Walking around town I have to constantly remind myself it’s Halloween. It might explain that woman in a white gown across the street — isn’t her makeup unusually white? And the couple in front of me as I walk to the deli — the woman sort of looks like a Raggedy Ann doll. They’re really not that far from how people normally look around here. And where’s the Birdman?
Speaking of scary…Bush’s nominee for Attorney General still refuses to call waterboarding torture, amongst many other sleazy things. He’s clearly an apologist for the policies of Cheney, Rumsfeld and Bush. And if the Democratic congress passes this man — who by nature of this absolution puts the US and its citizens in harms way, to say nothing of the boys in the services — they will be as guilty as he is. It goes without saying that the Bush crew does NOT support our troops, providing every justification to render our soldiers the pariahs and targets they are fast becoming.
Martin Puryear
Went to see a MoMA show surveying the sculptural works of Martin Puryear, old and new. In my opinion it’s incredible. I found his work both beautiful and moving. I got choked up.
They sculptures are all wood mixed with other materials, partly abstract but with recognizable elements and shapes too: wheels and an axle from an old fashioned cart, but giant; an old wooden wheelbarrow; baskets, upside down and out of scale; fishing nets, the kind used by native Americans; yokes, fence posts, ploughs, tools and their handles, worn into smooth biomorphic shapes with use and age. The works evoke the lyrics of gospel songs and spirituals, and the novels of William Faulkner and Flannery O‘Connor.
There are references to the history of Africans in the New World, to traditional African cultures, to farming, working the land and making things by hand — the way one comes to know one’s tools as if they are extensions of oneself, the way they almost come to have a life of their own.
The pieces are calm, but highly charged, both conscious and comfortable with what they are, but also aware that there are layers to get lost in.
None of this is obvious — the scale has been changed and the references are not right upfront or blatant, instead embedded in the shapes and materials, in how they must feel to the hand. (There were more “Do Not Touch” signs than I’ve seen in a long time — maybe they knew the urge to touch these would be strong).
Here is an outdoor piece that wasn’t included in the show, though there was one sculpture with one of these impossible needle like trees that seem to point to the sky just as its diameter dwindles to nothing.
Jean-François Bizot passed away recently. He was a friend though I didn’t see him often. In the late 70s or early 80s, when Talking Heads first played in France, I picked up a copy of his magazine Actuel. While its format was similar to Paris Match (an earlier incarnation was funkier and more psychedelic), it seemed to convey an alternative view of the whole world. Even with my limited French I could suss that this mag was something special. It was a glossy that reported on global culture — Fela Kuti, China, science, local oddballs, politics, art — and exhibited a curiosity and enthusiasm that I both shared and envied. Then and now, nothing like it exists in the US — its lack of specialization renders it unique.
I wrote to the magazine out of the blue saying I loved what they were doing. I was not a well-known musician at the time, but Bizot got back in touch. Eventually he put Brian Eno, Jon Hassell and myself on the cover when the Bush of Ghosts record came out, with the affectionate but ironic headline, “The Whites Think Too Much.”
We became friends. In the 80s, as my interest in music outside the rock mainstream deepened, he encouraged my curiosity. When I was in Paris we went to see Orchestra Aragon, the classic Cuban charanga band, at New Morning (I think) and I was transported. They would never play in the US due to the embargo, so this was a rare, funky, yet lyrical experience. He passed me tapes of African and old Cuban music — stuff I still listen to that has yet to be released in the US — and we would have late night talks that ranged widely. It was exactly what one hoped life could be for those curious about all manner of things going on out there.
Later, in the 80s, he and some others started Radio Nova. At various periods, it might have been the best radio station in the world. No joke. They played alt-rock before there was such a thing, Raï, African pop music, Chanson, Latin American music, hip hop, and experimental music. We all wanted to hear it, and this was where we could. Finally.
The radio station was followed by Nova Magazine, which focused more on culture and listings. In the late 80s, partly due to his enthusiasms, Talking Heads recorded their last studio LP in Paris, a record that included at lot of African musicians as collaborators. The Naked record doesn’t sound very African, but the influence is there, subtly, in the grooves and in some of the filigree. While we were recording, Bizot invited Chris and Tina of Talking Heads to stay at what I believe was his ex-wife’s place, which helped defray our expenses. I remember a framed family picture of him chasing his ex with an axe. That gives you a clue. For us foreigners he might be seen as the Serge Gainsbourg of magazine and radio — a bit of a louche, but with impeccable radar.
