You probably feel one of two ways about the Death Cab For Cutie song “The New Year”: you’ve either never heard it, or you think it’s over-played. Regardless, this time every year I naturally think about the song, which I consider to be one of the most poetic, succinct rock songs out there. Whether we are talking about lyrics or poetry or something else entirely, Ben Gibbard’s words for “The New Year” are a shining example of sparsity well used, and the band’s music states the perfect counterpoint to the theme. Here are the words and then some badass YouTube videos (some live versions and the official video):
The New Year
words by Ben Gibbard
So this is the new year,
and I don’t feel any different–
the clanking of crystal,
explosions off in the distance.
So this is the new year
and I have no resolutions.
They’re self assigned penance
for problems with easy solutions.
So everybody put your best suit or dress on,
let’s make believe that we are wealthy for just this once.
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
as thirty dialogues bleed into one.
I wish the world was flat like the old days
and I could travel just by folding a map.
No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways:
there’d be no distance that could hold us back.
Here’s the official music video:
Here’s a clip of a great performance of the song, but the YouTube video quality sucks:
Posted in Prose with tags prose, women on December 29, 2009 by sethdellinger
In the absence of strong emotions (feelings and events) I must attempt to create some; after all, I’m an artist, silly, and what is an artist to do with comfy stasis? Like the static on a forgotten television which is ceaselessly changing yet ever the same, fuzzy jumping dots never wrote no poetry, mister, and a solid waterfall is beautiful but sees no beauty. Oh, I can work up a good head of anger, sure, at things like traffic lights and long lines, but anything righteous is long gone, replaced by news radio and cozy lunches with friends on their office lunch breaks, and plastic chess with people I know I’ll beat, and diet fucking soda. Oh sure, it’s nice to be out of the struggle for a bit, the pain and the hunger, the loneliness and the crude jokes, but a little heartbreak would be nice, a few tears over something besides an Almodovar film, hell, buddy, something more real than reaching for another Q-Tip by my bedside and another round of Bloomin’ Onions at the Outback Steak House. I bought a CD today (because I still buy CDs) that had an old song of ours on it, in an ill-conceived attempt to feel that pain again, but it’s too long gone now, too long gone (too far away for me to hold); hell it’s been over a decade since I was hurt like that. I ended up jerking off about you and going back to reading Maxim. Sure, man, sure, I’m elated all the damn time in my current life, elated and pleasantly pleased and happy as birdshit without the purple shit in it (that purple shit is shit too) and I could go on being elated and lifted-up and as clear as a damn Scientologist till the day they bury my grinning corpse, but I’d trade all the joy in the world for one more drop of genuine exquisite sorrow, cause the light gets blinding without any darkness (and a coin won’t buy you dick ‘less it’s got two sides), so come on, bitches, break my heart, I need it as bad as you’re gonna need the guilt.
Here’s the road through fields,
across gullies, up mountains
new lovers drive to expose
their kisses to moonlight, starlight.
Public where no one can see them,
they wrap themselves in excess,
immodesty, failure of love
for the common day,
for streets laid out in a grid,
identical houses, lives
like socks in a drawer, in fists,
in hidden knots of fabric,
linen stacked in closets,
dishes cleared away.
Tables gleam like water
over depths, shadows
through windows, breath
an act of stealth
from room to room. My sister
sleeps, my parents mumble
in their sleep, my lovers
are all laughing at me, or
kissing me, or smoking
long expensive cigarettes,
our dog is dying and we
loved her, but she was never
anything more than a dog, and she
is dust with my grandfathers
and my old notebooks
and laughs that echo through
your rent-free basement
efficiency, or the city at midnight.
Now, from the overlook,
the valley stretches it’s rocky skin
further than silence. The breeze
between us. We might
be alone for good, following
riverbeds narrow and dry
so we can believe the water once flowed.
Night opens. A large bird
dips to the windshield, veers.
Night closes us in.
I just had to do documentaries separately from films this year; there was simply no way I was going to be able to choose a top ten films including docs. Unfortunately, although I’ve seen some really great documentaries this year, there are also a decent amount I haven’t been able to see yet and am not sure when I’ll get to see them. The ones I haven’t seen yet include: Outrage, Burma VJ, Garbage Dreams, The Most Dangerous Man in America, It Might Get Loud, Under Our Skin, and Which Way Home. I’d have waited to make my list if it looked like I’d get to see any of these really soon, but it’s not looking that way. So, without further ado, my favorite documentaries of the year:
10. Living in Emergency: Stories of Doctors Without Borders
This emotional and tense doc follows four doctors in war-torn Liberia; what could have been a bleeding-heart paint-by-numbers routine is a fully alive, vibrant, scary film.
