The summer sun beat hard down on his upturned face as he mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. The burning eye in the sky told him that it was noon and he plopped down on the slowly growing pile of wood next to him and lit a cigarette, closing his lighter with a small flourish.
The winter had been a long one, leaden with tears and heavy glances. She had not understood his epiphany, that the house they had built was built in error – out of a need for security more than a desire for satisfaction. She had screamed, cried, pleaded, thrown things at him, upturned furniture. In the end, he had been forced to drive her from the building and back to her parents' home, her pack and belongings slung over his own shoulders, her weeping being their traveling tune.
The rest of the spring was spent cataloging the nature and quality of the house. He didn't spend another night in its walls, but pitched a shelter on the edge of the woods and cooked his repasts over an open flame. Once the meticulous lists were completed and he was sure that he had learned every error and how it had come about, he began deconstruction; the first day of summer.
Plank by plank, nail by nail, pillow by chair, the house was torn limb from limb and thrown into a great pile. The burn in his arms was cathartic, the sweat on his brow soothing to his bruised mind. As the pile grew, so to did his satisfaction with this new-found life he was “building” for himself. Every board felt like a small revelation, the naked wood underneath describing the nature of all the falsehood he had inadvertently found himself believing. When the pile stood as high as he and the remains of the house little more than a skeleton of sun-bleached timber, he finally felt whole again.
Cigarette finished, he stood, took up his hammer in his belt, went back into the carcass. Climbing, monkey-like, muscles taut and straining, he ascended the structure to the apex and began the long – but last – step of disassembling the framework from the top, down. Overtaken by the fever of determination, he did not stop for rest or sustenance until he finished, leaving only the foundation posts in place. Two days he spent crawling over the final remains and he finalized the entire enterprise by hewing off the last posts at the base.
The garden had long returned to its natural state, as if it had never felt the touch of the hoe; the fence surrounding it had been removed and cast into the pile. The entire structure removed, the ground where it had once stood was now level and bare, the only visible evidence of its existence the expanse of dirt in place of the surrounding grass. The paving stones that had once made up the walk were pulled up and planted, on edge, in the earth around the pile, creating an uneven circle about it. The pile itself, meanwhile, had been carefully altered, with certain longer boards and pieces replaced so as to protrude out- or upward. On some of these poles, furniture was skewered. On others, blankets were stretched or other boards lashed. This final effort produced a horrific effect on the ramshackle monolith. It stood halfway between the woods and the empty plot, grinning insanely, an ominous warning to passersby of events unknown.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Avuncular, Yes I Am
I paced around the waiting room in a frenetic sort of mania. My mother sat calmly at the little round table, reminiscing with her friend about their past pregnancies. I tried to sit at my computer to find a way to fritter some time, but the communication between my mind and the information i was taking in was muddled. I couldn't concentrate. It took me forever to finagle a wireless connection.
A friend came and met me. I smoked a cigarette outside, calmed by the action and her presence. The unholy amount of nervous energy coursing through my limbs quieted, slowed to a trickle.
Back in the ward, i found out i had missed Steve coming out. Everything was going fine. Allyson had been given an epidural and was calm and pain-free. Radius of dilation indicated that our wait would not be long. We settled in for the home-stretch.
Heh. Yeh, right. My nervous energy came back full force in no time and i was soon forced up from my computer to patron the sidewalk outside. I predicted - based on Murphy's Law and my own piss-poor luck - that the baby would be born while my friend and i were gone. I was almost right. Shortly after i finished my smoke, my phone vibrates:
From: Steve
Check your email!
We run back upstairs, i gibber something about emails and Steve to my mom and log into Gmail. Lo and behold, what should my eyes see but this little angel on my monitor:
And dear me, what a sight.
A friend came and met me. I smoked a cigarette outside, calmed by the action and her presence. The unholy amount of nervous energy coursing through my limbs quieted, slowed to a trickle.
Back in the ward, i found out i had missed Steve coming out. Everything was going fine. Allyson had been given an epidural and was calm and pain-free. Radius of dilation indicated that our wait would not be long. We settled in for the home-stretch.
