tears of a clown

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." - Steve Jobs

"I want you to know that you haven't lived until you've fought back, that you haven't won until you've lost, that you can't understand what it's like to relish something until you've suffered, and that some mistakes you never stop paying for"- Roy Hobbs

Remembering Reagan

I've curbed much of my political ranting for a shorter, more frequent Twitter posting (@lowbrowpolitics) but if this blog is going to be what I'm thinking, I can't quit politicing for good. This month, Time Magazine is remembering Reagan. The cover would have you believe its a big comparison between He and President Obama, but its only one article. The rest is in reference to the centennial.

While most of the writing is political, his Daughters piece is deeply personal, and whatever you think of the man, its worth a read...

Several years into my father's journey down the narrowing road of Alzheimer's, when he was still going out for walks, I looped my arm through his one afternoon and walked with him along a leafy street near my parents' home. A few people recognized him, waved and called out, "Hello, Mr. President" and "God bless you." He smiled and waved back. Then he looked at me, confused, and asked, "Do I know them?"

No, Dad, I said. "They recognized you and wanted to say hello." He looked even more perplexed. "But how do they know me?"

I already knew his memory of being President had been extinguished. He remembered ice skating as a boy and swimming in the Rock River in summer but not his impact on the country and the world. I didn't want to add to his confusion. "They've seen you walking here," I told him. He smiled, and his eyes lit up. "That's very sweet of them," he said. "They're nice people."

Moments like that revealed what was most essential about my father — his graciousness, his kindness toward others, his gratitude and his humility. Even at the end, Alzheimer's didn't kill those qualities, although it killed a lot.

I often imagine what it would be like if my father were still here to mark his 100th birthday, if Alzheimer's hadn't clawed away years, possibilities, hopes. What would he think of all the commemorations and celebrations?

Basically a humble man, he'd be embarrassed, I suspect, although certainly flattered. He would cover his emotions with a joke — probably something about George Burns' living to 100 and how he just couldn't let George get all the glory for making it that far. I'm sure he'd be disappointed in the meanness of politics these days yet amused by all the politicians trying to adhere themselves to his legacy, even aiming to be "the next Ronald Reagan." He'd probably suggest, with a twinkle in his eye, that they should figure out who they are as individuals and be the best at that.

But most of all, I imagine spending time with him as a daughter — and his allowing the residue of my rebellious years and the hurt I caused him to blow away like dust, maybe with a bit of humor, since I did manage to snag his attention by being the bad girl. I'd like to ask him if he was ever really fooled by me.

I'd also like to ask him about the nearsighted boy he once was, whose father frequently disappeared on drinking binges so severe he'd pass out, often miles from home. Maybe my father would finally open up to me about the uncertainty and the waiting ... and the fear.

Yet he had no fear, and I wish more than anything I could sit with him by a window in the dying light of day and ask him about that. How did you come from where you came from and learn to be so confident? How did you learn to trust so completely in your faith that fear didn't stand a chance? I want to tell him I remember the nights when I was a child and he traced the constellations for me, showing me Pegasus and Orion. I want to tell him that even though light-years came between us later on, I never stopped believing he hung the moon.

My father's body lies in a stone tomb high on a hill. People walk by, pause, think their own thoughts about him and move on, back to their own lives. I can never move on. He is everywhere. I know you think I mean publicly, especially now that he would have been 100 years old. And in part, I do mean that. But what I really mean is, he lives in me on the edge of dreams. He lives in the regrets that burden me and the sweet memories that keep me afloat. There was a moment, midway through the Alzheimer's years, when I was leaving my parents' house and I said to him, "Bye. I love you." His eyes opened wide in surprise and he said, "Well, thank you. Thank you so much." He had no idea who I was. He was startled and typically gracious about another human being's telling him she loved him. I don't know if I will ever reach that level of grace, but I'm grateful for having been born to a man who did.

Until the last three years of his life, when he became bedridden, he carried in his pocket a coin that says "Let go and let God." I keep it now in a box on my dresser. I don't know where he got it, but I'm guessing someone handed it to him when he was out walking and he looked at the message on it and thought of how lovely it was and how he related to it. Every day after that, he put it in his pocket — as a talisman, perhaps, but also to remind him of a stranger's kindness.

He was not a perfect man. He was not a perfect father. But he tried to reach higher, to understand what God wanted of him. He was a unique person who carved out a unique place in history. I sat beside him as he died. And now he sits inside my heart as I live my life, without him but with him.


