Records' free in-store magazine (remember Pulse!? Adorable!). This was 2001, the year Unwound put out their masterful swansong Leaves Turn Inside You and subsequently announced that their next tour would be their last. I had the mixed blessing of never getting to see the band live, the tradeoff being I had their glorious, full catalogue sitting before me, just waiting to be swallowed whole by my still-soft teenage brain. And I was totally blown away.

But it was that confused state of wonder where you're in love with something a little dangerous, a little esoteric, a little intimidating, and thoroughly sexy. I really didn't think I'd ever heard music like this before. Naturally, one could say their affinity for prolonged, feedback-laden, "what the fuck?"-eliciting dirges had its antecedents in Sonic Youth, and sure, their devastatingly beautiful, arpeggiated interludes could also be traced to Sonic Youth. But really, Unwound was speaking its own kind of Esperanto. I'd never listened to a band whose sound, with each record, grew...a lot. Earlier tracks like "Hexenzsene," and the 14-minute gem "Valentine Card/Kantina/Were, Are And Was Or Is" experimented with explosive, anthemic choruses and oh-so-quiet passages bathed in cymbal wash and gentle guitar patterns. And then, unpredictably, their middle period found the band exploiting insistent grooves as a newfound counterpoint to their tense repetition, as in the 1996 track "Corpse Pose." Finally, in 2001, after disappearing into the Washington state backwoods for two years to build a studio and record an album, they put out their final, most dense, and unrecognizable record Leaves Turn Inside You, a double album comprised of Eno-like soundscapes, William Faulkner references, and an 11-minute Led Zeppelin knock-off.

For about three years, before I began my still-hopeless cathexis with TV On the Radio, I was convinced that this was the greatest rock record ever made. It was so utterly singular and so totally remarkable listening to their first records, and then finally ending up with this. It seemed they'd even written a pop song, just as a sort of "bet you didn't think we could do this either" (the lovably hummable and slightly funky "Demons Sing Love Songs"). Now I'm older and a little less attracted to hyperbole, so I wouldn't say it's the greatest rock record ever, but I don't shirk away from saying it's still a mind-blowing album that (thankfully) rewards with time.

The past few years I took a break from Unwound, becoming more attracted by the idea of loving a lot of bands rather than championing one. And as I became slightly more politicized than my 15 year-old self, I'd pay special attention artists who were manufacturing mind-bending sounds while at the same time weaving thoughtful, "socially conscious" narratives in their lyrics (like Parts & Labor, have you listened to "The Gold We're Digging"?!). However vague the words may have been, I for some reason appreciated their intent. And when I decided to write about Unwound, I thought about how their words weren't as like-mindedly convicted as Parts & Labor, or TVOTR, or Fugazi. In the definitive Unwound interview, guitarist/singer/lyricist Justin Trosper openly talks about his lyrics being more "wordplay" than anything else. And I remember being offended by that. For so long I'd been totally invested in Unwound's strange, cynical yet strangely profound lyrics (ex: "The drawback/To living/Is finding yourself"). And to hear them dismissed as "wordplay" negated everything that felt legitimate to me at the time. But now I'm realizing that Trosper never said his words didn't have meaning or significance, because if nothing else, they were huge for me. And in my book, that's a giant check-plus written in fat black sharpie.

These days I don't hear much about Unwound apart from a few gigs producing bands at their Mag Rec One studio. Drummer Sara Lund was recently one of the awesome 77 drummers at the Boredoms' 77 Drum performance. Bassist/singer Vern Rumsey has had a couple of projects of his own (Long Hind Legs, Red Rumsey) that have put out a few records. And rumor has it that Justin Trosper stopped making music, unsure of whether or not he believes in music anymore as an expressive medium for him. Bummer, right?

Way back in 2001, when I finally "got" Leaves Turn Inside You, I kind of felt similarly, that this was the most supreme product of musical creation, that this was the end of music as we knew it and that there was no way anyone could cook up anything more substantial than this. Now I don't quite feel that way, but I recognize that for a long time the music was something otherworldly and illuminating to me, redefining what seemed possible to my young mind. And I'd hope that maybe that'd be reason enough for Justin Trosper to keep doing something he did so well for so long.

Even if it is just wordplay.

~ Ashraf



Unwound - Hexenzsene (CLICK TO DOWNLOAD)

Unwound - Corpse Pose (CLICK TO DOWNLOAD)

Unwound - Demons Sing Love Songs (CLICK TO DOWNLOAD)

Change (Sort of)

Change is the word. “Change You Can Believe In.” “Change is necessary.” “History of Change.” “Candidate of Change.” Change is in. The hot new fashion brought to you by political advisers and media pundits. Change is hip. It’s like wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt. Yes, revolution is at hand.

My, how we’ve changed. Just think of the semantic weight of change today compared to that of four years ago. In Bush v. Kerry, change was the dirtiest of words. Bush argued against changing horses mid-stream, and he labeled Kerry a flip-flopper (i.e. one who changes). Change lost Kerry the election. And now it’s supposed to win one? Who’s flip-flopping now? But that’s fashion. It’s like switching from bellbottoms to tapered leg. It’s like moving to Brooklyn after decades of moving out of it. It’s like liking 80s pop music again.

