opera

i read an article that showed up on my facebook feed. it argued that we should accept being average, mediocre, and not special because so few of us are actually exceptional. it's better to accept than delude. the author argues that doesn't mean to stop trying to be special, just let it go if you find out that you are not special, one evening, sitting at your computer, typing a blog post, about an article you read from your facebook feed.

what if i have deluded myself? what if my life, what i contribute to humanity is average or below average? i find pathways in my mind that lead to a place of self-exceptionalism. what if i have been tricked? what if the evidence is clear?

and then there is Maria Callas and her performance of O Mio Babbino Caro, the aria from Puccini's Gianni Schicchi. I assume you are familiar. Is this not exceptional? The beginning, gently uncovering the melody and ending down, setting up Callas' rise. and the end, with the substance of the strings. it would have been enough to end with her voice, but it is not enough.

am i not exceptional because i listen to this musical rendering, this happening, this vocal emotional subtle touching, this gorgeous life. it blisters and heals. i explode with genius because i listen. again and again. in other words: i love therefore i am exceptional.

alas, no. the crestfallen boy lowers his head.

brokaenhearted and h(e)ated, a paean, a pence, a pauper.
Anthony

God

What does it look like 10 minutes before the Big Bang? Is there sharp, eye-scorching white light? Is there serene blackness? What is the pace? Is it slow? Do the glow fish with hallowed shadows still swim about in the beyond?

I think this is my conception of God. Not metaphysical. Physical, unknown. So many unknowns. But why God? Why that word? Filled with so many connotations, an old white man with a white beard. Not that I believe that story. But why use the word? The modernists attempted to escape the meaning injected into words of the language/culture they were born into. The post-modernists attempted to use the word but put a strike through it. God. Simultaneously posting the word with it's bucket of meaning and emptying the bucket. Does that work?

The question for me is why God. I don't have the power to re-create a concept. As I write these words, I feel trapped, as the modernists and so many writers before me have. But one must trudge on, yes? Through the scrambled field, call it the wasteland, of language injected with prior meaning.

For me God is in music, God is music. God is death. Real death. Like the kind you don't come back from and the kind you don't go somewhere else from. Finality, the end, but again the unknown. Am I still an atheist? I don't believe in God. In this moment, I'm simply accepting the unknowable. Any scientist will tell you that the unknown dwarfs the known. What we know is a grain of sand in a universe of unknown. What's inside the sun? Why haven't the Oakland A's won a World Series when they have all the data? What is emotion? Where do the unicorns live, and are there huge monsters that collect unicorns in jars, smiling vividly when a new unicorn is captured and placed into the jar with other sad unicorns.

How can you listen to Brian Eno's "Discreet Music" and not believe in God? How can you not believe in the serenity and beauty of the music? Of course, musical serenity and beauty do not have to formulate God. But what is the alternative? That Brian Eno's "Discreet Music" is just a song. I notice all these words: "How" "believe" "just". Trapped again in language.

I would never push my God that is not really God onto you. I can't even clarify the conception, by definition, for my definition includes the unknown. I can't say my God is better than your God or your/my worldview that does not include God. I can't even come to know. However, I can feel. I can feel, and believe/know that the feelings are neurons firing in my brain, physical, biological, certainly not metaphysical. Transcendent, maybe, but a physical transcendence. Maybe that should be the name of my band. But it's already the name of someone else's band. I googled it (no I didn't).

Let me be clear on one point: science is superior to religion because it demands proof.

It's most likely a yearning. Yeah, it's probably just that: a yearning for something more, something transcendent. But more importantly a yearning. To yearn. To want on faith, to want so badly and so profoundly that it strikes your soul like an American Indian arrowhead made of flint; the strike creating friction creating fire creating warmth and wrath, the power to propel or destroy life.

A yearning for God, for meaning, for that which is beautiful and calm, for myself, for all folks, flora and fauna. Maybe it is because this desire, for that which is beautiful and calm, is so far from our shared social reality, so far from the known, so far from what seems possible, we must call it God. It must be something, something shared, text on a screen, something that stands upright for something, because the idea of its absence is so sad, so unbearable. (and the tears flow individually like clowns, so many clowns bursting out of that tiny car). Helplessness, happiness, profundity, excellence, tragedy, humanity, genocide, tactile domes, emptiness, completion, creation, singularity, opposition, human freedom, switch blades, bondage, children, hope.

oh the places you will go.

with the love of a God I accept but do not believe in (or maybe i do?),
Anthony

Diego's Umbrella

I am making a conscious effort to blog every Thursday night.  (This started two Thursdays ago.)  So this blog on a Saturday evening is a transgression, a breaking of the rules.  But I saw a band last night, and I can't stop myself from telling you about them.  The band is called Diego's Umbrella.  They are the worst band I have ever seen.