Read more: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,2044468,00.html#ixzz1CosN8T5Z

A father is an interesting thing in America. You often here that people weren't close to their father, and the relationship was never close. But they have a way of loving after they're gone, as if their echo in history lingers, holding us best through a post mortem example, as if their presence is an heirloom which is handed down and carried on until we pass on ourselves, and pass along our small spin on an otherwise enduring legacy.

The narrative of feel...

To parry rhetorical idiocy, lets not use a genre here, but instead I’m just going to put 5 songs down, and say that sound equals genre X, where X = a word I will make up soon.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Down Boy
Arcade Fire – Ready to Start
TV on the Radio – Blues from Down here
The National – Blood Buzz Ohio
Decemberists – And here I dreamt I was an architect

This genre, which I’ll attempt to put into words, should be called (for the sake of this article) Menthol-Indie because I feel like it. Moving on.

Maybe its because I live in a city known for lobster and sub-arctic wind chill. Or maybe its because I’m keen on lament, but this style of music creates an environment, so closely resembling abandoned city streets in winter, I can’t help myself but try and draw the parallel.

I think Phil Spector is over-hyped and what he contributed was, at best, benign to the times. But his philosophy, while boring in concept is amazing in practice. The wall of sound with the least amount of instruments possible (Somewhere in here, Andy Warhol becomes the creator, but I’m not entirely sure where, and its not essential for this ramble) essentially creates white noise, and with some percussion, melody, and narrative in front of it, makes it the backdrop of a person lost in the world, contemplating the finer details of “why the hell am I here?”

What we get in life is often background noise, car horns, engines rumbling, trains roaring by, planes, dogs, one-sided cell phone conversation and any number of small ticks; insects, clocks, technologies constant reminders that they’re waiting for us. This serves no purpose to the individual, and in a musical sense, it would not effect (or shouldn’t, outside the schizophrenic mind, a purpose to narrative.) If it hasn’t been made obvious yet, I’m making the connection between the individual and the narrative, which should be clear to begin with, but its being pitched differently here.

What this white noise may come to represent, if it wasn’t the intention to begin with is the innumerate life teeming beyond the individual which, when already in a position of indirection, may only further the idea that life goes on without, therefore, what’s your purpose?

But beyond our teen angst and depression, these instances are less an overall characteristic of the individual, and more a characteristic of an event: a break-up, a parent dying, rejection, and unemployment. Could white noise, in the adult mind (or narrative) be the chaos that comes with the myriad of responsibilities throw into havoc when something like this comes? Ignore for a minute whether or not it does. Hear me out…

The device (Wall of Sound), when viewed as a device, seems to suggest to us the interpreter that the chaos marches in a lock-step uniformity; that chaos must represent “the other” by virtue of its consistency, and lack of relationship to the listener. When applied to any narrative, this follows a logical literary pattern of Person v. Environment, which is a traditional Antagonist. Traditionally, this is found in Drama not Comedy (literal sense) but music, and especially that which could be considered post-industrial (society, not music) seems to suggest a comedic effect in so far as there is no resolution. The white-noise, chaos of the Wall of Sound is a constant, something the Protagonist lives with and grows increasingly familiar with. Have you ever heard the Wall of Sound used in a staccato capacity? Neither have I, and I’m not even sure how you would pull it off, but lets forget that for a second.

What this style says about chaos, which was traditionally considered the opposite of self (the other) , is that it becomes a familiarity. If we look to the alternative of the post-industrial society, its generally rural, where all noises come with nature, and therefore has a very logical connection to a given person. People hunt, fish, farm, and live in the environment, which are at least a few degrees away from direct relations. But in the city, too much “environmental” factors have little or nothing to do with anyone else. The consumer order is sharply divided. I saw 3 news helicopters today. While the argument for benefiting the individual could be there, if it wasn’t our lives wouldn’t be so much different (do we really need to know about a traffic jam after the fact?).

A few paragraphs back I wondered if the familiarity with noise is the immediate stress of the responsibility and it’s new found immediacy. What I think we’ve tripped over in between is that its less the immediacy, but the presence of all things that must exist in order for a City-Society to function. That is, theres a butterfly effect that occurs to me if the Traffic-Copter isn’t out that day, even if its effects are not felt directly. In finality, the wall of sound seems to operate within the narrative as a sort of societal feedback. One that doesn’t suggest a wish to return to a rural life, but the pressure cooker of demands in a metropolitan lifestyle, and beyond this, the ever growing coldness that comes with or all too familiar relationship with it.