I’m sure I don’t know half of what he did, but I know that France will sorely miss him, as will many of the rest of us.
On the way back from breakfast downtown with Malu, I’m driving on the Santa Monica freeway and listening to KCRW. A woman — post sex reassignment surgery — named Yvonne is talking to Harry, the chat show host. Her current job is as a life coach, whatever that is. He asks, and she says, “No, it doesn’t require any training or a degree, and it can be done from one’s home.” “So it’s really convenient?” Harry asks. “Oh yes,” Yvonne replies. “Just yesterday I did a phone session with a client while I was having an estrogen colonic.”
[Note: Turns out this was from Harry Shearer's "Le Show", a bit with Tom Leopold: Listen here]
In the afternoon, C and I went for a hike in the Santa Monica Mountains, which sounds like more than it is. The trail begins in Brentwood — OJ once lived there — at the former ranch of Will Rogers, now Will Rogers State Historic Park. The trail continues and then connects to some parkland in the hills. The Backbone Trail continues along the spine of the hills, up and up. We hiked uphill for a solid 1.5 hours. That’s Santa Monica in the distance. It’s glorious.
The vegetation is desert scrub: pathetic dried out plants barely eking out a life on the dusty, dry hills. Occasionally there are unexpected areas of shade that feel cool and seemingly damp. Some succulents and holly oak trees now and then, but mostly it’s desert vegetation and ready for a match.
These trails (we went on another, much more crowded one in Hollywood the day before) are some of the nicest things about LA. The plant life may be sad — at least according to someone from the east — but the views are magnificent, and the quiet and stillness is something you will never find in Central Park. We asked a mountain biker and she said that Backbone eventually leads to Dirt Mullholland, an extension of the famous road that snakes along the ridges over Hollywood and Beverly Hills. From there one could go down to the ocean, and if you go even further inland, you will eventually get to Topanga canyon.
On the way back to NYC we flew over the western lands, which were looking even more abstract than usual.
Dinner at the home of Susan and Leonard Nimoy. They are big art collectors and a Joseph Beuys piece in their living room features a photo of the Beuys clan sitting in a room all gazing up at the TV, giving it their full attention. They’re watching Star Trek.
Francesco Vezzoli, the artist, had witnessed my rendition of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” at a concert in Milano, and described it as an “intellectual rehabilitation” of the song. That was nice to hear.
Shared a talk at the new Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston about art and sexual selection with the evolutionary psychologist Geoffrey Miller, author of the book The Mating Mind. He spoke first, laying the scientific groundwork for sexual selection and his proposal that creativity is one of many fitness indicators. For Miller, “reading” creative works — artwork in this case — is a way of determining social standing and genetic fitness. I followed on from this, dealing with specific examples in the art world and the ways art movements and styles contort themselves in order to signal to the desired parties that they may be a good match.
Miller was concise and clear; I was rambling and, well, maybe less clear. With practice I can get my part of the show more together, I know.
At the dinner afterwards, there was a sigh of relief that we didn’t cynically dismiss all contemporary art as a sham and a con game played by the elite, though we came pretty close. I think we said that, yes, to some extent, contemporary art appreciation is a game and tactic of the moneyed classes, who use their ‘knowledge’ to distance themselves from the hoi polloi. But, that doesn’t make the creativity any less vibrant, wondrous and enjoyable — sometimes. Other times, in my opinion, it’s pure game playing.
I began my part of the talk saying that when I moved to NYC, I was incredibly shy and socially crippled, but I could sense that my creative abilities, if anyone liked them, might be a way to make connections. I wanted to give a practical instance of creativity used for social leverage and as a genetic indicator, as described by Miller. An Italian couple at dinner expressed relief on hearing my story, as they described their son as being in a similar social situation. However, they seemed a little shocked and dismayed that my creativity didn’t start working in my favor until I was in my mid-twenties. I did say it helped me in high school too — it got me out of gym class.
The new ICA, designed by Diller Scofidio + Renfro, is lovely and practical, despite being situated in an area of Boston that is a weird urban wasteland. From what is called the backside, which is actually the main entrance, the building is nondescript, except for the glowing translucent plastic clerestory encircling the top, much like those on the galleries of Jay Jopling and Larry Gagosian.