Abbey and I went to the Independent in San Francisco to see a band called Vagabond Opera, out of Portland.  After Vagabond Opera finished their show and pulled down their cloth banner at the back of the stage, Diego's Umbrella hoisted up their banner with the band's logo.  The logo looked like a Billabong advertisement or an Abercrombie & Fitch poster.  But I didn't think too much of it.  Maybe it was ironic.

I had heard good things about Diego's Umbrella.  A friend, who I ran into at the show, had an ex-boyfriend who is a friend of the lead singer of Diego's Umbrella.  And the band is made up of guys from the East Bay, where I'm from, so that was potentially good.  And they have a great name: Diego's Umbrella.  I love that name. I had never heard any of their songs, but given their being on the same bill as the burlesque, raucous, melodramatic, klezmer inspired and mostly good Vagabond Opera, I had high hopes for Diego's Umbrella.  I was expecting a cool, indie sound, melodic and textured.  Something sweet and smart.  Diego is the name of my brother's little boy.  In the space between sets, I felt positive and warm feelings for Diego's Umbrella.

But the banner with the Abercrombie & Fitch logo was no ironic gesture and foreshadowed what was to come.  When Diego's Umbrella did finally come out on stage, they were dressed in completely all-white tuxedos.  This is not a bad or good thing, in itself.  The right band could do wonderful, happy things with all-white tuxedos.  The right band could make sparkling, glorious music a la Frightened Rabbit in all-white tuxedos.  Needless to say (which is itself needless to say) Diego's Umbrella, was well, hmmm, the all-white tuxedos could not fix what would be a very unfortunate problem.

When the in-between-set-music stopped and the lights went down, five band members dressed in all-white tuxedos came out on stage.  There was an electric fiddle player, stage left, with brown curly hair who stood over some sort of small synthesizer probably capable of creating various electrical, likely bass tones.  In the center of the stage a young man stood with a white bandana wrapped around his forehead, holding an electric guitar.  In front of him two drums and other percussive possibilities, the kind you play standing up.  This would be, I guessed, the salsa influence.  On the far right stood another man with an electric guitar.  This was an orange man, with orange hair and orange beard.  And in the back center of the stage the drummer, who had cut the sleeves off of his all-white tux.  To his left was the bass player with a white headband.  Cute.

And then Don Juan himself came valiantly on stage thrusting forth with an acoustic guitar wired electric.  The lead singer took up the position just to the left of salsa/bandana guy and just to the the right of orange man.  He began with a huge 80s metal strum of his guitar from far above his head to the the floor of the stage...and Diego's Umbrella broke into song.  The guitar playing man with the bandana and the salsa drums immediately took on an expression that conveyed: "are you not amazed?!" with eyes wide, enamored of his own musical gifts.  The lead singer then gesticulated around the stage, brushed back his hair, and acted out the role of the rock star.  It seemed that this man also had a healthy sense of self.

And the music.  Oh the music.  The music was very bad Sublime, it was poor 311, it was left over No Doubt.  And the audience loved it.  The Independent was packed and the audience actually "sang-along" during a call and response portion that went like this:

Lead singer: "I take off your shirt!" (huge grin!)
Audience: "I put the shirt back on!" (frat boy high fives!)
Lead singer: "I take off your pants!" (jump around and point towards the sky!)
Audience: "I put your pants back on!" (this is great, original music!)
Lead singer: "I take off your underwear!" (face pressed close with orange guy, both leaning back and just enjoying the moment!!!)
Audience: "I put your underwear back on!" (Jesus, these guys fucking rock!)

This was the beginning of the third song, and we did not stay long enough to hear the last verse.  Two and 1/3 innings and Diego's Umbrella had already given up 17 runs, the manager comes out and says, "son, you didn't pitch well.  We're sending you down to the minors.  No, actually, we're just gonna let you go.  You can leave your uniform in your locker."

