love what is love

I recorded this “song” on my iPhone.  I don’t even play the guitar or sing, but I recorded myself playing the guitar and singing.   I don’t know what it is, but it came from inside me and I felt a fever tonight and I had to post it on facebook, I needed it to be out in the world in some small way, I couldn’t hold on to it or keep it a secret any more, it needed to be outside of me.  But do you have any idea how terrifying this is?! (not “that is”, but “this is” because it’s happening right now.)  Sometimes I listen to the “song” I just posted and think, jesus that is really shitty, just serious crap, but then I listen to it again and hear something beautiful.   I’m not sure which is scarier, the shit or the beauty.  Either way it had to come out.

I’m sorry don’t apologize.

Is it really that hard?  Or is it really just this easy?  I don’t know.  I know what I like and what I like isn’t liked by everyone, but it’s also not not liked by everyone.  There is some balance, right?  Some justice in the cosmos turning towards infinity, but simple.  I still don’t know.  Some ying yang bullshit that is more real than infinity.  But doesn’t it all carry on, and don’t we just float in the bullshit hoping for the stars and night.  There is something so raw and alive in my yearning for the infinite night, by which I mean the safety and comfort of home.

And so what if the earth is the ID?  So what if we don’t know that the earth is actually sentient with an unconscious, our unconscious, desperate yearning for sexual and intellectual and existential blast-release-fall-comfort-safety.  Turn it on that shit eating grin.  Turn it on.

In the fear my cousin tells me that we will regret the creative impulses we suppress not those that we release into the world, suffering the cruelty of criticism and possibly the indignity of shame, BUT still it is in the world and it is safe and you, too, are safe, and you, too, are beautiful, more beautiful than you know.  And I know you’ve heard this before, but I’m not afraid to say it again.

Here is the song:

Walk Away

again with love,

Anthony

ps - The Middle East "Blood"

paragraph

In the spring of 2006, maybe it was early summer, i went to a dive bar in Staten Island called "martini red."  i went to hear my buddy and his friends play an open mic.  I wasn't expecting much, but i was looking forward to hearing my friend play a couple songs.  he is a really good guy, and is genuine about music.  so I expected things to be low key but cool.

i think it was before my friends went on that a group of what looked like 16-17 year old skinny guys in skinny jeans got up on the "stage".  the "stage" was just the room further back, maybe it was elevated a couple inches, maybe the wood was a bit darker.  in any case, this group of four guys is getting ready to play, and the dive bar is pretty full, maybe 75 people.  the guy who is setting up the lead singer mic, likely the lead singer, is wearing a tour de france hat with the brim flipped up, a lose fitting tank top and probably some plaid pants.

these young guys plug their guitars in and tune the stings with the electronic modules at their feet.  the drummer sets up the kit with a beat-up snare and a tambourine attached with duct tape to the top of the high-hat.  the skinny, tallish-but-not-that-tall lead singer does a quick mic check.  and within a couple minutes they brake into this song:



from the first few notes, i'm lovin it.  the lead singer reminds me of an effeminate Jim Morrison.  he sings so exposed and soft, but still so confident and a bit out of control. he seems so vulnerable, but so okay with it.  it's weird, kinda crazy.  their music reminds me of some of the bands I love: my first thought was modest mouse, but I also heard some talking heads in there, as well.  I was really impressed, shocked really, totally not prepared to encounter such talented kids at martini red.  the crowd was really into them, too.  they were like little staten island rock stars.  a whole row of girls was hootin' and hollerin' during their brief set.  i'm 28 years old at the time, and all of their fans might be 18.  but i'm still like damn, that's some good shit.  so after the "show," they played two other songs, I walk up to the lead singer and just tell him how much i liked the music.  he was really cool, nice guy, super young.  i ask, "what's the name of your band," and he says "paragraph."  i didn't hear the "para" i only heard the "graph" so I'm thinking, "cool, a graph" and I'm imagining a 3D graph on a computer screen, the kind that shows with criscrossing lines a cone shape, going down like something to fill.  i'm enjoying this image of the graph in my head, but i realized i didn't really hear what he said, so I asked again, "what was the name?" and he's like "paragraph" and i'm like oh, okay cool, and now i'm thinking, "paragraph, literary, storyline, narrative, i like it"  and i tell him, "well cool, i really liked your gig"  and he's like "cool, thanks man!" super happy.

much love,
Anthony

chasing good new music

I love new music.  I love how it makes me feel.  It's exciting and inspiring.  Good new music heals the parts of my emotional stomach that are all fucked up.  I feel good new music in my emotional stomach with warmth and happiness.  I picture parts of my stomach lighting up, like sections of the brain in an MRI machine.  I imagine my stomach split into various regions.  I imagine a chart that shows dotted lines demarcating the different areas of my stomach.  It's like a picture of a cow that shows all the various cuts of meat: rump roast, rib, sirloin, brisket, flank, shank.