Heh. Yeh, right. My nervous energy came back full force in no time and i was soon forced up from my computer to patron the sidewalk outside. I predicted - based on Murphy's Law and my own piss-poor luck - that the baby would be born while my friend and i were gone. I was almost right. Shortly after i finished my smoke, my phone vibrates:
From: Steve
Check your email!
We run back upstairs, i gibber something about emails and Steve to my mom and log into Gmail. Lo and behold, what should my eyes see but this little angel on my monitor:
And dear me, what a sight.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Houses & Homes, Pt 2
“Home”.
The word continued to ring in his head. Something about it felt wrong. False. He replayed the argument he had had with her over and over again on his long trek back from the annual meeting in the glade. She hadn't wanted him to go, claiming that their journey was over, that they had built a home for themselves and he had no reason to return to his old life, his old friends. The fight had been long and bitter and, in the end, he had slung his pack over his shoulders and slammed the front door shut to block out the sound of her weeping.
He felt alive again on the trail, in his old ways, to see his old friends. He had hunted, reveling in the game; the chase, the kill, the blood on his hands. The taste of meat, after almost a year of nothing but vegetables and bread, had revitalized something deep and forgotten inside of him. He arrived in the glade full of good spirits and to the triumphal thunder of his comrades in wandering. For seven days they sat around the fire, swapping stories and sharing their meals. The musician had sacrificed valuable pack-weight to bring his guitar, and the music harmonized them. The brute had brought a jug of his best whiskey, and the liqueur cheered them. The lover had brought his best stories from the far reaches of the land, and his words challenged them. He himself had brought a sample of the tobacco he had been growing that year, and the smoke soothed them. All too soon, though, their time was over and they bid each other bittersweet farewell and went their separate ways.
Smoke traced a spiraled, parabolic arc, dissipating slowly, following the path of his discarded cigarette. His house was in sight and she hated his smoking. He had finished the last of his meat, not bothering to hunt so close to his property, knowing that he'd not be allowed to keep any of it. He sighed, readjusted his pack, and walked up the path to the front door.
His reception was terse, but civil, and the cold shoulder only lasted until dinner, which consisted of a simple fair of vegetable stew and sourdough. He ate two helpings and didn't taste any of it.
The moon rose on their bodies entwined, her pale skin turned to porcelain by the ghost light. She was warm and passionate, burning for his presence, his arms wrapped around her. He prayed she didn't notice his hollowness. The motions were right, each caress practiced to perfection, the words coming in just the right order, at just the right time, but his mind was in the sitting room.
The sitting room was cedar.
The outside walls were sided with oak. The bedroom was cherry. There was no stonework. No willow. No ebony. This was not his house.
And he knew, in that moment, that this life was over.
The word continued to ring in his head. Something about it felt wrong. False. He replayed the argument he had had with her over and over again on his long trek back from the annual meeting in the glade. She hadn't wanted him to go, claiming that their journey was over, that they had built a home for themselves and he had no reason to return to his old life, his old friends. The fight had been long and bitter and, in the end, he had slung his pack over his shoulders and slammed the front door shut to block out the sound of her weeping.
He felt alive again on the trail, in his old ways, to see his old friends. He had hunted, reveling in the game; the chase, the kill, the blood on his hands. The taste of meat, after almost a year of nothing but vegetables and bread, had revitalized something deep and forgotten inside of him. He arrived in the glade full of good spirits and to the triumphal thunder of his comrades in wandering. For seven days they sat around the fire, swapping stories and sharing their meals. The musician had sacrificed valuable pack-weight to bring his guitar, and the music harmonized them. The brute had brought a jug of his best whiskey, and the liqueur cheered them. The lover had brought his best stories from the far reaches of the land, and his words challenged them. He himself had brought a sample of the tobacco he had been growing that year, and the smoke soothed them. All too soon, though, their time was over and they bid each other bittersweet farewell and went their separate ways.
Smoke traced a spiraled, parabolic arc, dissipating slowly, following the path of his discarded cigarette. His house was in sight and she hated his smoking. He had finished the last of his meat, not bothering to hunt so close to his property, knowing that he'd not be allowed to keep any of it. He sighed, readjusted his pack, and walked up the path to the front door.
His reception was terse, but civil, and the cold shoulder only lasted until dinner, which consisted of a simple fair of vegetable stew and sourdough. He ate two helpings and didn't taste any of it.