Its said of New York City, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. If we funnel this through out musical filters, I think Menthol musicians would argue its because a grave disinterested attitude is not created by a personal interest, but a necessary interest in survival. Essentially, the Menthol guitarist, with his reverbed out instrument asks us, “Do you really think Deluth would have recovered from 9/11 as quickly as NYC did?” For too many albums, they’ve been telling us the answer is “no.”

Growing Old in Boston

I love this city, but is a bitch socially.

First of all, its a college town. Sometimes thats a great thing, and sometimes its an atrocity, but once you've graduated, you've got 2 years before you start feeling like a skeezy old man who's just hung around too long. You know the guys. Graduated UMass Amherst in 2001, and made the big move to North Hampton for the rest of their lives. I'm never bothered by it but now that I get the feeling its what I'm doing, I keep getting depressed.

What was local about Boston is being gerrymandered and overpriced out of town. The Big Dig took a chunk out of too many neighborhoods, and whats left is condo's full of Yuppies. To imagine what sort of hell this takes like, imagine an old city forced to be Manhattan by a bunch of genetic researchers. Sounds like the worst dinner party you've ever been invited to, right? Yeah well it is. Search Stuff @ Night Boston to get photos of what vapid feels like when everyones got a Masters Degree.

I also despise the sampled attitude many former residents have if they'd gone to college here. "Oh Boston, yeah I lived there when I went to BU. Its nice but its just too small for me." Did you live here? Is is too small?

Hot tip to the once and future students of Boston. Getting ripped at a house party in brighton that someones parents were paying for, then talking loudly about how s/he never called you back, and throwing up on the B line does not constitute living here. Get off my god damned lawn.

With all this, I still hold out hope, that someday someones going to throw off the wet-carpet of progress this city is under and start making us a functional city. One with post-bar transit systems and a unique personality. With real bike lanes, a less shitty Christmas Tree Lighting ceremony and maybe some new traditions that put us on the map. Oh and maybe a landmark better than a PVC pipe bridge and a Gas Station sign. And maybe put JP on the map. Can ANYONE find that thing?

Fuck it, I'm running for Mayor.

Pride in the Name of Love

When I was 13, I walked from school along route 140 up to the train-tracks, turning down them behind a handful of nearly bankrupt businesses and those working class houses, cramped together and separated by only chain-link.

We'd sold a car to one of the auto-body shops there once, and my father paced anxiously for a week because he'd left a house key tucked behind the dome light. He always thought we were going to be burgled. We lived in the depths of the woods, 6 miles from town, and had 2 dogs. I remember once, when my mother had french doors installed in the back of the house, he told me how a good criminal would just kick them in the center where neither supported the other enough to stop a decent impact. They'd just walk around the house, drop-kick the doors in, and walk off with all of our things. I can't imagine what they've had taken, but still here we were, trying to explain to him that a bunch of mechanics at some podunk Mineke weren't bothered to come out here and try and take a TV they probably had in their own home.

Walking the tracks one day I'd seen the car sitting there in the back of the parking lot, peering over the hill. I'd snuck up to the lot and heard a few folks in the bay, quickly grabbed the key and headed out. Later that night I'd told him of what I'd done and produced the key.

He was an odd man anyway. Once, I got screamed at for a good 3 hours for leaving beard trimmings in the sink in the same week my brother was picked up by the police in the town over for several violations, one of which was trespassing. I've made the deans list, been promoted, made successful career changes, worked on successful political campaigns, and completed triathlons and marathons.

Nothing has yet to top that god damned house key.

A Review of Tom Wait's Bone Machine

Released September 8, 1992
Recorded Prairie Sun Recording, Cotati, California
Genre: Rock, Experimental
Length: 53:30
Label: Island
Producer: Tom Waits

In some ways, Waits is like Dickens or Shakespeare in that his catalogue is long enough, and large enough to have phases, style changes, and growth. In the burgeoning subcultures of artist-followings that wax and wane with the tumult of generational changes; the slothing off of the old and the induction of the new, and the cultural changes that form the prism through which we view things, albums, novels, plays, and films often see their own peaks and valleys over the coarse of time. Certain works age well, some don’t. There are innumerate factors as to why something falls out of fashion and why it comes back into favor but nothing is better than the debates about the value of these albums among the faithful. This leads me to Bone Machine.

Bone Machine is what many regard as the 1992 masterpiece of Waits, often cited as inspiration by acts (though without expression in their music) and heralded as a top 3 in the overall timeline. It also happened to be an album I never quite understood. Why its critical acclaim was so high, especially in hindsight, never jived with me. Its not to say that Bone Machine isn’t good, but, well lets start from the top…

If you’re standing at the bottom of 2010, reflecting back on a careers worth of music from Tom Waits, its hard to see how Bone Machine trumps his Big 3; The Heart of Saturday Night, Raindogs, and Mule Variations. That isn’t my opinion, that’s generally the critical worlds analysis save for those few institutions that pay their bills on contrarian’s smugness.

