Consequence of Sound

Oh, hey there.

So, turns out all this writing did me some good, eh?  I got a little gig writing for Consequence of Sound as a news writer.  I'll still be writing in here, but I'll be posting my articles here as well.

First news article drops tomorrow...

The National Archetype Expo

Tom Hashford works for the city, splits wood in his backyard, drinks only Budweiser from a can.  Friends and acquaintances always refer to him as “a real man’s man”. Fortunately he will have the opportunity to prove it at this year’s 8th Annual Archetype Expo held in the expanse of the entire Western Kentucky Valley this weekend.  

Launched in 2002 by 40-year old Ortho Chiltern and his company Eponymous Solutions LLC, The Archetype Expo as grown exponentially in the past years, incorporating over 4,000 categories and attendees from all over the world.  It is one of the most attended expos in the US, donning the official title A Real Expo’s Expo.

 Coming from humble beginnings, Ortho held the inaugural expo on his porch in his hometown of Search River, KY.  Awards handed out at the first expo were mostly given to girlfriend Vera, (A Real Neck Massager’s Neck Massager, A Real Know It All’s Know It All), his neighbor Lidell, (A Real Sonuvabitch’s Sonuvabitch) Duchess, (A Real Dog’s Dog), and Ortho himself, as he rattled off a list 40 categories long including Man, Dude, Bro, Volleyball Spiker, Chamois Utilizer, On-And-Off Boyfriend, and redacted Lidell’s Sonuvabitch award at the end, claiming famously “that’s what A Real Sonuvabitch’s Sonuvabitch would do.”

As word spread of this aggrandizing festival, more and more people wanted a shot at archetypal fame.  Chiltern removed himself from eligibility and set up a rigorous application process that included every applicant to provide corroborating essays, pictures, videos, and court documents proclaiming his/her eligibility, and organizing the information to fit on a sturdy card table, also to be provided by the applicant.

Now its 2010, card tables are replaced by 4,000 Eponymous Solutions sanctioned A Real Stage’s Stages®, Ortho’s porch replaced by an acreage the size of 40,000 football fields, and categories have been expanded to include: inanimate objects of all kinds, deities, historical figures, concepts mathematical, concepts philosophical, concepts unattainable, and new this year is the meta category, taking the Expo to new heights by allowing each category to have a supra category (e.g. A Real Dad’s Dad’s Dad).   This 4-month marathon of unanimous defining kicks off this Saturday.

Will Tom Hashford have the pluck to be awarded the coveted Man ribbon this year?  Competition is always stiff for that category, but Hashford returns this year with two ribbons pinned to his lapel from the 2009 competition: “A Real Hands At Ten And Two Guy’s Hands At Ten And Two Guy” and the much lauded “A Real Knows Exactly When To Stop A Hug Guy’s Knows Exactly When To Stop A Hug Guy”.   His dreams and many others now lay in the hands of sole judge Ortho Chiltern in what’s sure to be the best Archetype Expo yet.

by Jeremy Larson

A Funny Thing Happened To Me On The Way To The Local Record Store

Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of CDs anymore.  I used to, back before I could, well, press a button and in three minutes I'd own a cd.  I remember going to this dingy old record store (*edit* The Powerstation, thanks to Cody Rutter)  in my hometown of Whitewater, WI, which sadly I know doesn't exist anymore.  This owner, who looked like Dimebag Darrell on quaaludes, was in there with his giant dog (a requisite to own an independent record store, I assume) and I'd finger through the albums.  My first Metallica CDs were purchased there including  Kill 'em All, Metallica's first.  (The title of the album was an off-hand indictment of the record company who refused to use the snappier original title 'Metal Up Your Ass').  It's a no-remorse, galloping speed freak of an album, and certainly a far cry from what Metallica would become, what with the haircuts, the Napster debacle, the 'Re-Load', the live album with a symphony, and a litany of other inexcusable offenses to their fans (e.g. most words that have ever come out of Lars Ulrich's mouth).  Not a single metal-head in '83 could presage that bullshit. 

SO.   It would please me for you to imagine my excitement when I actually go a record store now.   I love the feeling, even though I come off like a poser.  I'm sniffed out instantly by not only dogs but the staff.  Any offhand comment about the not-so-recent Pavement reunion or J. Mascis' hair or how underwhelming the new Apples In Stereo album was is always met with minimum interest and maximum boredom.  My clothes are too thought out, my attitude anxious and not at all nonchalant.  I am an imposter.

SO. In all the post-coital glow and infatuation of seeing Foxy Shazam live the other week, I spent my hour break from work rushing across town to Shake-It Records for to purchase their new CD.  I had called Monday to ask if they had it in stock, just to be sure my deliberate circumventing of usual music acquisition methods were all for not not.  They guy who answered gave a confusing response, something about a "shipping order" and "released tomorrow but we don't have an order placed".  He put the phone down, talked to some other guys at the shop, and but then he said, "I assure you we'll probably have it in this week." 