9. Tyson
As I said immediately after I saw this, I’m still not sure if it’s actually any good as a piece of film or art. It just generally confused my sensibilities. But one thing is for sure, and that is that it has stuck with me, and any mention of Mike Tyson is now, in my mind, fully colored by this odd, affected, bizarre portrait of the man. One also wonders—as one often does in the most interesting of documentaries—how much of the material is about the subject, and how much is about the filmmaker.
8. The Beaches of Agnes
7. Anvil: The Story of Anvil
What I like so much about “Anvil: The Story of Anvil” is not the music. That aspect is downright horrible. No, what I like about it is the two distinct ways the film can be read: either as a joyous affirmation that our dreams are always within reach, or a sad proclamation that we should all, eventually, give up and settle (lest we risk being ridiculous). In the end, the film seems to say that the best path is a bit of both.
6. Mugabe and the White African
“Mugabe and the White African” is an incredibly exciting and, dare I say it—important film, and I certainly would have ranked it much higher—maybe even #1—if it weren’t for the fact that I felt aspects of it were a tad staged.
5. Capitalism: A Love Story
I know, I know, this movie has it’s share of haters. But I thought the ideas were big, but presented with alot of heart (and difficult concepts were made easy to understand), but most importantly, while past Moore films have left me feeling enraged and despondent, “Capitalism” made me angry–and extremely sad. The only problem is that the issue in this movie is so big, the individual feels helpless against it, which is a shame, since it’s the closest Moore’s come yet to moving me to actual action.
4. Valentino: The Last Emperor
There are two distinct ways to see this movie: either as an awed look at one of the last geniuses of the fashion industry, or as a final revelation that the fashion industry is full of slathering buffoons who don’t have those closest to them fooled in the least. I, obviously, fall into the latter camp. Scenes in which everyone is being very serious, or frantic, or sad, about a dress, played very comically to me, as this uber-serious Valentino tries to not laugh out loud at his heist of fame. One can’t help but think of Bernie Madoff—like the great swindler, Valentino seems to just be waiting to be found out. In our celebrity-drenched culture, we need more looks behind the curtain like this one.
3. Every Little Step
If you’re familiar with the plot of the musical A Chorus Line, then you’ll understand how genius of a concept it is to make a documentary of the audition process for the Broadway revival of the musical. It works in layers: as a keen post-modern life-imitates-art gimmick, as a deconstruction of the artistic process, as a statement on the disposability of individuals as artists, and as a celebration of those same individuals. Worth repeated viewings.
2. Food, Inc.
You’ve probably heard of this by now and don’t need me to jawbone you anymore about it. Watch it. I haven’t become a vegetarian yet, but believe this: it has changed the way I eat.
The Cove is everything I want in a documentary: it has something to say (the issue is Dolphins, but it’s somehow made a fresh issue again), it has interesting people in it, it has moments of excitement, and it ultimately acknowledges it is a documentary. Whether you give a shit about dolphins or not, methinks you’ll care for at least two hours if you watch The Cove. I have no idea why I cannot get these italics to go away.
Now, I am going to go out on a major limb here and predict which five documentaries will be nominated for the Oscar this year. (Please note, if you are a magazine reading person, then you know that none of the major entertainment mags have made their predictions yet.) If I am right on ALL FIVE, somebody has to give me something. I’m also going to guess the winner, but this is only my guess if I am right about all 5 nominees. If (as will almost certainly be the case) I am not right about all 5 noms, I will most likely change my guess going into the Oscar ceremony. OK, my guesses:
–The Cove
–Food, Inc.
–The Beaches of Agnes
–Burma VJ
–Which Way Home
If you’ve never read any James Joyce, you are missing out! But you are really, really missing out if you’ve never read his short story collection, Dubliners, namely the last story in the collection, “The Dead”–a story thought by myself and many, many others to be the best short story ever written.