On approach, the museum seems a lonely structure in the middle of a sea of parking lots. Yet once inside, the water and the bay are in almost constant view, and the asphalt and traffic cones are forgotten. Lots of interior glass walls, even a glass-walled elevator, allow views through much of the building so you are constantly reminded of the water lapping on the other side. The exhibition spaces are practical white boxes, and there are enough of them to have a few different shows running simultaneously. (There is a wonderful design show and a Louise Bourgeois show up now.) At night, the auditorium where we spoke has the glittering bay lights as a stage backdrop, and the media center — tiered rows of Macs facing a window — was a very cool space with an angled window framing the water such that there is no visible horizon line. As an effect, it’s a little like those James Turrell rectangular opening pieces. Here it is, pre-Macs.
I was drawn to the view, but frightened of it at the same time. The rows of Macs are linked only to an extranet with info about the exhibits. I can’t imagine too many people hanging out there, except to experience the room. Maybe another use can be found for it?
This part of Boston was formerly the docks and the shipyards. A little closer to town, across a bridge, there is an area of warehouse buildings that was formerly the center of the New England wool trade. These big old brick mill buildings have since been converted into funky offices. When the wool business moved elsewhere, the shipping area became a handy place to build highway interchanges, bus and rail yards and cloverleafs. Now the highways wrap the area like a tangle of spaghetti, while a few isolated buildings have been plunked down in the concrete expanse — a massive convention center and a hotel to accommodate its visitors, and a couple of other lone structures sit surrounded by half-filled parking lots. The ICA is one such structure, its galleries cantilevered over the water.
I was told that most locals feel this area is far away, though I walked here from the South Street Amtrak Station in 10 mins. One wonders if continued development will work, with the barricades of highways a constant impediment to connection and integration. But the area is right next to the city center, so it seems inevitable that it won’t stay this empty for long.
According to victims, one of the newest groups to emerge is called the Rastas, a mysterious gang of dreadlocked fugitives who live deep in the forest, wear shiny tracksuits and Los Angeles Lakers jerseys and are notorious for burning babies, kidnapping women and literally chopping up anybody who gets in their way.
This is part of wider horrific epidemic, and this little excerpt makes it sound like some bizarre nightmare union between William Gibson and Cormack McCarthy.
Did my “How New Yorkers Ride Bikes” event at Town Hall last night. It worked. The thirteen “acts” ranged from serious, to musical, to gag-like. Lots of thanks due to Rhonda Sherman at The New Yorker who made it happen, and to Gregory Mosher who directed the evening. He kept the proceedings flowing smoothly and kept on top of the cues and the lighting and the running order. Half of the block of 43rd St. was closed off to allow for the valet bike parking that Transportation Alternatives organized. Valet bike parking!
We brought in the Young at Heart Chorus — a seniors’ group whose members are all over 72 years of age — to sing Queen’s “Bicycle Race.” As a finale, they did a couple of Talking Heads bits and I joined them for the encore to sing a new song of mine. During the soundcheck, I got all choked up listening to them sing the opening choral bit from “Road To Nowhere.” I got choked up at other bits too — Jan Gehl, the urban planner who helped make Copenhagen and some other cites around the world more livable, gave me a heady emotional feeling of optimism and hope as he ran through his presentation in the tech check.
Eddie Gonzales and the Classic Riders came on stage with their customized Schwinns, playing their amazing array of modified horns to a Hector Lavoe tune. Well, there were a lot of acts: some serious city agency folks, some films, some literary bits, and some lock breaking.
As the Y@H Chorus was already in NYC, the Paris Bar at the Grammercy Arts Club booked them for an afternoon show the following day, before they flew off to perform some shows in Ireland. (They’ve been popular in Europe for a while.) There they did a longer set, which was deeply moving, sometimes hilarious, and always wonderful. With them, every lyric takes on new meaning: Sonic Youth’s “Schizophrenia” (of course), The Flaming Lips’ “All We Have Is Now,” Coldplay’s “Fix You” — well, you can imagine. They ended with a version of “Forever Young” with their fists in the air. The hipsters at the Paris Bar were completely won over, I think.