 Unlike the cuts of meat, the image of my dotted-line demarcated stomach shows regions of my own personal fucked up history.  For example, one demarcated section of my stomach would have the header, "nyc: January 2007 to May 2007."  Music lights up these various areas of my demarcated stomach, and when the music lights up these areas, i feel healing happening.  Sometimes the happiness is overwhelming.

The problem is that I also respond to good new music a bit like a drug addict.  Because the feeling for me can be so euphoric, I have a tendency to over-listen to individual songs.  I feel that I need the healing happiness of the song, so I will listen to the song like 35 times in a row.  This isn't always healthy.  I don't exactly know why.

The other problem with good new music is that I'm also constantly on the look-out.  Well not always, thankfully.  But I do get into this mode of perpetually searching.  Once you discover a great new song and listen to it a hundred times, it begins to lose its appeal.  And the chase for a new song continues, which creates an insatiable feeling along with emptiness.   Then there's whole thing about trying to be cool and be the first to broadcast new music.  That's why there are so many blogs about new music.  Everyone wants to be the first to tell everyone about a great band.  Part of this is really positive.  If by exposing a friend to a new band, I bring a new joy to my friend's life, then I have done something wonderful.  But the chase for new good music can turn into something akin to addiction, at least for me.  So with all of that out of the way, here are a few great tunes you may not have heard!!!!!!!!!

Magic Bullets "Lying Around" (San Francisco band. Go Giants! Really good.)

Ponytail "Flabbermouse" (Baltimore band. I recommend checking out the band members' side projects, as well.)

Here We Go Magic "Collector" (Peter Hale, the drummer in this band, used to be in Trick and the Heartstrings, one of my favorite bands of all time.)

Yellow Alex (Alex was the lead signer of Trick and the Heartstrings. In this video he's talking about his own creative process. Check out his new band Yellow Alex and the Feelings:

Yellow Alex and the Feelings

Elvis "Don't Be Cruel" (I'm working on a post documenting all the reasons why Elvis sucks. But goddamn he was one talented son of a bitch even though he stole all his songs from black people.)


Much love and tranquility in the quest for good music,
Anthony

ps - got the postcard Maria!  enjoy your travels!

Walk Away From the Euphoria

The hipsters dashed out of their tiny apartments.  They ran from Williamsburg, Park Slope, Bed Sty, Red Hook, Fort Greene and streamed like rivulets into the streets.  They ran towards the buses, hundreds of buses in the middle of Brooklyn.  As the buses filled, the bus drivers were overwhelmed by the fedoras, the skinny jeans, the keffiyehs, the shirts of unknown bands, at least three guys had a shirt that said "unknown band as identity".  Inside the buses the mood was beyond euphoria, laughing, drinking, smoking cigarettes, joshin', high fivin'.  There were skinny people, heavier people with tattoos, and one incredibly large young american-indian woman with a yellow and white trucker hat that said "Vermont" yelling "i just love you all!!!" the woman took up four seats, the seats in front of her had to be removed, but she was accepted, as all the others, wearing a HUGE black t shirt with a photograph, black and white, of a modern building with horizontal lines.  african-american men with skater shoes and gray American Apparel hoodies, white girl pin-up bowlers from the 50s, latinas singing Smiths songs, young indian-american men born in the upper east side wearing headbands with bud light logos.  long male hair, stylized, unshaven beards and tank tops with diamond shaped patterns.  at least three young women had a shirt on that said "nothing"  The crowd continued to grow and grow and buses were overflowing.  Hanging out the windows, the huge crowd of racially inclusive hipsters began to chant, "On to Detroit! On to Detroit! On to Detroit!"  thousands of voices calling for the buses to roll into motion.  some on the edge of their seats, the music blasting out of the bus speakers, the coolest, most esoteric bands in the world! -- Coldplay, Snow Patrol, Neon Trees, Lady Gaga, Adele, even U2!  when the first bus driver turned the key and revved the engine, the hipsters went berserk, just berserk, squishing out of the windows so full of excitement and excess, chanting, screaming, pounding of sensitive chests, jumping and bashing heads into tops of buses, the hipsters were ready to ride to their death in this euphoria, but fortunately, they were not heading to their death, they were heading to Detroit for a free concert in a park.