I just read it again recently, in preparation for the DVD release of the late, great director John Huston’s film version of the story. I am still blown away by how amazing it is. Here’s all you need to know: the bulk of the story–say, 7/8 of it–is a largely plotless account of a Christmas party in Dublin. We are introduced to characters, watch them sing, dance, and interact. Then, the party ends, and we follow a husband and wife (Gabriel and Gretta) home in a carriage. We can tell their relationship is strained. Then, all of a sudden, in their home, Gretta tells Gabriel a very serious and dramatic story about a boy she used to know who died when they were young. There is a lot of rumination on death and life. This seems to come out of the blue after the lengthy party we’d just read–but on repeat readings one realizes the whole story is laced with revelations about death, life, and of course, love.
The reason I’m telling you this is, I have just watched the movie, and was blown away by it. It is amazing, but especially the end, because the end of the Joyce short story is breathtakingly amazing, and I really didn’t think Huston would be able to do it justice. I still have goosebumps after watching the film, then pulling the book down off my shelf and reading the end again. So, here they are, the end of the book and of the movie. I’m picking up the text right after Gretta has told Gabriel her story about the young man (named Michael Furey) dying when they were young, and then Gretta immediately falls asleep, and Gabriel is left with his thoughts:
Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt’s supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good- night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
It’s Seth again. Isn’t that some amazing writing?!?! Ok, check out how Huston ends his movie. Embedding was disabled, so you’ve gotta click on this link:
A few years ago, on my old MySpace blog, as Christmas was approaching, I was searching for something to write about it. I ended up blogging this small account of the Christmas Eve I spent in rehab. Looking back on it now, as a piece of writing, it certainly has it’s flaws, but I’ve decided to present it again without changing anything at all. Rather than continue trying to come up with some new Christmas-themed blog every year, I’ve decided to begin a tradition of posting this every year (kinda like it’s a Peanuts special), warts and all. Thanks for reading.
I have had the somewhat unique experience of spending a Christmas in rehab. This Christmas was my fourth since then, and hopefully I’ll never let a Christmas go by that I don’t remember that day and–more intensely–the night before.
Christmas Eve in rehab.
It was a more relaxed day for us. We didn’t have to be at quite as many group sessions. We had more smoke breaks, more leisure time. Most of us had been together for a few weeks by then, so there was a good ‘family’ feeling. It was actually a very nice day, although it did make you realize there was an outside world. One can’t help but picture their family, at home, watching The Grinch, burning apple-scented candles. In the corners of your mind, you dare to hope they are wondering what you are doing, too. And that they still love you. (They do.)
Late in the afternoon, just as the light was dying and the gloaming light took over the world, snow began to fall. It was going to be a white Christmas, and here we were, sealed away, smoking in our enclosed courtyard, catching errant snowflakes whose majesty had been ruined by accidentally falling into a rehab courtyard.
We were told to gather in the ‘Big Room'(this is the main gathering room) at 8pm. We did so. Once we are all present (about 30 of us) Bob comes in. Bob was a counselor and lecturer, and probably one major reason why I am alive today. Most everyone loved Bob. Some people didn’t love Bob, cause Bob didn’t let you bullshit him, or anyone else. Bullshit kills sobriety. Bob taught me that.
Bob gathered us together and ushered us down the halls, without telling us where we were going. We ended up going into the pool room. Yes, my rehab had an indoor pool (it doesn’t anymore. Nowadays it’s just another fucking room.) in a room with a glass ceiling, much like a greenhouse. All the lights were out, and there was soft, relaxing music playing in the background (what I suppose is called ‘Meditation Music’); I never could tell where they had that music coming from.
The room was so serene. You could hear the snow landing and immediately melting on the glass roof, and even with the lights out, the pool reflected ambient light, just a little tiny bit, but enough to see where you were stepping. The music made it the most inviting, relaxing room I’ve ever been in. I want to spend every Christmas eve in that room.
As we filed in, one of the interns handed us each an orange glow stick…you know, those things that you shake, then crack, and they glow with an eerie iridescent light of various colors. Well, all of our glow sticks were orange and hadn’t been cracked yet. They weren’t glowing.
Bob instructed us to gather around the edge of the pool, and attempt to space ourselves evenly all the way around. It took us a few minutes, as there were thirty of us, but eventually we were there, in the dark, entirely surrounding the pool.
Bob talked for a few minutes about Christmas, and recovery in general—stuff I can’t specifically remember anymore. But then he started talking about Faith. Not necessarily Christian Faith…just. plain. faith. Faith—in anything—Bob said, was the only way to start properly on the road to recovery. And if you didn’t have any at all—if you were starting from a position of no Faith at all—all that you really needed was just a little spark, a tiny, almost invisible spark of Faith, and then you could blow on it, and fan it, and protect it and nurture it until it was a roaring, unstoppable flame.