Remember, all of this is happening in all-white tuxedos.  The amount of love these guys showed to each other, all while playing ripped off reggae bass lines that Black Uhuru made beautiful in the early 70's, was astonishing.  You know when a band thinks it's really jamming, I mean really getting into the groove, but you are thinking, "Jesus, I have heard this before done much, much better."  Well it was like that only made infinitely worse by the generated ego nexus propelling their lack of talent and originality to the limits, and making me feel shitty about being in San Francisco on that particular night and from the East Bay generally.

If you want to check out Diego's Umbrella, you can find them on myspace!
http://www.myspace.com/diegosumbrella

I'm sorry.  I don't usually like to be so negative, but I have a low tolerance for huge egos coupled with bad music.

with love,
Anthony

Swashbuckler Blues

I like this song by the Theater Fire.  There's a lyric that goes:

"So it's strange how I am my old man
despite all attempts
to be Errol Flynn"

I've been feeling a strong sensation recently to let go of all the anxiety that goes along with the pressure i put on myself to be famous.  It sounds ridiculous, but I have a complex tendency to want to produce great works of art, maybe a short story or a personal essay or a novel or a screenplay or a song or a film.  I put a lot of pressure on myself to produce such great works of art.  But the reality is I'm not prepared and haven't put in the time.  I play the guitar like a beginner and my songs are more like proto-songs.  I haven't even been playing a lot of guitar recently because I've been focused on my "day-job"and I'm so exhausted with the pressure i put on myself.  I want to let it go.  Like water flowing over my shoulders, there's so much tension in my shoulders, and lately I have felt these moments of release, and I can feel the muscles in my shoulders relax.  I crave this feeling of being relaxed.  And right now I would rather "pursue" this relaxation than try be a creative genius.  That's what I expect of myself.  With some perspective, I realize this is crazy.  With more sanity, I'm working on not working.  I mean I still have a job and I want to do it really well.  But I don't want to carry the anxiety in my shoulders.  I want to let go of that.  I put this pressure on myself to do my job really well, which is at least 8 hours monday through friday, and still have the energy to be a great musician or a great writer.  The last few days I have just wanted to let go of the expectations and the anxiety.

The lyric above captures a lot of this for me.  There are parts of my dad that i really hated as a teenager and young adult.  To accept that, in many respects, I am my father is, well -- I used to think that was the definition of giving up. A lot of self-hate.  I too want to be Errol Flynn, the swashbuckling sword fighter, movie star, handsome hero (the song is actually called Swashbuckler Blues on The Theater Fire's Matter and Light album).  It's ridiculous, but it lives inside me.  And I am glad that the Theater Fire created this song and played this song and sang this song.  In fact, the whole musical arrangement of the song comes across as simple; it just kindof moseys along.  The music reflects the lyrics.  A band member plays the xylophone, a few simple notes repeated that produces a child-like simplicity and naiveté.  One acoustic guitar plays call and response with another acoustic guitar creating a simple melody.  The music and the lyrics, they're about acceptance.  About who we really are.  It's about letting go of the expectations and just allowing yourself to appreciate what you are actually doing.  To accept that you are your father.

I have friends who are truly musically gifted.  I wouldn't shy away from saying they have a kind of genius.  One friend in particular devotes his entire being to music, and the results are wonderful.  I am not him, I'm not George Clooney, I'm not Bob Dylan, and to be honest, this kind of sucks.  But I also  don't want to give up music or writing because at times they bring me joy.  But I want to do them free of the expectations and the ridiculous hope that I will create something genius and become famous or wealthy from it.  That's hard for me.  Acceptance is like the blues, at first.  But I think over time, if you can accept who you are, the fact that you are going to be a lot more like your parents than Errol Flynn, (a whole lot of your father's nature and nurture went into making you; not so much time with or DNA from Errol, unfortunately) I think this kind of acceptance can work to your advantage. You seek out and come to projects where you can pour your soul into them for the right reasons.

Without doubt, this stuff is complicated.  There's so many schools of thought.  For example, there are those that say, "push yourself to be great; rise above the average man."  But I think, for me, that's a bit elitist (I don't claim to be completely free from elitism), and more importantly, right now, that's not where my head is at.  I want to be free from the anxiety of expectations.  I would rather live momentarily in the swashbuckler blues.  Lay down on the floor with my head looking up, breathe, and relax.