not 10 days ago, a band had released its third album.  this band with three members from Calabasas, one from Woodland Hills and two others from Pasadena (an L.A. outfit) had with this third album done something absolutely magical.  seriously, no joke, they had created an album that from the first track makes you feel good, excited, you say "shit this is different," but you're already smiling, eyes get wider, "yes, yes this is good shit" right from the first song, one synth starts in alone and then is met by notes from a second synth riffing off one another and then an incredibly catchy and staccato lead guitar riff, a few intro bars of this then the rhythm guitar strumming stunning chords, and finally the drums and bass drop hard, a punch to your gut bucket, and after you recover you can't help but start dancing crazy in the street, and this man's voice is from Church fed through a vein spiked with Heroin into the corridor of the Lungs up and out the Vocal Chords, sounds reflecting off the blood and internal flesh, out into the World, Sonorous, and capable of catching you off your feet and lifting you across the street to the third floor window where the speaker is playing Happiness.  oh the joy of this first song!  oh the joy!  and it doesn't stop.  the second track is a little weirder at first, unidentifiable instrumentation, but then morphs into this reggae inspired bouncy anthem.  the tracks after the second unimaginably continue to get better and better. when Jeff heard the second song he just fell over on the side walk.  Jeff listened to the remainder of this shocking album from the comfort of the sidewalk, giddy, exhausted, in love like a 17 year old poet.

this third album was different from the first two. the band had matured in the right way, escaped convention somehow, while maintaining a strong link to the popular, the uptempo, the joy.  even the asshole reviewer from pitchfork, shocked as the rest of us, drew immediate comparisons to the Talking Heads, Modest Mouse, the Strokes, Arcade Fire, Animal Collective, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Trick and the Heartstrings, Beirut, TV on the Radio, Pavement, Yo La Tengo, even Bright Eyes and Bon Iver.  pitchfork gave it an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10, a higher score than the Beatles, Radiohead, Otis Redding, and most spectacularly Kanye West.  the blogging community was in shock, NOBODY could write anything mocking, or sarcastic, or witty in a negative way.  (of course, New Yorker music critic sasha frere-jones would have found something to complain about on some ridiculous grounds, but he caught himself earlier in the week at a Fall Out Boy show and summarily committed suicide, shot himself in the head at the show, after realizing he liked the music.)  the music from this new album was too perfect.  it had come out of nowhere.  a decent band, now inspiring masses to venture forth into the unknown, afternoon sun falling into persimmon skyline, chasing Detroit.  here we come.

*******

BV: You have done something magical.  I assume you are aware of the reaction this record has already caused.  The obvious question is how did you do it?

ET: I'm just as shocked as anyone.  I started writing this album after we finished our european tour supporting the second record.  i made a point not to write while we were on the road.  i wanted to pour everything i had into that tour.  no distractions, no bleeding of efforts. when we got back, i went to my parents house in LA, grabbed an old Gibson acoustic guitar of my dad's and went into "my room" [ET makes quotes with his fingers].  i grew up in Ventura, but my parents have since moved to L.A proper. it's so trendy now. "downtown L.A." [quotes again with fingers]. So I went into my room, just fucking exhausted from the tour.  Yeah, actually, i didn't start playing or writing right away; i just fell over into the bed and slept for a week.  when i woke up, i just grabbed the old guitar, remained laying down on the bed and started playing and singing whatever came into my heart and into my head.

BV: Were you in contact with the other guys at this point?

ET: Not really.  We were all a little sick of each other post-tour.  in a healthy way.  So I started writing alone.

BV:  I've heard you wrote most, if not all, of the music.

ET: I did.  It was strange.  after about a month, the guys and I all met up in our practice space in the Santa Monica.  i played them some of the stuff i had.  they were blown away.  didn't even know what to say.  from then on it was just like, "dude, that is seriously some of the best shit i have ever heard."  they were so cool, so supportive.  of course they all contributed significantly, but they really just tried to get out the way and let me do my thing.  i mean writing. their support was huge.  it's cliche, but the record wouldn't have been made if not for their support.

BV: That's different from the first two records, right?  My understanding was it was a more collaborative  process.

ET: That's true.  It definitely was more...what did you say?--

BV: Collaborative

ET: Yeah, sorry, collaborative.  Sorry, what was i saying.  Oh, so the first two records, yeah we all added pieces to the puzzle.

BV: What do you make of it, your almost singular composition of the songs.  And can I say, like everyone else I know, this album, your album, is impossibly good.  I'm still in the throws of the euphoria, ironically.  Similar experiences with "In the Aeroplane..." "Is This It" and "Funeral".  Life changing.

ET:  Thank you.  I really don't know what else to say except thank you.  I am so grateful that people, that the record has made an impact on people's, on your life.  I think that's why I write music.  It's mind-fucking, I don't understand it yet, probably never will.

BV:  Let's talk about the album's name, "Walk Away From the Euphoria".  Funny that a record with this title could summon tsunamis of euphoria on the eastern seaboard, on the western seaboard, even Detroit.