The moon rose on their bodies entwined, her pale skin turned to porcelain by the ghost light. She was warm and passionate, burning for his presence, his arms wrapped around her. He prayed she didn't notice his hollowness. The motions were right, each caress practiced to perfection, the words coming in just the right order, at just the right time, but his mind was in the sitting room.
The sitting room was cedar.
The outside walls were sided with oak. The bedroom was cherry. There was no stonework. No willow. No ebony. This was not his house.
And he knew, in that moment, that this life was over.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Houses & Homes, Pt 1
In a place and a time not too far from where we live, live people not too far from what we are. The people are not complicated, their labors are not in vain. They eat, drink, and find satisfaction in their work. For these simple folk, man's greatest achievement is the construction of a home; a domicile for him and his. This is the story of one young man in that place.
===
He'd always loved his parents' house. It was older than he was and had all the eccentricities that come along with such age. It was worn down to comfort by life and years. When something broke, his mom and dad worked hard to fix it again. It was these aspects that appealed to him; the house was not perfect, not elegant by most means, but it was solid, beautiful, and warm. He loved his house.
But it was not his house.
When the time came, as it does in the life of every young man, he packed up his belongings, slung them across his back, kissed his mother good-bye, and walked out the front door to make his own way in the world and, one day, to build his own home. In addition to the supplies necessary for survival, he carried with him tools: shovel, axe, lighter, rope, saw, hammer. These he would want eventually, when he found just the right plot of land, but they were not the most important tools he carried with him.
In his hands, he had the skills he had acquired over his lifetime, some more useful than others. With these skills, he made his way – foraging, bartering, working, doing whatever he needed to do to continue on his journey. His parents were intelligent, hard-working folk and they had done their best to ensure that he had been given every skill he would need to survive on the road. He possessed a quick, nimble mind, a clever eye, and an easy, sociable nature. No feat seemed beyond his reach.
I tell you this not merely to inform you about this young man's nature, but also as a contrast to the second important tool that he carried with him. In his mind, as most people do, he held a blueprint of the house that he would one day build and a list of all the materials he would want to use in the construction. Some of the ideas he'd gotten from his parents' house, some, from his friends. A few of the concepts were original ideas, never before used in a house of which he knew. Never satisfied with the staples, we was consistently scrapping certain materials in favor of different, less common ones. It was this never-ending search for the perfect construction that drove him, both forward and slightly mad.
===
There are always a lot of people on the road, going all sorts of places in all manners of conveyances. Many of his friends traveled with him for a long time, making discoveries, experiencing hardships, laughing. A few quickly found their plots and settled down to build. He visited as often as he could, offered his help where desired. Eventually, they all parted ways, needing to find their own separate paths.
He kept up communications with a few of them, penning long letters every few months. Once a year, they gathered again in the old glade, trading stories and ideas in the glow of embers and starlight, but every year, fewer returned.
Loneliness began to color his frustration. Everyone around him seemed to have found their ideal settings and had settled down, but he knew that their decisions were not his own and that he could never be happy with their lives. He trudged on.
One day, while picking up some supplies in town, he met a girl his own age who was also unsatisfied with the choices of her friends and family. She was tiny and delicate, all wide eyes and dainty hands. Her small arms would never be able to swing a hammer precisely, let alone fell a tree and cut it into planks; he wondered how she would build her house. He wondered about his own.
He introduced himself and they got to talking, about their travels, their ideas, what they were looking for in life. They had many similar propensities and took to each other quickly. Over the next few weeks, they saw each other often on the road. His path and her's seemed to cross more and more regularly and he usually helped her strike camp at night; her shelters were flimsy, barely keeping out the rain, and she detested making fires. He was amazed at the strength of will she possessed to make it this far, in spite of what appeared to be a complete lack of the necessary skills.
The months passed, the seasons changed, and they grew to rely on each other. Winter had come. The snows blowing in fast and they hunkered down, together, to wait for the thaw.
Abandoning their temporary shelters, he dug a foundation and put up four walls of sod blocks, topping it off with a roof of oak branches and bark. It was simple and small, but it kept the wind out at night. During the thin air of the early morning, he would hunt, bringing back fresh meat as often as he could. The bulk of the daylight hours were spent goofing off, playing in the cold white and chatting about what they could do once the thaw came. When the sun went down and the wind began to howl, they would huddle together in their blankets and he would tell her stories to drown out her concerns.