Yours, fair reader, filled with love and hope.

Anthony

florence and the modern cathedral of inspiration

florence and the machine have become very popular. their november show at the fox in oakland is already sold out. you've probably heard a song or two of florence's on the radio. so the question is: is florence real. the answer is yes, florence is real. her album 'lungs' makes possible certain emotional states reserved for euphoric mania, belonging in psychiatric wards, occasionally escaping into the street where it dances and mixes through osmosis and becomes something else. you can't really feel that good without rolling out of your pajamas laughing and pawing at the man in a suit walking down the street. I'm currently listening to "between two lungs" on repeat. this is not "kiss with a fist" or "the dog days are over" her two more popular songs. "between two lungs" reminds one that it is possible to live your life as if it were a cathedral. an enormous cathedral that you make alive with a deep breath, exhale and the oxygen in the temple is alive. a modern cathedral borrowing it's blueprint from gothic architects. florence's life breath cathedral is all windows and steel, but it is shaped like a cross and spread out over many city blocks or many green fields or wherever the fuck the cathedral is. bring to your mind a conception of the biggest gothic cathedral you can imagine, now replace all the spires with rectangles of glass ribbed with steel. breathe and oxygen and huge walls of glass. You can see them and they can see you. This cathedral is open and alive and breathing and florence has all her machinery working in brutal order, the harps, and all the influence of musicians and philosophers and poets and painters. is it any wonder that i just finished reading "the fountainhead." with all her machismo and modernity. let's break with the past and create that which is absolutely unique to our time. let us eschew the anxiety of influence and create that which is for only now. modern man's impotent brilliance. but florence looks at Ms. Rand and laughs a manic laugh and her machine starts and the music begins and Ms. Rand must sit down. all those wonderful musical influences already discussed in overwhelming detail, fiona apple, bjork, dylan, regina spector, arcade fire, but florence takes all the musicality and spreads it out over the glass walls of her modern cathedral so the music is pulsating and, not surprisingly, the walls of glass begin to breathe like lungs of a giant saber toothed tiger on the sprint, chasing down pre-historic prey. i saw the greatest minds of my generation stuck in some fucked up job. without the space to pursue what is pure. without the space to breathe their world view, their philosophy, their entrails, shit, sorrow, blood, fucking fluids, their ideas, their conflicts, their homosexuality "who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors," their bi-sexuality, i saw the greatest minds of my generation from a distance on wall street, cheating, i saw the greatest minds of my generation not creating art. what shame. what poverty. and like arcade fire's first release circa 2005, florence and the machine give out to the world a collection of songs (you can pick and choose) and one of these songs is literally called "cosmic love" and it literally is a beautiful song. cosmic love, as if the graduate had just been released in IMAX 3-D, as if the 1960s didn't come up with enough cosmic love to white out those two words for eternity. but florence pulls from eternity, "the stars, the moon," she's literally singing about these things blowing up. and it is a great song. what the fuck florence, have you no fear? you are an eccentric being with your labels and posters and string sections and your art school and your voice. a voice that is quiet in the right places and husky when the song calls for husky and brutal. arial and diaphanous and liquid and strength. and petering and pulsating and re-focused on the breath again.

but this is not about florence. it is about the modern cathedral in glass. and you are in the center. this is your life, your cathedral. what the fuck are you going to do? are you headed to the wall to wipe your fuck face on the street? are you headed to new york? are you headed to brooklyn or union square or the lower...east...side? the dog days are over. i never wanted anything from you except everything you have and what was left after that too. happiness.

you are in the cathedral and the glass walls are breathing and your soul is frenetic, finally the angst has become too much and you are quivering and shaking and the truth of your pure fluid is going to flow, and you are on the precipice. before chest pains pull you into the shadows and the blip, do what you love. for god's sake do what you love. do what you love, shaking and falling and sobbing, let it spill. we are all too young to die. do what you love!!!

"you hit me once

i hit you back

you gave a kick

i gave a slap

you smashed a plate over my head

then i set fire to our bed.

a kiss with a fist is better than none"

florence has many options open to her now. she passed the test, the implications of which may be felt for many years to come. of course, i can't predict the future. however, it is my birthday today. i am 33.

with love for your preservation and process.

Anthony