But most important, Bob said, was to surround yourself with others who had sparks or flames, and together, your flames could grow high, strong, everlasting: a testament to a Power higher than ourselves who could keep us collectively sober and alive.
“Crack your glow sticks,” Bob said.
We did. Suddenly surrounding the pool there were thirty orange lights, glowing in the darkness. It was a neat sight, but the room remained largely dark.
“These are your sparks of Faith,” Bob said. “But still, each spark is alone. You see how you still cannot see each other’s faces, from across the pool? A spark of Faith has difficulty growing on it’s own. Now, throw them in the pool.”
We looked around, hesitantly. After a few seconds, someone threw their glow stick in the pool. Just the single glow stick seemed to light the whole pool up with an orange, fire-like glow. A bright orb of light followed it to the bottom of the deep end.
Immediately afterwards, twenty-nine other glow sticks flew through the air, an amazing sight that looked somewhat like anti-aircraft fire, or a brief plague of Lightning Bugs.
The room became aglow. The pool lit up like a miniature sun. Everyone’s faces, the tears already starting, were clear as day. The room was orange now, and still you heard the snowflakes melting on the roof, the quiet music coming from nowhere, the merest hint of the sound of happy lapping water.
“Faith burns brighter in numbers. Stick together, help each other, and fan each other’s flames,” Bob said, himself on the verge of tears. “Now let’s clasp hands.”
We formed a tight circle around the pool, staring at the amazing glowing water, and on that Christmas Eve, us thirty recited the Serenity Prayer together, to whatever we happened to think of as God, to whatever being there could be that would allow such a perfect moment to occur in this world of folly and disaster.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
We retrieved our ‘sparks’ from the pool, and each kept one. Mine still sits on my entertainment center, beside a Beanie Baby and my stereo.
In one fashion, I am extremely unfortunate that this huge snowstorm came this weekend, as I had awesome—awesome—plans with my sister and mother to go to New York. It would have been GREAT! (we are totally rescheduling for January). In another fashion, however, I am extremely fortunate that it came this weekend, as I have off work, and I don’t have to get into my car until 11am Monday. In my line of work, where we work 3 out of every 4 weekends, this could only be seen as extremely fortunate.
The extremely sucky event of canceling my mom/sister trip did however lead to a fairly sweet event, in that I could now attend the Soulgrass Freedom Junction show that took place last night (friend Kate is the singer of the band, and she friggen rules), and a bizarre amount of people I knew ended up being there. Platonic soulmate Michael was also celebrating her graduation from graduate school (she’s gonna be a counselor!), so it was a pretty incredible night all around.
Duane, Burke, and Michael at the Soulgrass show
Kate belting out "White Rabbit"
So anyway, long story short, I didn’t get home and go to bed until 4am, which put my waking hours that day at 23–I had gotten up at 5am the previous day for work. Regardless of this really long day, I woke up with a shot at 6am, only 2 hours after falling asleep. I went to the window and saw a SHIT-TON of snow out there. I suppose it was the prospect of an entire weekend off with a major snowstorm happening that got me even more awake. I’m not sure why this was exciting to me, but it was. I was jazzed! So far, I’ve had an amazing day:
7am: I leave the apartment, dressed very inappropriately, with no plan whatsoever. I end up walking essentially all over town, ending up at Wal-Mart (all told, about 3 miles one way), as well as stopping for a nice breakfast at Fay’s Country Kitchen.
Breakfast at Fay's
What really amazed my about this trip was how absolutely desolate the world was. I mean, sure, there were some people around, but for the most part, all was silence (and it wasn’t 7am the whole time…all was silence at 9am, too). By the time I got home, I estimate my travel distance at 6.5 miles, on foot, in the snow…and I somehow had more energy than when I left?!?! This has been happening to me alot lately. I’m starting to get worried that I have bi-polar disorder, but I only suffer from the manic periods. I seem to have almost no need for rest. I’m not gonna complain until I end up in the hospital.
9am: Return home and finished watching The Orphan, which I had started when I got home from the show the night before. It sucks. Then watched the majority of Angels & Demons. It sucks too. Shower.