Slowly, inexorably, the days lengthened. The snow had lost its annual appeal and the two found themselves with more and more time on their hands. The animals were returning and awakening and food was plentiful; he was even able to find green things for her to eat to satisfy her less-than-carnivorous appetite. Cramped, bored, and increasingly irritable, they began to expand their tiny hut.
One dull morning, she awoke to the rhythmic sound of axe swings, like a raw heartbeat in the gauzy winter sunshine. All that day – and most of that week – he spent felling trees and hewing them into planks which she then sanded and planed. They had no nails, so he worked methodically, cutting notches into each board and fitting them together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Progress was slow and frustrating. Once started, he attacked the project with a sort of mania, driven to finish it by a deep, intrinsic need to create something out of nothing. She, in comparison, was content to help where she could, not caring about the form of the structure, but merely the function and, as a consequence, couldn't see his concept and often missed a crucial step, forcing him to scrap a day's labor and start over.
The spring thaw found them living in a small house, sleeping in a real bed, cooking in a dedicated kitchen, and storing their leftovers in a dirty – yet tidy – cellar. Their next project was a garden, for which she picked out the items to be planted and he tilled the earth. For a while, they loved their little house and modest existence. The warm sun was a balm for the cabin fever caused by the long months spent in the sod hut, the food from their little garden giving them the simple joy of the fruits of their labors.
Spring pressed on and both occupants of the little house found their discontent growing proportionally with the length of each day. The garden wasn't big enough for her. The house was only one story. He was finding it to be stifling and too warm during the hotter parts of the day. By mid-summer, she demanded that he build a proper house. He didn't take much convincing.
===
He'd always loved his parents' house. It was older than he was and had all the eccentricities that come along with such age. It was worn down to comfort by life and years. When something broke, his mom and dad worked hard to fix it again. It was these aspects that appealed to him; the house was not perfect, not elegant by most means, but it was solid, beautiful, and warm. He loved his house.
But it was not his house.
When the time came, as it does in the life of every young man, he packed up his belongings, slung them across his back, kissed his mother good-bye, and walked out the front door to make his own way in the world and, one day, to build his own home. In addition to the supplies necessary for survival, he carried with him tools: shovel, axe, lighter, rope, saw, hammer. These he would want eventually, when he found just the right plot of land, but they were not the most important tools he carried with him.
In his hands, he had the skills he had acquired over his lifetime, some more useful than others. With these skills, he made his way – foraging, bartering, working, doing whatever he needed to do to continue on his journey. His parents were intelligent, hard-working folk and they had done their best to ensure that he had been given every skill he would need to survive on the road. He possessed a quick, nimble mind, a clever eye, and an easy, sociable nature. No feat seemed beyond his reach.
I tell you this not merely to inform you about this young man's nature, but also as a contrast to the second important tool that he carried with him. In his mind, as most people do, he held a blueprint of the house that he would one day build and a list of all the materials he would want to use in the construction. Some of the ideas he'd gotten from his parents' house, some, from his friends. A few of the concepts were original ideas, never before used in a house of which he knew. Never satisfied with the staples, we was consistently scrapping certain materials in favor of different, less common ones. It was this never-ending search for the perfect construction that drove him, both forward and slightly mad.
===
There are always a lot of people on the road, going all sorts of places in all manners of conveyances. Many of his friends traveled with him for a long time, making discoveries, experiencing hardships, laughing. A few quickly found their plots and settled down to build. He visited as often as he could, offered his help where desired. Eventually, they all parted ways, needing to find their own separate paths.
He kept up communications with a few of them, penning long letters every few months. Once a year, they gathered again in the old glade, trading stories and ideas in the glow of embers and starlight, but every year, fewer returned.
Loneliness began to color his frustration. Everyone around him seemed to have found their ideal settings and had settled down, but he knew that their decisions were not his own and that he could never be happy with their lives. He trudged on.