ET: Ha!  Yeah, Detroit.  That's where it's all going down.

BV: But about the title, can you talk about its origin?

ET: Sure.  I'm the kind of person who deals with highs and lows difficultly.  Jesus.  That doesn't make any sense.  I should say it like this: I'm totally bi-polar.  I have been since about 16.  I'm 28 now.  I've had to learn, many times the hard way, that chasing the euphoria doesn't lead to long term happiness.  I'm into all that meditation and buddhist shit, got to be.  i've found that being neutral, i would venture to say indifferent, actually sustains happiness better than existing in a state of euphoria.  for me, and i can't speak for anyone else, for me, euphoria is quickly followed by depression, serious, fucked up, evil, i hate my fucking self, worthless, shit for internal organs, sometimes suicidal depression.  It blows me up each time.  like that dude from Terminator 3, I have to put my shit back together.  But i'm nowhere near as cool as that bad dude from Terminator 3, with all that silvery, liquid shit melting in reverse, putting his body back together.  i just blow up and have to put pieces of flesh back together, little bloody scraps of flesh.  Anyways, from the beginning i was thinking about making it more personal than the first two records, opening myself up.  You know that same old bullshit.

BV:  Yeah, I'm familiar with that bullshit.  Except this time, it didn't come out as bullshit, it came out as magic, that's the best I can do to describe it.  Did you end up writing most of the music at your parent's house?  That's kind of funny.

ET: Yeah, I did, and it is funny.  My mom is so funny.  She still gets all weird about me performing in front of people.  I'm like Mom, it's okay, I'm comfortable. We've played Bonaroo, SXSW, Glastonbury and a bunch of other European festivals, hundreds of shows, but she still feels protective, like people are judging me, and she hates that.  I love her for that.  My dad is so shy.  It's hard for him to come to the shows, too.

BV:  Wow, so not a lot of parental modeling of rock-stardom--

ET: Seriously!  When I was little, I thought I would grow up to be a burrower, one who burrows, just hides from people and listens to music in a hole.

BV: That's funny.

********

800 buses filled with hipsters from Brooklyn rambled on moving ever closer to Detroit.  The drive only took an hour and a half.  When they arrived, the hipsters poured out into Belle Isle Park more frenetic than when they boarded the buses.  Alcohol consumption reached an all time high, Guinness Book of World Records stuff.  Seriously, no joke, more PBR had been consumed by people in one bus in a 1.5 hour period than at any time before in History.  The sloshed happy hipsters fell out into the parking lot and ran around frantically for a spot in front of the bandshell.  thousands of hipsters poured in from all over the country, Grand Rapids, Sioux Falls, Minnesota, Des Moines, Austin, Athens, Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Portland, San Francisco, and of course Los Angeles.  There must have been around 400,000 hipsters falling off buses into the park.  Maybe 5,000 people had a good view of the stage, the rest were just spread throughout the park.  Imagine the colors of the hipster clothes: purple, gold, black, white, gray. and then all the shades of the accessories: red, orange, pink, yellow, magenta, turquoise, deep ocean blue...can you imagine the view from directly above the park, blimp view, just spectacular, Matisse-like. and although the buses didn't smell that great, the park smelled like fresh trees and lake water with a nice breeze.

Jeff had boarded a bus in Brooklyn, worried about his identity vis-a'-vis the hipsters.  He felt he didn't completely fit in.  On the ride over, he sat next to a young gay man who kept drinking from a flask in a paper bag, as if that was necessary.  The young man was dressed in red capri pants and a yellow tank top. he had very short, blond hair and spoke incessantly of how charming the lead singer of the band was in interviews, how much charisma he had on stage.  the boy felt seriously that he was in love and that if he could get through to the lead singer via facebook, the lead singer would fall in love with him.  Jeff was actually quite touched, didn't even feel sad for the young man.  felt the phrase, "this too shall pass."  the boy must have been about 18, and he would surely move on to real life lovers in the not-too-distant-future.

Jeff was a Christian from Columbia, Missouri.  He moved to Williamsburg three years ago and immediately made friends.  he was charismatic himself, full of love, and self-doubt.  the atheist hipsters ate him up.  they all recognized his sensitivity but also his inherent strength.  they often chided him about his "leadership qualities". but they also expected him to one day rule the non-amphibious world.  plus he qualified as diversity.  they could all talk about having a Christian friend. they loved Jeff, and Jeff loved them back.