And yet, America hasn’t quite come to fall into the fashion of change completely. According to the candidates, we can change healthcare, taxes, social security, the economy, parties, politics, moral standing. We can change anything and everything except for one thing: our minds. The looming danger of falling into the pit of flips and flops hangs over the head of every candidate (and ultimately over every politician who ever votes or makes a statement on anything). We want change, but not from someone who has changed. We want a one-track change, but the idea of change on any track is absurd. We are our own examples: in 2004, America voted to stay the course and in 2008 America wants something new (whether Democrat or Republican). We’ve changed our minds for “positive” progression (positive of course being a subjective term) to follow a new fashion, a better fashion, a more current fashion.

We are fashionable people. We demand specific cuts, colors, and brands every season. We are easily impressed with the new. We want to stay ahead of the curve of mediocrity. We progress. We learn. We should want the same from our representative. Talk about problems with our education system.

~josh

Interview #1: Laura Goldhamer

First of all: yes, that is her real name. And if it makes you conjure up images of an indefatigable ax-slinger of mighty import, you'd be right, because Laura Goldhamer is a creative powerhouse. In May 2006, as part of her final college senior recital, she put on a sprawling performance of original work that thematically wove a full live band playing original songs with animations (a skill she taught herself in the preceding months), fully choreographed dances (on skis!), and a fierce, fierce audience coloring competition. Titled Ye Old Leave Behind, Goldhamer later culled her original material together into a unique CD-DVD package that can't quite be called an album, nor can it quite be called a musical, but it certainly is a thorough, conceptualized work that uses its multiple media to meditate on the ever-fascinating and perpetually perplexing politics of getting older.

For the past year, Laura's been writing, animating, and performing in her hometown of Denver, Colorado. She is also now the founder, head curator, and sole tenant of Brooks Center Arts Underground Teahouse, a DIY venue situated in the basement of the Brooks Center For Spirituality, a non-denominational church and spirituality center in central Denver. Last week, Laura took some time out before playing a show to talk to us about how she conceptualized Ye Old Leave Behind, her increasing interest in creating multi-media, space-specific work, and her plans for the future of Denver's DIY music and arts scene.

Thanks to Brian Carney for allowing us to use his photographs, and of course, thanks again to Laura for her generosity. She has plenty more work to check out HERE.

~Ashraf
........................................................................................................................................................

NewFlags: Do you wanna talk about how Ye Old Leave Behind started in your head?

Laura Goldhamer: I guess the whole album and animation work that I had done up until the point of graduating from college was geared toward my senior recital performance. I'd been playing with a blues band for a while, and I wanted to somehow connect that with what I was doing more "contemporarily," with cello and more experimental, quirkier instrumentation and meters and other things. All these songs were written within two years of that senior recital performance, so I was trying to cohere them. Then I wrote that song "Ye Old Leave Behind." It was initially a classical string quartet assignment. I started playing its riff and writing that instrumental stuff for the assignment, and I actually thought of the title for that senior show before finishing the song. I needed a title, and I was thinking "Where am I gonna do it?" and "What do I want the title to be?" the show was to be in the old cinema at school that had kinda been left behind by the construction of the new, high-tech university cinema.

I was just kind of, I think, feeling for that space, in terms of both being a little bit obsolete and also a little bit forgotten about and still totally functional, utilizable…except for the fucking leak in the roof! It was raining the night of the recital, and it was like waterfalls from the light fixtures! But, anyway, here's the cinema, this kind of a neglected thing, and me wanting to make a concert that really took into account the setting in which it was to take place, a space-specific performance. I think that acts are put together in order to be toured across the country and across the world, and to be able to be transplanted wherever, sometimes insensitively to the setting in which a touring musician is going, where you just roll into town before a show, go to the venue, put on the show, and leave the next morning. It's not connected to the place. So I guess I was thinking about that and trying to be space-specific with the title of the show, with the last words of the show (and song), "ye old leave behind."

NF: Well, I was listening again to Ye Old Leave Behind, and I was feeling like it was a very apt album for someone who was about to graduate.

LG: Yeah. If I can remember that far back (laughs), I remember the title resonated with kind of moving on, or time periods, and that change and progression. I pretty much put the songs in the chronological order in which I wrote them – not entirely, but pretty much. And I was thinking a lot at the time, in terms of the title and in terms of arranging it, about time periods and moving on from them, and change over time. Especially starting with the blues band stuff, because that's something that I was into for a while, and, I mean, I still love that shit, it's powerful! But I started wanting to move on from that blues rock band format – drums, guitar, keys, and bass. I just wanted to, you know, explore from there and change. So then it kind of gets more kind of strange and out there as the album goes on (laughs). So yeah I love thinking about Ye Old Leave Behind in terms of time periods and moving on from college, as a large transitional step.