One day, while picking up some supplies in town, he met a girl his own age who was also unsatisfied with the choices of her friends and family. She was tiny and delicate, all wide eyes and dainty hands. Her small arms would never be able to swing a hammer precisely, let alone fell a tree and cut it into planks; he wondered how she would build her house. He wondered about his own.
He introduced himself and they got to talking, about their travels, their ideas, what they were looking for in life. They had many similar propensities and took to each other quickly. Over the next few weeks, they saw each other often on the road. His path and her's seemed to cross more and more regularly and he usually helped her strike camp at night; her shelters were flimsy, barely keeping out the rain, and she detested making fires. He was amazed at the strength of will she possessed to make it this far, in spite of what appeared to be a complete lack of the necessary skills.
The months passed, the seasons changed, and they grew to rely on each other. Winter had come. The snows blowing in fast and they hunkered down, together, to wait for the thaw.
Abandoning their temporary shelters, he dug a foundation and put up four walls of sod blocks, topping it off with a roof of oak branches and bark. It was simple and small, but it kept the wind out at night. During the thin air of the early morning, he would hunt, bringing back fresh meat as often as he could. The bulk of the daylight hours were spent goofing off, playing in the cold white and chatting about what they could do once the thaw came. When the sun went down and the wind began to howl, they would huddle together in their blankets and he would tell her stories to drown out her concerns.
Slowly, inexorably, the days lengthened. The snow had lost its annual appeal and the two found themselves with more and more time on their hands. The animals were returning and awakening and food was plentiful; he was even able to find green things for her to eat to satisfy her less-than-carnivorous appetite. Cramped, bored, and increasingly irritable, they began to expand their tiny hut.
One dull morning, she awoke to the rhythmic sound of axe swings, like a raw heartbeat in the gauzy winter sunshine. All that day – and most of that week – he spent felling trees and hewing them into planks which she then sanded and planed. They had no nails, so he worked methodically, cutting notches into each board and fitting them together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Progress was slow and frustrating. Once started, he attacked the project with a sort of mania, driven to finish it by a deep, intrinsic need to create something out of nothing. She, in comparison, was content to help where she could, not caring about the form of the structure, but merely the function and, as a consequence, couldn't see his concept and often missed a crucial step, forcing him to scrap a day's labor and start over.
The spring thaw found them living in a small house, sleeping in a real bed, cooking in a dedicated kitchen, and storing their leftovers in a dirty – yet tidy – cellar. Their next project was a garden, for which she picked out the items to be planted and he tilled the earth. For a while, they loved their little house and modest existence. The warm sun was a balm for the cabin fever caused by the long months spent in the sod hut, the food from their little garden giving them the simple joy of the fruits of their labors.
Spring pressed on and both occupants of the little house found their discontent growing proportionally with the length of each day. The garden wasn't big enough for her. The house was only one story. He was finding it to be stifling and too warm during the hotter parts of the day. By mid-summer, she demanded that he build a proper house. He didn't take much convincing.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Stop Saying Words
My updates have been sporadic, this i know. It isn't that i have nothing to say, either. My mind teems with theories and ideas and concepts and thoughts and rants and inane malecowpoop. So why aren't i writing?
One of the problems is one that has plagued me my entire writing life: i want it to be perfect and i want it to be perfect the first time. If an idea doesn't leap into my mind, fully formed and armed like Athena from the forehead of Zues, i tend to shelve it until its had more time to mature. Unfortunately, my mind can only incubate so many ideas at a time and this leads to more half-formed, ignored ideas than i care to admit.
A second problem is that i'm simply not sure if this is the correct forum for some of these thoughts. Shall i rant here about why i believe parents of adult children need to quit trying to parent them and why? What about my ongoing hypothesis on the very nature of love, including why we need more words for it, why romance is dead, and why it will always be the most powerful force in the world? Ok, that one might be cool...
The last reason/problem is twofold. The first part is that i've been busy. A lot has been going on in my life and its taken up a lot of energy to deal with it. Now, this might seem like a good thing for a 'blogger since it provides plenty of material to write about, but let me assure you, its not. Why? you might ask. I know you didn't, but this would have been a pretty boring paragraph if it had stopped after my contrary assertion. The answer is because its entirely likely that the people in my life that are currently making it interesting are READING THIS 'BLOG RIGHT NOW. Not only is that some freaky, Twilight Zone kinda sh!t ("omg, they're reading right now? Are they reading it over my shoulder?"), but its just not conducive to navigating these tricky little things we call "human relationships". I miss my cats.