Noon: I leave the apartment again, walking back to Wal-Mart (that’s where the movie theater is, my destination wasn’t actually Wal-Mart). It was a little colder this time, and the snow seemed a bit more wet. There were more cars on the road than there were in the morning, but less pedestrians. I am still loving being in the snow and seemingly all alone in my town of Carlisle. I get to the movie theater around 1pm and watch Invictus (it sucks). There were 6 other people in the theater, which you might think is a lot of people for a blizzard day, but is actually very few people when you consider it’s 1pm on a Saturday. After the movie, I walked around the Wal-Mart plaza, quite blown away by the amount of businesses that had closed early (Applebees, Subway, Holiday Hair, Game Stop and even the Chinese Buffet were closed!!! Other than the big box stores, the only thing open was Panera Bread). Then I finally headed for home. Took this largely boring video on this leg of the journey:
The only really interesting part of this video is when I look at the ground, you can see how deep the snow is. Here’s another picture from this leg of the journey, looking at the ground. You can see my foot is entirely covered:
I stopped at Vinnie’s pizza (formerly Genova’s) and had a few slices. I was all alone and it seemed there hadn’t been anyone there pretty much all day. The guy behind the counter and I had a pretty good conversation about the storm and how many places were closed, and he ended up sitting with me while I ate. I must have been burning immense amounts of calories all day, because I ate the three (sizable) slices like they were jelly beans. I chugged the rest of my large Dr. Pepper, bid adieu to my temporary Vinnie’s friend, and set out to…um…find more food.
5pm: Arrive at the Hamilton. Devour two Hawchie Dogs and order a Blockbuster to-go, so I have something to eat later. As I leave, it’s getting dark and the snow—now very wet—is very unpleasant blowing directly into my face. Finally arrive home around 5:30. After about 10 minutes of rest, I find that I am now not tired at all, and in fact, am considering going back out soon.
On the way home from work today, was listening to the Diane Rehm Show on NPR (I’m already not fond of Ms. Rehm), when she said this about Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia:
“To some, he is very popular, to others he is quite polarizing.”
Looks like a certain seasoned broadcast professional needs to read the P section of the dictionary.
Was driving home from work this morning (I worked the overnight last night), listening to the LIVE song “Rattlesnake” over and over again, amazed by how two verses and a chorus could keep revealing new things to me, and how I kept feeling more and more like I had a very personal connection to the song, and how it was even possible Ed was thinking about the very highway I was on when he wrote the song. Then I realized it was Sunday, and I needed some pictures for my blog. So I kept “Rattlesnake” on repeat and drove around Carlisle and its surrounding areas (as a light drizzle gradually turned into an ice storm) and I took pictures that were “inspired” by the song blasting from my car. I often pulled over to the side of a road and left my door hang open so I could even hear the song as I snapped the photos. I encourage you to play the YouTube video which I have posted before the pictures (it’s just the studio version of the song) as you view the pics. And if you end up loving the song, under the YouTube video there’s a link to an awesome live performance of the song! Without further ado, the pics:
1. I have this pesky head and chest cold that kind of refuses to become “fully realized”. I cough about 30 times a day but not really really badly. My nose is stuffed up but not terribly. I’m sneezing like a madman. Now I have a *minor* fever. It has been this way for about four days and I’m starting to get pissed, cause I KNOW it’s going to get worse before it gets better….why don’t you just get on with it, cold?
2. Have lost my Philip Larkin Collected Poems. Am freaking out.
3. If you like documentaries, and/or amazing, enthralling stories, may I recommend Deep Water, a truly incredible story about a round-the-world yacht race (it’s alot more interesting than the description sounds).
4. Did you know Abe Lincoln was colorblind?! It’s true!
5. Going to New York with my sister and my mom in a week…how friggen exciting is that?
6. Great nonsense from Deep Water: “New Equal Footing Mermaids Stop”
7. How many ways do I hate winter? 593. And yet, I am somehow managing to be as happy as I can remember in years recently. How do I account for this? My body slowly stopping dying. Quitting smoking and getting in shape is an incredible experience! I almost feel like I’m back on that “pink cloud” you experience in early sobriety. Life rules.
8. A man enters a restaurant. He gives the waiter his order of eggs benedict, but before the waiter walks away, the man says “Wait, wait…can you have the cook put that on this hubcap?”, and as he says this, the man reaches down into a bad he’s brought with him and prodices a very nice, shiny hubcap. “Sure,” the waiter says, clearly baffled. Shortly thereafter, the waiter returns with the man’s eggs benedict, served on the hubcap as requested. Before he walks away, the waiter says, “Excuse me sir, but can I just ask why you wanted your eggs benedict on a hubcap?” “Sure,” the man says. “There’s no plate like chrome for the hollandaise.” Christmas rules!