I think also, though, it's been a funny tension for me because I am very conscious of that title and moving on and changing the emphasis and stuff, but I still perform to those animations! You know, it's very much a part of my repertoire now, in different configurations. I think it's funny being a year-and-a-half out of college and still being very much invested in that repertoire and that work I did really methodically. It's an interesting tension. I'm making new stuff, I'm writing new songs, I'm gonna be doing a new animation to this Humpty-Dumpty song that I wrote recently (laughs), but I'm still using all that old, not-so-left-behind stuff.

NF: One thing that seems to be a constant in your lyrics is that you're always more or less acknowledging that things are really complex. There's always at least two kinds of meanings, in your words. So, for example, in your song "No Ability", you're kind of talking about how everyone is intertwined in being both a victim and a victimizer, not necessarily in those terms, but participants in a complicated dynamic.

LG: Yeah, I've been having trouble sometimes articulating what "No Ability" is about, because I think I was more engrossed in each of the specific references and knew what I was trying to say. And actually, tonight I'm playing my friend Carolina’s graduation party. She's graduating with an art degree, and she's done a lot of cool works in terms of addressing political and social inequity in her sculptures, and anyway, blah blah blah, moral of the story is I'm playing at her graduation party tonight and she asked me to play "No Ability." She called me the other night and wanted to talk in depth and analyze those lyrics and so I looked back at them and explained to her what I could but I also couldn't really expose every reference or each density.

NF: That's why you wrote the song.

LG: Yeah, that's kind of why I wrote the song. And it seems like it would be kinda bomb if the song either spoke for itself consciously or spoke for itself unconsciously, like, the melody and the lyrics and the intonations, the inflections of my voice, if all those things combined to access someone's both conscious mind and unconscious mind. You know, they can't consciously explain what every line is about, but maybe through the music, which I think music has a tendency to do, it can access the subconscious mind and you can't explain every little bit about it and why, but it touches you and you understand what it's saying even though you can't explain it.

NF: What did you have in mind when you started animating your songs?

LG: Sometimes my mom would say "great songs, but I can't understand what you're saying." I wondered if even enunciating better would get my words across. That's when I started thinking towards not just communicating my lyrics vocally, because you know people learn in different ways: some people are kinesthetic learners, some people are visual learners, some people are aural learners. So I started getting into the idea of conveying my lyrics with very specific images that I have in my mind when singing them and actually conveying them visually through animations, so, that's what I think I was doing, or trying to do, with that.

NF: So how did that play out in, for example, the "Lion" song and animation? I was thinking specifically about this stanza and what was going on in the animation:

in church I would be embarrassed
like foreigners in Paris
everything is heresy
cause I've got faith in modern science
an error not to've tried it
find proof it's miraculous
one cell soon to be divided
replica's been sighted
must have been enlightenment

LG: I guess there's a lot of double-entendres in the way I like to write, like, having multiple meanings or interpretations simultaneously. Like that enlightenment line just being one example: I'm talking about science vs. religion for a while and I'm holding those tensions in that song, and so "the enlightenment" is talking about both spiritual enlightenment within religion and the Enlightenment Period in history as a scientific sort of revolution. In my animation, at that specific point, the camera goes into a Petri dish and then the cell division stuff and then when it says "must have been enlightenment" I popped a little Buddha statue in the bottom of that Petri dish having a little apple fall and hit the Buddha's head. So that's a little reference to both the religious elements of the song and then also to Sir Isaac Newton. That's just talking about that example.

I think that doing animation and video is really cool and accessible and marketable as a product because it's two-dimensional. I think it's important to balance that marketability thing (laughs), the business side of things as I move forward into trying to make a living as a musician.

NF: Tell me more of what you're doing at the Brooks Center For Spirituality as the curator of the Brooks Center Arts.

LG: Well, I created this DIY venue of sorts – the Underground Teahouse – it's All-Ages and we ask for 3 to 5 dollars donation at the door. It's really low-key and comfortable. We've had some really great acts come through, both local ones and touring acts, we just had, two weeks ago – Adrian Orange & Her Band and the Watery Graves of Portland also. And Karl Blau came a couple months before. I'm trying slowly and organically to expand with the concerts and start putting on bigger shows in the Sanctuary Space upstairs – where there’s 600 seats, a balcony, a pipe organ, a grand piano – and bring in some big national acts.

NF: Like who?

LG: Hopefully in March, we'll initiate these big shows with Beirut. And you know Nick Zamudo of the Books was in town and was wanting to play in that space next time they tour. I think it's very conducive to national acts and I think the big space would eventually be on par with the First Unitarian Church in Philadelphia. That's one direction the Brooks Center wants me to go with my job in addition to doing outreach to let folks know what sort of rad classes and meditation groups the Spirituality Center has to offer.

So there's this complicated business side of running a venue, too. I'm just kind of scratching the surface with that – both appalled with the music business and intrigued by the music business. And to balance that with my own artistic sensibilities or trajectory and trying to build the community here, it's strange. It' s interesting, and it's really vibrant in Denver right now: you kind of gotta be savvy and wary and trusting and loving of it all at the same time, you know?

Laura Goldhamer - "No Ability" (CLICK TO DOWNLOAD)


"Lion" Original Video