SO. I'm in the store, looking at the new releases behind the counter.  When you go to any store looking for a certain item, there's an invisible halo that appears around it upon sighting, like those pencil-thin gold nimbi around saints in Italian Renaissance paintings.  I did not see that halo. 

'You guys got that new Foxy Shazam album in?’  Very casual but very weighted, like a suspicious boyfriend asking his girlfriend who that last text was from.

'Naw, we don't have it.  They have an exclusive arrangement with Hot Topic, and the record is only available there.'

I breathed and winced.

'Really? You're kidding me.'

'Nope.  Hot Topic.'

Hot Topic is the nadir of fashion, music, cultural aesthetic, and the apex of a commercialized cross-section of youth culture that, agreeably, we should attach an atomic bomb to and salute it off this plane of existence.  This mall-ready pre-fab shit-stain of a store feeds the pop-goth crowd morsels of tacky garbage too chintzy and and cringe-worthy to even be looked at ironically (e.g. spiked accessories, neon piercing insertions, graphic tees with Spongebob or Thrice (or quite possibly both) on them, still more trucker hats, etc...) 

SO.  This band that got its start in Cincinnati due in no small part to the local papers, local fans, and local record stores has now turned a cold shoulder to its roots in favor of a marketing strategy suited for the scientific opposite of at the very least my and record store guy's ethos.   It was no small stroke of bathos,  I’ll tell you that much, dear reader. 


Now,  I’m sure this is the workings of their record contract with The WB.  Metallica would have had some choice words to say about Warner Brothers.  Well, they would have until they sold-out too.  I usually don’t bandy that phrase about, the old cliche "sold-out",  because it’s often a too too toxic phrase that serves as an easy dismissal for an artist changing their sound, or exploring the gilded streets of pop music, or, indeed, signing to a major label. **(see footnote below).   But I use it with no small amount of reservation here.  This band sold directly out, and coming from someone who just recently fell in love with the band, to liking the fact that they were local, to seeing a thrilling live show, to actually wanting to go out and buy a record, to then realize that they sold their exclusive CD rights to Hot @(*&# Topic?  Its use is warranted. 


Usually when an indie band sells out you have time to reflect on their journey, their damn-the-man style or raw sound or their pluck and perseverance at getting “this far” and after you've come to the sad realization that they've succumbed to the machine they've raged so hard against, you hold up a framed photograph of the band from the hay day(sepia tone preferred) and dramatically turn it over on your bureau.  I barely had time to tell three people about this band before I realized they were no longer a part of an aesthetic that I enjoyed.  I look inward,  then, and wonder if I’m so immersed in the idea of acts staying plucky and independent that I can’t abide bands that all of a sudden grow to a point where they’re catching all the sun and casting a shadow over their former peers.

There was a great feature over a Pitchfork a month ago that really struck me.  It compared Lady Gaga and Joanna Newsom (!) and the way we view both acts.  I recommend reading the whole thing if that’s up your alley, but here’s a quote:

So whenever I hear complaints about new indie acts being predictable, bland, overly tasteful, or unambitious, I can't help thinking this might be part of the reason: That this scene may have started producing music the way some adolescents get dressed, corrosively self-conscious about any sign of unfashionable difference that opens them up to be mocked. At worst, you can wind up with a whole genre where the acts and the audience are both armoring themselves against standing out or embracing risks. You wind up reaching that weird provincial point where you're always cutting down the plant that grows higher than the others-- where the way you call for the music to be more interesting (or try to express what makes you more interesting) actually has the effect of making it tamer, less interesting.

Allow me to corrupt that metaphor a bit. 
SO.  Am I cutting down the good plant Foxy Shazam?  Yes.  Absolutely, the same way sports fans cut down Barry Bonds.  FZ mainlined steroids, booted up with a record deal, and all of a sudden is performing way out of its league.  It’s fun to watch Foxy Shazam go yard on every song of their new album, but inside I know I’m rooting for the drug that got them there.  Kill ‘em All, indeed.

Jeremy Larson, amateur writer and actor, searched around the store for another CD and instead bought a book. Feeling betrayed and bemused, he then went home, and purchased the new Foxy Shazam album from iTunes, wrote this write up, and is currently planning on taking a fishing trip to Lake Tahoe.   

**Lars Ulrich once said of Metallica, "Of course we sold-out.  We sold out every show on our tour."  One of many shreds of evidence to back up my aforementioned claim about Mr. Ulrich.