For one thing, its got one of the stronger consistencies of any album. The deviations on Bone Machine appear at the end, and you need to check back in with reality to make sure you haven’t immersed yourself too deeply in the album. One finds the difference of songs on albums like Bone Machine to be akin to that of the difference between bands in some tiny, “underderground” movement of a subgenre that enjoys its glory in the mouths of social renegades only to be relegated to the barging bins of ailing records stores in the far reaches of a nation, where big commercialism has yet to strangle the last vestiges of small business from the region. In short, only when it becomes all you listen to can you accurately sparse A from B.

Bone Machine also has the distinction of being a transitional record. Like Swordfishtrombones, Bone Machine stands on the cusp of an ethos redraft from the euro-centric vaudeville of the 80’s albums to the bitter and ragged Americana that came to embody the new century.

And forgetting all of this, it plays like the demo version of Mule Variations before it got cleaned up, rewritten, and had its plotlines revisited and sharpened.

At this point it probably looks like I hate the album, and think it sucks. Its understandable, but understand this is a preliminary vision, and if anything, a warning against approaching the album incorrectly. As I said at the top, albums are often reborn with new cultural understanding.

What Bone Machine does very well, and is its strongest attribute, is that it builds a world for its listener. Earlier I cited Dickens and Shakespeare, but for Bone Machine it might be more appropriate to cite Faulkner. Waits albums are often full of a cast of characters sprawling across the world; Raindogs has Sailors in Singapore, Soldiers in World War 2, and a bunch of guys hanging out in Union Square (presumably New York’s US). Heart of Saturday Night finds people in Wisconsin, San Diego, and the Moon. But Bone Machine is Faulkner because these characters are all in the same little town, if not in words, than certainly in musical accompaniment.

Where it is can be hard to tell, but as critics are want to do, we can look at the first track, “The Earth Died Screaming”, and surmise that towns might be irrelevant in the post-apocalyptic universe that these characters inhabit. And in this world, the music is lower than backwoods, in many ways its scrap yard. I use that word to help us understand, but to the characters, music might have to come from what you find laying in the rubble, organized scrap yards might be a thing of the past.

The music is coarser and darker than anything prior, and even Mule Variations only matched it in moments. The only album able to match wits (or scraping metal as it were) with Bone Machine is Real Gone, and at least that album has a map associated with it. The lumbering stomp of In the Coliseum and the coconut trot of Earth Died Screaming seem to approach the idea of on coming doom with the slow torture of wait in different capacities. It suggest that it may come on us as a mob of society agreeing we should all be slaughtered for enjoyment, or that it will greet us at our lowest, when the world seems desolate, and for no one to find our corpse.

Even when Bone Machine does manage to dust itself off and make itself presentable to polite society, it busies itself by foraging in the dark recesses behind closed doors where culture is gone, and people are the real, raw monsters that hide behind corsets and makeup, suits and toupees. On Murder in the Red Barn, Waits visits the silence of rural inclusiveness, even in the face of unspeakable horror and goes so far to relate its culture to being numb to such trivialities (“there’s nothing strange about an axe with blood stains in the barn, there’s always some killin’ you got to do around the farm”). On Going out West, it would seem our protagonist was headed for LA, but given the album, we might wonder if his overall delusions allow him to believe there was an LA left.

In each, the production is expertly woven into the plot. Every piano bench creek, blown-out speaker, and missed noted remains in, giving the album all the character flaws that come with humanity, to the elements those instruments represent.

Bone Machine, in the end, is a strong album, albeit alien in concept to the overall discography and certainly to the albums preceding it. I can’t say where I rank, in fact, many consider my ranking outright backward to begin with, but lists are for the simple-minded. If we cannot explore each element, down to the note and see how it balances with the world around it, we will lose sight of what truly matters, that we are few things more than the world we place ourselves in, and the characteristics the world places on us.

To that end, maybe we shouldn’t review Bone Machine as an album in time, but a soliloquy in an act, within a play, describing not the person but an ethos on the creation of how Waits makes his overall albums. One dark and murky rant through a rusted out megaphone, about how if we don’t all pay attention, the oceans going to swallow us up whole. Then again, there are days where that’s a blessing, and sometimes the ocean doesn’t want you that day.