Jeff worked in advertising at a firm with offices all over the country.  Jeff's office was in Murray Hill, 3rd and 38th.  he liked his job, went to a church in the upper east side every Sunday, identified as a pro-lifer, masturbated to pornographies of guilt, usually of asian women with gigantic tis (he had dated a few women, mostly waspy, but never anything serious) and believed the anxiety of living in new york would eventually ware off.  in three years, it hadn't. his atheist hipster friends had turned him on to all kinds of bands.  they mostly liked local groups, even a band or two from Staten Island.  Jeff quickly learned what constituted good music and what constituted bad music.  according to his friends, Bruce Springsteen was emo, true emo, not that bullshit teenage emo from southern california.  that's why jeff was so surprised when the word started to rip through hipster neighborhoods.  a levee succumbed to forces greater than itself and katrina-like jet-streams of music rushed through Brooklyn.  everyone, it seemed, was downloading the album from the same sharing network (log-in required, you needed a friend, which Jeff had, to let you in to the exclusive group of file sharers) at the same time.  (too bad the band wouldn't make any money.)  people kept falling out of windows, ears attached to ipods, landing on the mattresses left on the sidewalks by vagabond hipsters unsuccessful on craigslist.  nobody was hurt, well, they were hurt, but hurt so good and so bad by this music that had penetrated their flesh and left bruises, the kind you covet as a middle-schooler around your neck, only these musical bruises were inside their soul.

jeff stumbled out of the bus in Detroit and followed his new friend with the yellow tank top and paper bag.  Chester, his new buddy, was pushing through the crowd and having amazing success.  he kept pushing, and side-stepping, and communicating, "oh please forgive me" "oh jesus, i'm sorry, just a little scootch to your right"  "oh my gosh, there are soooo many people" kept side-winding, and straddling and soft-toeing, and when necessary literally knocking people over out of the way.  "move, you fucking ass!" boom, lowers the shoulder.  combination of violence and careful diplomacy, Jeff thought about Kissinger.  this young man in a yellow tank top was impressive. jeff just followed in Chester's wake.  Jeff could see the bandshell in the distance and had a feeling they would be close when the music started.

*******

BV: So are you dating anyone?  I hate to ask, but they'll kill me if I don't.

ET: Fuck, I expected more from you. (laughs)  Well, yes, I've found the girl of my dreams, kindof.  Except this whole new album, and yes it's been less than 10 days, but this new album energy is making me kindof horny -- crazy for every attractive female on the rich earth.  all these budding flowers, in so many shapes and sizes and colors.  i'm going to get killed saying this, but i'm a rock star, so fuck it.  no, seriously, i'm in an incredible relationship with a woman who supports me to the core, without whom this record would not have been made.  she is talented in her own right.  waaaaaay smarter and waaaaay more talented than i am.

BV: Is she a musician?

ET: No, she's an academic.  That's all I can say.

BV: Interesting.  How long have you been dating?

ET: Can't say.

BV: Don't remember or can't say?

ET: Can't say.

BV: Okay, so tell us about this concert in Detroit.  Did you know it would turn into posh spice woodstock?

ET: Ha!  No way!  We just wanted to launch this spacecraft -- building the spacecraft is recording the record -- launching the spacecraft and flying it is playing live.  The practice sessions have gotten to the point where we feel like the live music is better than the album.  It took a while to get there.

BV: Why Detroit?

ET: Why not Detroit?

BV: Seriously, why Detroit?

ET: Seriously, why not Detroit?

BV: Okay, so we'll just go with the mystery.

ET: No mystery, I just want people to experience it as they experience it.  I don't want to tell people what Detroit is or what it isn't.  I can say I have no real personal connection to Detroit, and that played a part in the decision.  As for the audience, I have no control over that.  I put out music, and whoever likes it likes it.  I'm just happy people like it.

BV: Let's talk for a minute about the label situation.

ET: Okay.

BV: So your first two records were put out on Majordomo but when the majors got a whiff of the demos they went ape shit, am i right?

ET: Pretty much.

BV: Okay, so the majors are going ape shit and there's a prolonged bidding war, and Majordomo let you off the hook.   I assume they were compensated handsomely, yes?

ET: Yes, they were.  They did okay.

BV: So you guys had no problem signing with Capitol.

ET: No way.  I've driven past that weird, round building so many times, I knew if I had the chance I would always sign with Capitol.  I love that building, that era.  I realize it's gone, but it still means something to me.

BV: Lots of creative control?

ET: Absolutely, and lots of cash up front.  It worked out well.

BV: The album is special.

ET: Capitol thought so.