My car became the church and I
the worshiper of silence there.
In a moment peace came over me,
and the one who was beating my heart appeared.
–“The Distance”
I know that I should think about giving,
think about helping out,
think about living,
but I can’t seem to rescue myself.
–“Mirror Song”
We are, by and large, the same.
–“Stage”
I was thirsty for everything
but water wasn’t my style.
–“Voodoo Lady”
And if I don’t know who to love
I love them all.
And if I don’t know who to trust
I trust them all.
And if I don’t know who to kill
I may kill myself instead.
–“Brothers Unaware”
When the brain is dead,
and the mind has taken over–
this is a skill, this is not a game–
where have you been,
are you with us?
Can you hear us?
–“T.B.D.”
Come on baby leave some change behind.
She was a bitch, but I don’t care.
–“Waitress”
It’s a crazy, crazy mixed up town,
but it’s the rattlesnake I fear.
In another place, in another time
I’d be drivin’ trucks, my dear.
I’d be skinnin’ hunted deer.
Let’s go hang out in a bar.
It’s not too far.
We’ll take my car.
We’ll lay flowers at the grave of Jesco White,
the sinner’s saint.
The rack is full and so are we,
of laughing gas and ennui.
–“Rattlesnake”
I have forever always tried
to stay clean and constantly baptized.
I am aware that the river’s banks, they are dry,
and to wait for a flood
is to wait for life.
–“Pain Lies on the Riverside”
Warm bodies, I sense,
are not machines that can only make money.
–“Pillar of Davidson”
“Free love” is a knife through the jugular vein, son!
“Free love”, I can’t afford to add up what you fuckers are made of!
If you only click on one thing in this entry, do yourself a huge favor and watch the YouTube clip of the band playing “Lakini’s Juice” live at the end of the entry.
One of the more painful facts of my existence (which proves I have a pretty easy existence) is the fact that a large majority of my friends gave up liking the band LIVE more than ten years ago. I’m here to tell you you’re wrong, and why you’re wrong. (also, in case you didn’t know, they broke up last week.)
At the outset here, I am going to grant you that there are a myriad of reasons to NOT like the band LIVE (and yes, I always type their name in all caps). I will not, and have never (or, rarely) denied the existence of these negative factors involved with liking LIVE. Once I have admitted the negative factors, I will then show how the positives overpower the negatives, or even how the negatives are a necessary by-product of true rock greatness.
Reasons to dislike LIVE:
1. Ed Kowalczyk’s lyrics are occasionally sappy, unoriginal, overly derivative, obvious, or just plain bad.
2. The last few albums were bad in many ways: generic rock-radio riffs and song structures, lyrics and themes of pseudo-New Age Christian nonsense which continually repeated itself, mixed way too loud so you can’t tell the instruments apart.
3. Way too many uses of water as a symbol for one band’s catalog. I mean, really.
4. The band’s most successful album, Throwing Copper, got severely overplayed in the late ’90s.
Why You Need to Love LIVE
1. Firstly, it is my belief that any serious discussion of LIVE must first discount the last few albums (mainly Birds of Pray and Songs From Black Mountain. and to a lesser extent, V) as albums no longer made by the “band” LIVE–band in the sense of a co-operative–and simply as mouthpieces for a clearly artistically spent Kowalczyk. The “band” LIVE almost certainly only co-operatively made the albums up to and perhaps including V. The following points will refer only to the albums from Mental Jewelry through V.
2. Kowalczyk’s lyrics get ridiculous because he, unlike most rock lyricists, is absolutely shooting for the stars; he is not afraid to take chances, to appear strange or creepy, or even to appear unpopular. When you have a lyricist trying so hard to wring truth out of words, you will sometimes get a lyric like “Our love is like water,/ pinned down and abused for being strange”, which is undeniably absolute nonsense. But most safe bands wouldn’t risk such a transgression. Aerosmith would have nixed that song from the start, and they also would have nixed the song “Lakini’s Juice”, with lyrics like “More wine! Cause I got to have it. / More skin! Cause I’ve got to eat it.” And for my money, “Lakini’s Juice” is one of the major rock triumphs of the ’90s–if not ever.
So, long story short, Kowalczyk is far from a bad lyricist. In fact, he was fairly inspired. But when you’re going yard all the time, some of them will be foul balls.
(note: Ed’s lyrics are not subversive in the actual sense, but only in comparison to other bands shooting for mainstream appeal. But still.)