Went to see an act named The Blow, which is essentially one woman, Kaela Maricich. Her initial collaborator, Jona Bechtolt, made the beats and has since moved on. What a great show! She was the only one on stage in her all white outfit, but she held everyone’s attention throughout. Her act is a little hard to describe — containing elements of hip hop and pop, she rhymes and sings catchy choruses over loopy beats. She also reminded me of Miranda July (who happens to be her friend), and Ellen DeGeneres, but with a lot of really unique dancing, or throwing shapes, as they say in the UK. There was a lot of patter between songs, stories that flowed and connected the music — sometimes the punch line of a story would seem to trigger a beat and a song. The timing, the flow, was perfect. In that sense, it was almost a musical, though not like anything else out there. Sometimes she used props, like a dry-cleaning bag or a plastic water bottle. (Here is a picture from her Flickr page.)
The songs, some of them, are super catchy, and as a result she attracted a healthy sized, and fairly young audience in this alt-rock venue (The Blender Theater) — but her act is pretty damn eccentric and arty for a pop act, even for an alt-pop audience if you ask me. But here it was, something that was determined to be what it was and not pander to pop performance expectations. Yet, she jumped into a pop context and succeeded.
Shot a video with live audio of me riding through the streets of Times Square to Town Hall with a camera mounted on my helmet. The final video will be used as a show-beginning gag at Saturday night’s “How New Yorkers Ride Bikes.” After the third take, just as we were leaving, Steve Earl entered the theater with his new wife Allison — Lucinda Williams was doing a three-night run there and Steve was guesting. We chatted and on the way out Lucinda’s guitarist invited me to sit in that night.
I couldn’t, not that night…but last night I did. I gave them options of three tunes we could do — Buck Naked, Heaven and Overtime (the latter is one of hers, a duet with Willie Nelson) — and they said, “We’ll take all three.”
She’s been doing these shows where she plays an old album top to bottom, then takes a ten minute break and does about another half hour with guests, etc. Last night she did her Lucinda Williams album. I realized I could sing along with almost every song — God she’s written a lot of memorable songs!
I came in after she’d started and took a seat. Immediately she played a song I knew that gave me chills. Another song almost had me in tears. Her voice was a little ragged, but sometimes that just made it seem more real. She stopped a few times in that part of the show, sometimes feeling that a song was not off to just the right start, and then she’d start it over. She made some jokes about her perfectionist insecurities, quipping that she was keeping her legend intact. Sometimes she’d stop and then change the key to make the song more comfortable to sing. Whatever. Her insecurities vanished in the second half and she relaxed and smiled and had fun.
David Johansen was the other guest in that section, which goes to show how widely Lucinda’s influences range. They sang a hilarious Jailbird song duet, and then David performed “Lookin’ For a Kiss,” an old New York Dolls song. Somehow it all made sense.
In the end, they dragged me out as Lucinda wanted to do “Take Me To The River” (she had the words printed out and everything). She has a great band, so with a few hand signals from me they pretty much nailed it. Susan, L’s backup singer also sang with Cat Power and said Teeny Hodges, who joined Chan Marshall on her last tour, would be happy I had announced that he wrote that song.
Went to see Animal Collective and Vampire Weekend at Webster Hall last night. VW was really good — poppy, but fairly skewed too, with bits of soukous guitar thrown in from time to time, as if it was just a way of playing lilting guitar and not a specific African style. They’re not a “world music” act by any stretch; these various styles of playing are all just out there now, to be used when appropriate. I wondered if they sounded a little like early Talking Heads, a little bit, maybe, which of course wouldn’t bother me. They got the crowd moving, which is pretty impressive for an opening act. Catchy tunes too. I’d heard some on an EP or demo CD. They said they’re working on an album now.
In the past, Animal Collective were very briefly lumped in with the freak folk crowd, but they couldn’t be further from that now. Very few acoustic instruments remain — a cymbal got hit and a guitar appeared briefly, but the rest was all pre-recorded tracks, loops and samples. Their instruments were an array of tiny mixing boards and electronics that played Mini Discs or samples. “Playing” mainly consisted of pushing faders up and down. To be fair, two of the three guys took turns singing, though I couldn’t make out any of the words; so yes, there was more to focus on than just faders moving. Musically, it was an enjoyable sonic collage that never stopped, rather it ebbed and flowed, building up to big washes of sound with echoey singing and then sinking back to a single shimmering loop before building up into a new song.
It was a funny mixture — they arrayed themselves on stage as if they were a traditional rock band. They’re more akin to laptop DJs than a band, though a band can be anything these days, I guess. The singing and dancing about are not usually part of the laptop scene, so that part energized the show in a good way.