*******

Chester had maneuvered his way to within ten feet of center stage.  Jeff hadn't come through the mass of hipster bodies completely unscathed, but he felt physically fine.  Emotionally, he was a wreck.  He had planned to ride on the same bus as his group of friends, but had been separated in the rush through Brooklyn streets.  Eventually, he just had to push his way on to a bus with an opening.  Now he felt alone and somewhat terrified.  He prayed to Jesus, "Jesus, please don't let these people begin to spin completely out of control.  Please make sure there is enough order to ensure safety.  My only desire is to return home to the comfort of my small living/dinning/kitchen room."  By this time the sun had completely disappeared and it was officially night.  Lights were on, illuminating the hipster crowd lucky enough to be standing in close proximity to the stage.

There would be no opening band.  The headliner was to come on stage and play all the new songs on the album, in order of the record.  This had been released on various blogs.  Someone in the back, a man, shouted, "Man and music!"  a roar went up in the audience.  the hipster, slacker who yelled, unknown, later dubbed El Savoir Vivre, yelled again, "I am defiant in the face of political oppression!  I cultivate peace!  I will not back down to terror or violence!  I live to end human suffering!  Obama, you will hear my voice!  Obama, you will hear my voice!  Obama, YOU WILL HEAR MY VOICE!"  400,000 hipsters began to howl, only a few thousand at first, then spreading like a sore throat to voices across the park.  Howling wolves in the public night. And the lights began to flash, and the howl turned again to a roar, hysterical life affirming swamp echos from the golden marshes of social and political justice.  The hipsters felt the power of each other's bodies, the simple energy that existed in the hipster to the right and to the left.  (hipsters are human, too.)  None of this new age energy, but the simple energy of the heart beating, pumping blood, the simple energy of the human body.  Everyone was touching, not enough room not too touch.  And the touch carried a pulse, lights flashing, stage lights flipping out, the creation of righteous hysteria boomed into the world.

The lights shut off instantly, and blackness was complete.  The hysteria of hipster sound flexed toward fear until they all heard it, heard it together, a collective hearing of the first note of the synthesizer.  One note, the first note of the record, held in the dark.  When the lights came back on 6 men stood on stage, one holding down a black key near the middle of a Korg synthesizer.  And then into the song, the young man playing the synth began floating his fingers up and down, pressing, producing music that expanded to fill the full park. the crowed went absolutely insane.  everyone dancing, thrashing about, screaming.  the world's greatest sound engineer, Bob LaFontaine, had been hired to make the music live for the hipsters in every nook and cranny of Belle Isle Park, many on colorful rafts, inflatable boats and inner-tubes in the water surrounding the park.  This is how the music began, and the lights of various colors moved with pulse of music.

It was immediately obvious that the live music was infinitely better than the record.  Incomprehensible utopia.  the men and women in the audience, everyone mystified, never feeling such warmth or human connection.  a wave of light and sound rippled off of the stage, repeatedly.  The lead singer sang and forcefully removed all of their small hesitations.  They felt his sincerity and his genius.  He was not a person, he was a conduit, channeling the History of every second of every great song ever produced.  His mouth was moving, but the music came from his stomach. The band operated in this glowing symphonic grandeur.  During the fourth song, the connection of 400,000 loving souls woke Obama up in D.C.  He startled.  Their combined message was clear: Lay down your political mask and become a surgeon for the suffering.  Follow Cesar Chavez, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandella, go beyond the confines of the white house into the place of real peace and action.  change the world Mr. Obama and stop the bullshit.  The music coming from Detroit powered by one man, one band, one group of 400,000 hipsters was in the process of shifting the world, like the European "exploration" of the "new world" in reverse.  The Chancellor in Germany, the Prime Minister in Russia and the Head of State in Ghana heard the music, heard this man's album played live and could not be the same again, nothing could be the same again, a sacrifice had been made, the lamb slaughtered, sanity restored.  Human suffering again the focus, not the politics of the nation state and its profiteers.

Jeff and Chester felt it.  They, too, would be different after this show.

*******

BV: How did you create something so different, so unlike anything before it, using the same tools that have been handed down for sixty plus years?  Guitars, drums, vocals. okay throw in the synths, but it's basically the standard issue.  How did you do something that sounds so different, so wonderful?

ET:  I don't know.

BV: Would you change anything at this point? Do you have any regrets? 