3. While I’m talking about lyrics, I might as well expound a little bit on that subject. Kowalczyk is the only mainstream rock frontman (frontman=NOT a solo artist) who I can think of who crafted such a well-wrought, thoughtful, complicated COMPREHENSIVE WORLDVIEW over the course of four albums. LIVE songs were NEVER just songs to notch into an album; every entry was one more brick into Ed’s thesis of life. It’s quite impressive.
I could write a doctoral dissertation on the subject, but a really, REALLY brief overview of it goes something like this:
Mental Jewelry: Be spiritual but practical. Enjoy life and help others. Be of use. Stop hating. Together, we can really do this.
Throwing Copper: Be spiritual but practical. Enjoy life and help others. Be of use. Stop hating. Together, we can really do this. And there is going to be dirt amongst the beauty. In some of the dirt, there is beauty. And some of the dirt is just dirt.
Secret Samadhi: Be spiritual but practical. Enjoy life and help others. Be of use. Stop hating. Together, we can really do this. And there is going to be dirt amongst the beauty. In some of the dirt, there is beauty. And some of the dirt is just dirt.It is natural to want to like some of the actual dirt. Do not hate yourself for wanting to be filthy–but the true glory of being a human being is in overcoming your basest urges. As a human, you are destined to live in a constant state of inner conflict.
The Distance to Here: Be spiritual but practical. Enjoy life and help others. Be of use. Stop hating. Together, we can really do this. And there is going to be dirt amongst the beauty. In some of the dirt, there is beauty. And some of the dirt is just dirt.It is natural to want to like some of the actual dirt. Do not hate yourself for wanting to be filthy–but the true glory of being a human being is in overcoming your basest urges. As a human, you are destined to live in a constant state of conflict. And here now we wrap around to the opening thesis: the way to survive this feeling of internal conflict is through a spiritual means–the material world cannot solve your interior problems.
V: Re-iterates all the above, plus going to the club is cool!
I cannot state enough times how much I think Secret Samadhi is one of–if not the–best lyriced rock album ever. I say this emphatically, because most people think it’s “weird”. This is the album where Ed really REALLY goes for it. And while I realize the opening track–“Rattlesnake”–might not hit home for everybody, it seems like it was written for me–a guy raised in huntin’ country, in a valley in Appalachia, who doesn’t enjoy hunting, cars, trucks, guns, or even football. I am distinctly out of place here (though thankfully, lots of us are, no?) Oh, and in case you didn’t know, LIVE is from here…like, literally RIGHT HERE, so it really does seem like they’re singing about me (also, rattlesnakes are all over the place here in central PA)….check out Ed’s lyrics to open the album. Here’s the chorus to “Rattlesnake”:
It’s a crazy, crazy mixed-up town,
but it’s the rattlesnake I fear.
In another place, in another time
I’d be drivin’ trucks my dear.
I’d be skinnin’ hunted deer.
I know, I know…so you identify with it, so what? Those aren’t incredibly written lyrics. I hear you. But look at what I consider to be the genius shocker at the end of the song:
Let’s go hang out in a bar,
it’s not too far,
we’ll take my car.
We’ll lay flowers at the grave of Jesco White–
the sinner’s saint.
The rack is full, and so are we–
of laughing gas and ennui.
Look up what you need to look up and then spend some time pondering the end of that song. In my opinion, Kowalczyk lets the first part of the song draw us in, by allowing us to say, “Yeah, fuck the rest of the world and where I live…I’m not like them! I wanna be more!”, but instead of leaving the song a one-dimensional anti-authoritarian anthem, at the end, he lays the responsibility for our lives at our own feet–and indicts us for being judgmental, as he himself is, as well. Of course, this is very much open to interpretation.
This is just the first song on Samadhi. Seriously, if I was independently wealthy, I think I’d write an entire book on just this album. But you get the point. Oh, I just remembered–I even think Ed reaches so hard, that even at the beginning of “Rattlesnake”–the song whose dick I just sucked–Ed has some flabbergastingly BAD lyrics (“let’s go hang out at a church/ we’ll go find Lurch/ and we’ll haul ass down through the abbey”….huh, Ed?)….but once you get to that blazingly brilliant last stanza, you’ve forgotten the earlier nonsense.
(also as a quick aside, who else would have the balls to put the lyric “I can smell your armpits”…and be totally freakin’ serious about it, in a song, as Ed does in “Century”?)