So yes, my updates have been fewer and farer between that i was originally hoping. This is unfortunate, but trust me; i have plenty more to say.
One of the problems is one that has plagued me my entire writing life: i want it to be perfect and i want it to be perfect the first time. If an idea doesn't leap into my mind, fully formed and armed like Athena from the forehead of Zues, i tend to shelve it until its had more time to mature. Unfortunately, my mind can only incubate so many ideas at a time and this leads to more half-formed, ignored ideas than i care to admit.
A second problem is that i'm simply not sure if this is the correct forum for some of these thoughts. Shall i rant here about why i believe parents of adult children need to quit trying to parent them and why? What about my ongoing hypothesis on the very nature of love, including why we need more words for it, why romance is dead, and why it will always be the most powerful force in the world? Ok, that one might be cool...
The last reason/problem is twofold. The first part is that i've been busy. A lot has been going on in my life and its taken up a lot of energy to deal with it. Now, this might seem like a good thing for a 'blogger since it provides plenty of material to write about, but let me assure you, its not. Why? you might ask. I know you didn't, but this would have been a pretty boring paragraph if it had stopped after my contrary assertion. The answer is because its entirely likely that the people in my life that are currently making it interesting are READING THIS 'BLOG RIGHT NOW. Not only is that some freaky, Twilight Zone kinda sh!t ("omg, they're reading right now? Are they reading it over my shoulder?"), but its just not conducive to navigating these tricky little things we call "human relationships". I miss my cats.
So yes, my updates have been fewer and farer between that i was originally hoping. This is unfortunate, but trust me; i have plenty more to say.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Audiomancers.
I was take this space to rant for a while about how much i hate being treated like a vending machine when i'm behind the counter at my place of work, but then i got home to find Good Night, States practicing in my living room. Please excuse me, then, for taking some time to describe just why and how much i love them, as i've been meaning to do so for some time now.
The thought to write this post came to me as i was looking at one of the many machines GN,S uses to power their music. Sitting about 10 inches high, 10 inches deep and about a foot wide, the box was made out of the most plain looking wood you can think of. On the front, various wire protruded, leading, no doubt, to various basses, guitars, or keyboards. All around the jacks for these wires were knobs, switches, and a couple bright indicator lights of red and green.
I have no idea this device does. Trevor said he hadn't gotten around to labelling any of the controls. In case you missed it, that little comment of the bassist's implies that he built this peculiar little soundbox.
THIS, in a nutshell, is what sets GN,S apart in my mind. They are not just musicians (although they are, and great ones at that), but engineers of their beautiful, unique sounds. I would hazard to say that approximately 60% of the equipment you see on stage was built from scratch by the performers with an additional 20% having at one point been repaired or modded by them.
Now, ok, if this is the best evidence i can give for the awesomeness that is Good Night, States, all i've really accomplished is showing you the geekiest band since Anamanaguchi (who rock, btw). Fortunately, it is the live show which really displays their talent and their need for so many personally and specifically constructed pieces of equipment.
It takes them a while to set up. In fact, you can find pictures on their websites of the numerous diagrams they've created in an effort to discover the best and most efficient stage setup. Dan (drummer) is usually in a corner, behind his kit and little chimes and xylophones, making the craziest faces you'll ever see a human being make while doing something that doesn't involve severe physical danger. Opposite him, Megan (synths) and Joe (guitar, synths) are stationed behind a bank of keyboard synthesizers, with Joe's guitar rack and pedalboard trapping them in. Crammed between these two are Steve (lead vocals, guitar) and Trevor (bassist), Steve front and center, behind a microphone and tiny city of pedals, and Trevor stalking around just behind or to the side of him, finding space wherever he can.
It is difficult to categorize Good Night, States' sound. "Synth-folk" is the term i believe they are using now, and its a pretty accurate explanation. The melodies, the lyrics, the feel is all very raw and pure, something you wouldn't expect to hear in this age of auto-tuned producers-turned-artists. They are beautiful, catchy, sometimes simple: something you enjoy singing or clapping along to, which makes it so much more jarring when they break the song down in a turbulent maelstrom of noise, sound, and dischord.