ET: Sure there are always little things I would adjust.  Nothing's ever finished.  But no, I don't have any regrets.  I put out the record when I felt it was ready.  Ready implies not ever really being finished.  I just have a great deal of love.  I feel love from all over.  It pours out of my body, I can't dump it fast enough, it's coming in and out, in and out, in and out, it's love and it's all over and I can't ever feel the distance again between my thoughts and actions, my ideas and my realities, i love, i sincerely love.  So, no, no regrets.

just love,
Anthony

"Red Red Rose"

sah-GAY-shus

sagacious

"of keen and farsighted penetration and judgement: discerning"

did you know that with the merriamwebster ap for the iPhone, you can just talk into the phone and it will recognize your word and bring you the definition?  do you have any fucking idea how incredibly fucking fantastic this is?  this is going to mean i can actually read books and understand what they mean.  i'm going to understand what the books mean, riffling off words verbally into my fucking iPhone ap, god damn.  like boom! boom! boom! "sagacious", gotchyou bitch, i know what you mean,  yeah bitches, "miasma!" "pallid!" "portentous!" "parabola!" i got you figured out, no more what the fuck does that mean.

i am one sagacious motherfucker.  discerning, farsightedly penetrating, penetrating that shit with my goldenrod mind, inside the cave of the dweller, thresholds crossed and transgressions forgiven, i'm the motherfucker with the opium, got you high off that natural disaster type shit

"my word play is jay z's object of study,
oops just scrabbled j into a fuddy-duddy 
tricks and treats i got in the bag
with a knife in the apple and Eve on my ass
i'll give you a phrase for a mil' and a gram
sit on your throne and eat your ham"

that's just some introductory shit.  you don't even want me to start getting serious.  i mean like taking it to some eminem educated shit, bout to use my masters degree on this shit, pouring lyrical greatness into your half empty, my half full cup.  i mean didn't we lose lyrical greatness back in the early 90's.  it's been a wasteland for the last 20 fucking years in hip hop.  gangster rap.  conscious rap.  well, i'm bout to change all that fo sho, nobody even says fo sho anymore, not even in walnut creek.

i gotta admit there are other sagacious motherfuckers out there.  i'd like to highlight just a couple.  harvey milk.  this motherfucker was one sagacious motherfucker.  he had some shit figured out a long time before your average joe in nebraska still elaborating his homophobic vaccuum of a mind.  dumb nebraskan motherfucker.  not to pick on nebraskans, that's just like homophobia.  jesus.  i'm so fallible. (had to use the merriamwebster ap for that one)  i try to say something right and get it wrong. i get it wrong.  i get it wrong.

"i get it wrong! i get it wrong!" - that's a good punk song chorus.  think dive club, spiky, mohawk dude with all kinds of tats and piercinings black torn jeans, "black flag" t shirt also torn, just ripping up a $100 strat, all fucked up and chipped and shit.  but he's wailing this shit bullet point stylee.  can't understand anything.

"i get it wrong! i get it wrong!
my mother's a fucking prong!
i get it wrong! i get it wrong!
my father takes it in the gong!"

DAMN.  did you not bear witness?  i just switched it up sagaciously, emphatically, hip hop to punk, limp bizkt style, cutting edge, 1993, mashing before mash up. potatoes.

okay, so i have to admit something.  i'm listening to the airborne toxic event.  i know.  but it's catchy.  i kindof like it. "wishing well" has this nice vibe to it.  it's cute.  that's so condescending it hurts.


And you think to yourself,
"This is it, this is it
This is all that I have
All I can stand
Is this air in my lungs
And this coin in my hand"


listen, i know, this posting is about hip hop and gay visionaries, so just continue to keep it real.  did you know that i'm a scholar of hip hop.  (or i was?/confusion)  i wrote my undergraduate thesis in 2002 on white suburban kids and hip hop.  it was that general.  i have no idea what i was trying to say.  i wrote 50 pages and it probably could have been a solid 5 pager.  damn i love you guys, gay, straight, bi-sexual, transgender, questioning, in transition, in scandanavia waiting in the operating room for the big switch, i love all you girls and guys and people for whom those words don't quite work.  i love you for your bravery.  it takes some balls to be a lesbian in this country.  so just know someone is appreciating that fact on a day to day level.

love to love,
Anthony

hip hop is not dead.

Big K.R.I.T "Hometown Hero"

ps - just to be clear, i'm upset with homophobic nebraskans, absolutely not the entire human population of nebraska.

Iris

when my nana returned home from the hospital and was laid on the bed in the room with the biggest window facing the street, she asked, while she was still able to articulate full sentences, that my family play Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma in the time before her death.  this music was to ease her transition.  I was too young and too scared to visit my nana more than one or two times after she returned home.  my father and younger sister spent a great deal of time with her during this time and were close by when she passed.  they wept while Pavarotti sang, next to my father's gentle sister Missy and the nurse who had cared for her.  i now wish i had spent more time with her even when she could do little but sleep.  she was such a radiant person.  she was the daughter of Italian immigrants and must have kept the recipes from the home country.  every Tuesday she spent the whole day cooking the most delicious pasta for dinner that night.  my father, mother, sister and I, along with my father's many cousins and one Uncle Norm, a lovable curmudgeon if there ever was one,  would come to her house in Berkeley every Tuesday night to argue about the price of groceries, how best to fix a leaky faucet and national politics.  but the real reason they came, why we came, was not the pasta or the lively discussions.  we came for my nana, Iris, and her glowing life.  we came to be next to her glow, to be a part of it, to feel the warmth.