By the time they reached The Distance to Here, Ed’s spiritual agenda was front and center, but he hadn’t gotten overtly Christian yet (if you’re Christian, that’s fine, but I’m not, so you lose me from your music). Ed’s spiritual lyrics can, of course, be really bad, even on The Distance to Here, but they are also often inspired, as in one of my favorite moments in any LIVE song, from the song “The Distance”:
My car became the church and I
the worshipper of silence there.
In a moment peace came over me
And the one who was beatin’ my heart appeared.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. But I never could have put it that way. You don’t have to subscribe to any organized faith to get that.
4. Musically, LIVE could be described as “middle of the road”. If you’re into more eccentric sounds, like Portishead or Animal Collective, you may find the majority of LIVE’s stuff too straightforward. If you’re into primarily radio-ready modern rock, you may find some of LIVE’s early stuff too wayward (though their later stuff is perfect for you). I can’t absolutely say that everyone can and will enjoy the music of LIVE, but I can say with zero doubt that they are all incredibly talented, and most importantly PATRICK DAHLHEIMER IS ALMOST CERTAINLY THE MOST UNDERRATED BASSIST IN ROCK MUSIC. This is mostly because LIVE arranged most of their songs in ways that did not specifically highlight this trait. The man is capable of some incredibly intricate bass lines that don’t feel forced or unnecessary (oh hi Les Claypool) but instead are integrated into the heart and feeling of the song itself, and still logically propel it rhythmically. Please do yourself a favor and listen to the following songs and pay attention to the bass:
5. I don’t typically give a shit about a band’s official music videos. But for a brief period in the late ’90s, LIVE made me care, because right after they’d made the most daring rock album of the decade–Secret Samadhi–they proceeded to make some of the most daring videos ever to go along with the album. And when I say daring, I don’t just mean risque, but also artful, difficult, and potentially alienating. The best ever is definitely “Lakini’s Juice”. This song serves as the thematic centerpiece to the album–remember all that stuff about internal conflict and base urges–and as such, the video tackles the theme head on, with surprising candor and what was, at the time, shocking images. (I still have trouble watching when Ed washes the woman’s feet and sings beside her on the round bed). It is not an easy video for the viewer; there is layered symbolism, intentional focus problems, and a definite air of the creepy. But “Lakini’s Juice” is no simple or happy song, and it deserved such a video:
At first glance, their follow up video to “Lakini’s Juice”–a video for the song “Freaks”–doesn’t appear as daring. To be sure, the images aren’t as immediately startling. But what. Is. With. ALL. THE. MILK.
Look at the milk everywhere, it is creepy as fuck.
What is the exact plot of the video? How do the plot of the video and the symbol of the milk help to inform and expand upon the lyrical content of the song? And how does all this help to expand upon Ed’s greater thesis of life up to this point (Secret Samadhi)? LIVE doesn’t make it easy for us, and that’s because this is actual art.
6. LIVE is (was) one the absolutely most electrifying live acts out there. When I’d go to see LIVE, I would be rocking out during every moment, even during songs I disliked (most notably, they were always able to make me jump around like a maniac to The Dolphin’s Cry–a truly crappy song). The lion’s share of credit for this goes to, of course, Ed, but also to lead guitarist Chad Taylor, who managed to engage the audience on a personal level more than any guitarist I’ve ever seen. The band had been rocking a long time, and had seen a significant drop in popularity over the years, but they never dialed it in. They went out there every night with the intent of putting on the world’s best rock show. They never did quite do it, because Pearl Jam exists (I gotta keep it real), but they got damn close!
Here is the band playing “Lakini’s Juice”. It’s from earlier this year–2009–so you can see just how much they were still rocking at this point in their career. Notice how involved with the crowd Chad Taylor is, and how totally mobile he is. He really only technically plays from stage left–he’s sometimes more mobile than Ed is! I seriously have trouble watching this without jumping around, and it’s also moving me to near tears to know I’ll never be in that throng again, jumping to this song, which is so amazing live I’ve almost died before when they play it:
7. I am truly stumped about why Ed used so many water images throughout their catalog. Oh, and really, how many songs are you gonna write with “Dream” in the title? The world shall always be mystified.
8. I typed this in one mad dash. If you could point out the typos to me, I’d greatly appreciate it.
Two days until the weekend
and only 42 days more
until vacation
and 2,292 days to retirement
the janitor on outdoor duty
in one idle moment
lifts a rake effortlessly
and transforms
the meticulously built nest
of a starling into mulch
Notes From the Fire 