In a number of their songs, there is a breakdown, an unraveling of all the neat threads that make up the fabric of the song. Feedback pours and writhes out from the amplifiers. The bass line, keyboards, and drums are out of sync and seemingly playing random strings of notes and beats. The synthesizers blanket the cacophony with static, pings, bleeps, screeches. And in the midst of the chaos are the musicians, focused, intent on their instruments; they are not lost in the storm. They are creating it. Like mad, musical scientists, they have engineered a monster and are using their many devices and skills to corral it, control it, shape it and direct it into something useful. Something beautiful.
And they succeed, dear reader.
The thought to write this post came to me as i was looking at one of the many machines GN,S uses to power their music. Sitting about 10 inches high, 10 inches deep and about a foot wide, the box was made out of the most plain looking wood you can think of. On the front, various wire protruded, leading, no doubt, to various basses, guitars, or keyboards. All around the jacks for these wires were knobs, switches, and a couple bright indicator lights of red and green.
I have no idea this device does. Trevor said he hadn't gotten around to labelling any of the controls. In case you missed it, that little comment of the bassist's implies that he built this peculiar little soundbox.
THIS, in a nutshell, is what sets GN,S apart in my mind. They are not just musicians (although they are, and great ones at that), but engineers of their beautiful, unique sounds. I would hazard to say that approximately 60% of the equipment you see on stage was built from scratch by the performers with an additional 20% having at one point been repaired or modded by them.
Now, ok, if this is the best evidence i can give for the awesomeness that is Good Night, States, all i've really accomplished is showing you the geekiest band since Anamanaguchi (who rock, btw). Fortunately, it is the live show which really displays their talent and their need for so many personally and specifically constructed pieces of equipment.
It takes them a while to set up. In fact, you can find pictures on their websites of the numerous diagrams they've created in an effort to discover the best and most efficient stage setup. Dan (drummer) is usually in a corner, behind his kit and little chimes and xylophones, making the craziest faces you'll ever see a human being make while doing something that doesn't involve severe physical danger. Opposite him, Megan (synths) and Joe (guitar, synths) are stationed behind a bank of keyboard synthesizers, with Joe's guitar rack and pedalboard trapping them in. Crammed between these two are Steve (lead vocals, guitar) and Trevor (bassist), Steve front and center, behind a microphone and tiny city of pedals, and Trevor stalking around just behind or to the side of him, finding space wherever he can.
It is difficult to categorize Good Night, States' sound. "Synth-folk" is the term i believe they are using now, and its a pretty accurate explanation. The melodies, the lyrics, the feel is all very raw and pure, something you wouldn't expect to hear in this age of auto-tuned producers-turned-artists. They are beautiful, catchy, sometimes simple: something you enjoy singing or clapping along to, which makes it so much more jarring when they break the song down in a turbulent maelstrom of noise, sound, and dischord.
In a number of their songs, there is a breakdown, an unraveling of all the neat threads that make up the fabric of the song. Feedback pours and writhes out from the amplifiers. The bass line, keyboards, and drums are out of sync and seemingly playing random strings of notes and beats. The synthesizers blanket the cacophony with static, pings, bleeps, screeches. And in the midst of the chaos are the musicians, focused, intent on their instruments; they are not lost in the storm. They are creating it. Like mad, musical scientists, they have engineered a monster and are using their many devices and skills to corral it, control it, shape it and direct it into something useful. Something beautiful.
And they succeed, dear reader.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Sci Fi: Its Actually Cool!
I've long championed the art and beauty of the science fiction and fantasy genres to any who would hear me. Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings are among my favorite works of fiction for as long as i can remember, but they are by no means a comprehensive list. Anyone today can claim to like those stories and not get looked at twice.
But what about Star Trek?
Ender's Saga?
H. P. Lovecraft?
The Dragonlance Trilogy?
Battlestar Galactica?