Unmarked Gravestone

Kate's really into her Irish roots. I didn't really know how to take that because I've got a long history of dealing with my "Irish-ness" thats a mixed bag. Primarily, I never flaunt it too heavily for two reasons:

1. When I was a child, maybe 9, I asked my dad what my nationalities were.

"Irish, Spanish, and English"

"Yeah but we're more Irish right?"

I had yet to figure out that what I was wasn't necessarily what my parents were, or in this case specifically what my father was. To call a spade a spade, at 9 I was displaying an ignorance that surfaced as unintentional racism. What I knew of being "Spanish" was kids in separate classrooms who couldn't speak English well, and who I, not knowing any other Spanish people in my classes, wanted to distance myself from. I knew some Irish kids, they were my friends. The Spanish kids were weird, and I wanted nothing to do with them. I can still remember being in the cab of my fathers pick up and hearing the hurt in his voice.

2. The other point is identity-less assholes who find a large population here in Boston and hop on the Irish bandwagon as if it was a conversation piece. Even if it is, people here who wear it on their sleeve and tell you about it through a megaphone know very little about their heritage and it ends up being a conversation something like this...

"you irish?"

"yeah well my mom's 75% ir..."

"Fuck yeah man! me too!"

"...cool"

So for these reason and a few other minor ones, its something I've carried as an issue of pride and pain. Maybe that's the Catholic in me.

But as I've grown up and read more, I've refined who I was and moreover what I was interested in and what I should be proud of. I'll never escape the fact that I've got a name and a face like a pale, paddy fuck. Going home once in 3rd grade I remember a teacher asking if I was Irish. She told me I looked more Irish than Paddy Murphy's pig.

But in the end I'm not Irish, and I never will be. My last name isn't and neither is my father. I'd never really squared with being "American" for much of my life until recently either. For one thing, I'd never really left the country (Montreal sorta counts) and therefore I was always surrounded my other Americans. The other reason is that I always saw people touting their American heritage as a token of elitism. You know the routine. Somehow America was better than other countries because we loved freedom or something like that. I always saw America's praise-singers as people who always tried to make it worse.

But as I've grown up and had my share of debate from each side of the political spectrum, I've realized that both the Left and Right are correct: America is a deeply flawed country with a not so honorable past, and yet we're still the only place I'd ever want to be.

For whatever it is, the horrors of America are why its great. They aren't to be ignored or admonished as the aisles would tell you, but to be embraced as a true and honest heritage that all groups must journey through when they come here. They came for a dream, existed in a nightmare, and their offspring came to be born in the fire that was the United States. I saw a shirt recently that probably didn't intend to be this deep, but it summed up my feelings very succinctly.

I was in Urban Outfitters and I saw this t-shirt with a Notorious B.I.G. picture on it. It was white with a screened on photo of the man as a child, sitting in a folding chair on this fallow patch of dirt somewhere in New York (most likely Brooklyn) and all it said, scrawled over the photo, was "it was all a dream." Lord knows how that was intended but as Ian has told me countless times, authors intent was irrelevant.

I took it as the very thing I've come to experience in my time of growing in America. That this country cares very little for its new groups, and its poor and maligned. For all we compared the Soviet Union to Sparta, and the U.S. to Athens, we're still a very Spartan nation. If America teaches anyone anything its that one must pry not only his wants, but his needs from the death grip of its ruling class. Failure to unify, to move together and dream will only be met with more of the brutal same.

I wrote awhile back in Immigrant Waves about how the current immigration debate mirrors the debates we've had since the country started. I think we should recall the point where our grandfathers came to America in search of gold roads and raining money and found collapsing tenements and an infant mortality rate of nearly 20% for people of their ancestry. But for the Chinese, the Irish, the Italians, the Poles, Jews, and Middle Easterners, the Nation has come to be far more welcoming. Need not Apply Signs, Sacco & Vanzetti, Phrenology, and even Jim Crow are now a memory we've crushed beneath the bootheels of progress on the March.

America dances with a double-edged sword. Our freedom and fear of Tyranny makes anything here possible. That's part of the "it was all a dream" portion of the t-shirt. But in our insistence, we often leaves those who are new to fend for themselves. In some respects, its a hazing ritual that would be barbaric if we were more selective in its application. In others its the realization that the dream is pragmatic, and like so many scholars before us, we realized that a Utopia is not a lack of need but a lack of must. Where options prevail, where freedom is always hunted, progress cannot be stopped. I think when people show up here, and move past the idea that we're the promised land, it becomes everything they ever wanted, if not everything they ever dreamed.

To all our new brothers still chasing the Fairytales of America, I hope that you come to find America everything we've all found here eventually ourselves.

God Bless,
The Brow