is falling asleep each night practice for dying?  even if we sleep in the same bed with our partner, at some point we roll over into our own darkness and must face the transition from being awake to falling asleep alone.  we fall asleep, we fall, we let our bodies go limp and tip from the edge of the highest skyscraper scraping the top of the sky and we close our eyes and let gravity pull our limp bodies over the edge and begin the fall, our muscles cease to flex and the air currents pull our arms and legs and torso, slowly rolling, putting up a hand as if to ask a question and then a leg and foot pulled up upside down head snaps back and we roll again, falling downward, and it escapes, the fear the anxiety about sleep about death escapes, and our whole bodies make peace with the falling and slow tumbling until we reach a place...and the observer on the street with his head craning to see, sees something and then nothing, and Pavarotti is on stage in Paris perfectly, perfectly, perfectly, the only thing every perfectly done by a human, wailing the final lyrics, "vincero! vincero!" "we shall be victorious!"

my nana, laying on her bed with eyes closed, knowing she is very close to death, has a moment of terror.  she is painfully aware that her life is ending.  she will soon slip into sleep and be protected from this fear in the haze of the final transition.  but for this moment she is lucid and the fear strikes her body.  it is a visceral, deeply emotional fear.  there are no accompanying thoughts. it exists in a flash of bodily discomfort.  but then she hears the music, which has been playing since the beginning, and in that moment the music washes over her.  she is comforted by the voice and the orchestra and the fear dissolves.  there is only acceptance and meaning, the knowledge that she lived a purposeful, wonderful life and protected the ones she loved with her radiance.

Pavarotti "Nessun Dorma"

bravo.

with a belly full of love,
Anthony

tall white guy

"fuck them bitches" he said.

this man of constant sorrow and perpetual anxiety said again, "fuck them bitches"  he was sitting at a bus stop next to a woman wearing a powdered wig, like a british barrister.  the man was reading Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, Letter Number 8.  he was facing a great challenge and thus feeling sad.  he did not like the exposure, exposure to the winds of change, hard driving winds blowing in currents of the forlorn and the gloom.  he felt the gloom in the winds of change and had to sit with one hand clutching the modern, green, bus stop seat with its rounded trapezoidal holes.  with his right hand he clutched the bottom of the metal seat, and with the left hand he held the book, the tangible book, with pages.  he used his thumb and ring finger to spread the pages open and his pointer and middle fingers to support the back of the book.  in this way he held and read the book.

"fuck them bitches"

the woman looked at him and assumed things.  she wore the wig out of conscience.  she felt like a more moral person with the powdered wig, with its curlets dropping down around her neck.  she felt more like a bird this way.  she associated birds with greater moral clarity "even though the hawk swoops down and tears the throat out of the mouse".

they both heard the buzzing at the same time and turned their heads to the left.  coming towards them about a block away (it had just turned right onto Van Ness) was a fly.  the fly was at least three feet long and starch white with bulging black eyes.  its wings, and there seemed to be hundreds of wings all flapping in psychotic synchronicity, were dark green moving into black.  they glimmered just a bit.  what beautiful contrast, this black on white.

the woman, who did not like bugs, was paralyzed by the fear.  she wanted so badly to move from her seat at the bus stop, but the shock was too great, and the man, soft and forlorn, just squeezed his butt cheeks together.  he could move, but only in a reverse bowel movement, muscles that in this situation aided nothing.  maybe running home from school, 6 years old, shit struggling to come out into the world, these muscles would have helped.  but in this instance, their clenching, the great power of their clenching did nothing.

"fuck, fuck, fuck" said the man. the book dropped, Rilke in super slow motion, the dragons and princesses from the text projected out into plain view; the man now both hands clutching bus stop seat.

the freakish white fly continued toward them, each foot closer producing exponentially greater anxiety in both the wigged woman and the bowel man.  excruciatingly closer and closer it flew.  the flapping, more like lightening, each unique downward propulsion a spear into the heart of anxiety, man and woman.  great distances imagined, deserts of miles and miles, this fiend of a fly was coming for their hearts, it would eat their hearts and fuck them in the in the place they both craved and feared.  what coincidence! what charm! eating and fucking, eating and fucking, gizzards and rectums rescued by the gorgeous giant winged creature.  a horse of a fly.

and it flew right by, tipping its cap. kept on going down the street.  one block further and then left on Turk probably to a bar for a drink.

a great deal of time passed and no bus arrived.  finally, the man said "fuck them bitches"

"yes, fuck them bitches"

fin

with all kinds of love,
Anthony