These are the titles that, if you've even heard of them, are generally accepted as geeky accolades only acknowledged by fellow-geeks. As an aspiring writer, even i am deeply concerned by the idea that my peers simply will not respect my work because i choose to write science fiction and fantasy instead of the much more respected "literary fiction". I am trying to get over this fear. Here are a couple of instances that have helped me out:
The Ender's Saga, by Orson Scott Card, is one of the greatest works of literature i have ever read, by any definition. Ender's Game, the first book in the series - and the first one i read - was such a thrilling and intelligent tour through military intrigue and child psychology (yes, they're related; read it!) that i was immediately hooked and tore through the following installments. It was only after reading the second book, Speaker for the Dead, that i found out that Ender's Game was written solely so he would have a backdrop for Speaker. In it, Card not only opines our species' likely reaction to first contact with a completely intelligent, non-human life form, he also philosophizes on the very nature of potential moral, religious, and philosophical differences we would most likely run into. And he does it all in a story so exciting that you'll find it just as hard to put down as any crappy novel about human/vampire love affairs. Did i mention that both Ender's Game AND Speaker for the Dead won the Hugo Award for Best Novel AND the Nebula Award for Best Novel?
But that's literature, right? Of course books are going to be more intelligent and high-brow than TV and movies. For the most part, i totally agree with that statement. It shames me to be a fan of the series which eventually gave us Jar Jar Binks and Hayden Christensen. (SERIOUSLY, Lucas?!) But then there are the Battlestar Galacticas. In case you hadn't heard, this happened recently. And in case you can't be bothered to read the article found in that link, i'll summarize it for you: the UN found the themes raised in BSG to be so relevant and important that they co-hosted a panel with the creators and stars of the show to discuss these themes. And no, the themes were not "phasers", "replicators", and "skin-tight bodysuits". They were more uplifting topics like relative wartime ethics, and children and armed conflict. For you fans out there, at one point, Edward James Olmos was so impassioned by the speech he was making regarding the nature of the human species as one unified race that he ended with a shouted, "So say we all!" And, brad dammit, the audience responded in kind and with just as much passion.
Get used to laser guns and warp drives, because they're here to stay.
But what about Star Trek?
Ender's Saga?
H. P. Lovecraft?
The Dragonlance Trilogy?
Battlestar Galactica?
These are the titles that, if you've even heard of them, are generally accepted as geeky accolades only acknowledged by fellow-geeks. As an aspiring writer, even i am deeply concerned by the idea that my peers simply will not respect my work because i choose to write science fiction and fantasy instead of the much more respected "literary fiction". I am trying to get over this fear. Here are a couple of instances that have helped me out:
The Ender's Saga, by Orson Scott Card, is one of the greatest works of literature i have ever read, by any definition. Ender's Game, the first book in the series - and the first one i read - was such a thrilling and intelligent tour through military intrigue and child psychology (yes, they're related; read it!) that i was immediately hooked and tore through the following installments. It was only after reading the second book, Speaker for the Dead, that i found out that Ender's Game was written solely so he would have a backdrop for Speaker. In it, Card not only opines our species' likely reaction to first contact with a completely intelligent, non-human life form, he also philosophizes on the very nature of potential moral, religious, and philosophical differences we would most likely run into. And he does it all in a story so exciting that you'll find it just as hard to put down as any crappy novel about human/vampire love affairs. Did i mention that both Ender's Game AND Speaker for the Dead won the Hugo Award for Best Novel AND the Nebula Award for Best Novel?
But that's literature, right? Of course books are going to be more intelligent and high-brow than TV and movies. For the most part, i totally agree with that statement. It shames me to be a fan of the series which eventually gave us Jar Jar Binks and Hayden Christensen. (SERIOUSLY, Lucas?!) But then there are the Battlestar Galacticas. In case you hadn't heard, this happened recently. And in case you can't be bothered to read the article found in that link, i'll summarize it for you: the UN found the themes raised in BSG to be so relevant and important that they co-hosted a panel with the creators and stars of the show to discuss these themes. And no, the themes were not "phasers", "replicators", and "skin-tight bodysuits". They were more uplifting topics like relative wartime ethics, and children and armed conflict. For you fans out there, at one point, Edward James Olmos was so impassioned by the speech he was making regarding the nature of the human species as one unified race that he ended with a shouted, "So say we all!" And, brad dammit, the audience responded in kind and with just as much passion.
Get used to laser guns and warp drives, because they're here to stay.
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