REVIEW: Chris Pureka - How I Learned To See In The Dark

Chris Pureka's had it with your bull.   You think you're so clever, don't you?  With your phones and pods and pads, and your clear expensive drinks, and your tweets and blogs [...] .    She does not have the patience to put up with your modern sensibility or your middle-class 'issues' because life is too full of itself far too short to cover everything up with glib sardonicism.  Get your heart on your sleeve and get earnest.  Ok.  I'm listening.

Northampton MA lets-have-a-seat-and-listen-closely singer Chris Pureka's third LP How I Learned To See In The Dark paws gently at the substance of  your melancholy until you're ready to acquiesce.  Pureka should be a welcome voice in playlists everywhere, for it is one without pretense, a growing commodity these days.  There's not much to think about, and more often than not, that is a wonderful thing.

"Wrecking Ball" out of the gate is an immediately catchy slice out of the americana singer/songwriter pie. Hints of blues, hints of alt-country, and beautiful orchestration (the dissonant electric guitar stings are choice) all make for a stand-out song a la Calexico.  Pureka is at her best here when she turns up the amps and lets the band play a little louder.  Her energy on "Broken Clocks" brings about the album's highlight.  Again, the orchestration and collaboration of the ensemble allows Pureka to be boosted by the energy of her backing band.  It works in spades.  "Broken Clocks" adds a welcome up-beat nature to an often down-trodden collection of minor-key torch songs, laments about expanse, distance, and the unfortunate fact that she's been running around and waiting in this void for a while.

Pureka's voice is rather innocuous, but its her economic melodies that breathe over her guitar playing that are worth remarking.  If there is a stand-out quality about Pureka, it is her subtle touch and ease on the guitar.  Her riffs are dynamic and gentle and fit precisely with the groove of the album.   Nothing is ever forced, nothing feels out of place, nothing jars your ears, no eyebrows get crooked.  There are very few surprises throughout the album, and when they come, they shine, but otherwise by about half-way through, you get Pureka's number and a sad feeling akin to "didn't we hear this song already?" By the time "Time Is An Anchor"'s maudlin and tired pre-chorus comes in crooning "you just don't know me at all",  I couldn't help but thinking that I actually kind of do.

It's not until "Damage Control" do we get a sense of her full potential as a solo artist without a drum kit holding her up.  Here she transcends mere sincerity and becomes vulnerable.  Guitar and voice come together and groove and connect with lyrics that balance passion and poetry.

Like many other right-minded individuals, I've lain in my bed, drank nameless booze, and listened to Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker and thought about life-choices and felt an amazing catharsis at the simplicity and sadness of it all.  Sometimes a cliche is not just a useless aphorism, but rather the core of something real.  Pureka writes and plays from her core and if you can put down your phone and stop checking facebook for a second and give her some time lying in your bed, you'll understand.   How I Learned To See In The Dark is an honest and direct record that sidles up to you, puts its arm around you, and leads away from whatever you think is important, walks you into a private, pastoral place, sits you down, and looks you in the eye for 50 straight minutes.  Adams analogy notwithstanding, this album doesn't need booze to succeed where Heartbreaker does.   How mature.  How peaceful.


How I Learned To See In The Dark is out now and can be purchased here
http://www.chrispureka.com

REVIEW: MGMT - Congratulations

Arguably (but not really), there are two very exciting days in the Spring.  The First is the miraculous first day of warm weather.  You wake up and holy shit! it's 60 degrees!  Basketball gets pumped up, socks get ignored, beer gets cracked at noon, and there is an immediate elation and Electric Feel and a feeling of invincibility and myopic optimism.  You're Fated to Pretend that this Weekend there aren't any Wars and the Kids and Youth in you will live at the forefront, without any Future Reflections to burst your temporary bubble or warmth and comfort.

Unfortunately this doesn't not last.  The frost the next morning makes you but angry.  Fool me once, once bitten, etc...

The Second, after you've grappled with shame and shyness, and you peak outside to find it is 70 degrees.  It actually has been 70 for few days now, and it's going to be 70 for the whole rest of the week.  This is it.  The beginning of the summer to come, pregnant with possibilities. It is daunting.  It is expansive and intimidating. The infinity of it is almost scary.  Don't close your eyes. You've made it:  "Congratulations."

Normally, you're first step sets the gait for your second step. MGMT's "Oracular Spectacular" just blew the hell up after a long fuse that sparked from 2008 well into 2009.  "Electric Feel" was blasted at the college bars, "Time To Pretend" made its way to Top 40 radio, and "Kids" found its way into Karaoke books, even.  Did I mention the Grammys?  Andrew VanWyngarden and Ben Goldwasser championed their super sweet synth pop across the world with no modicum of success, toured with sonic cousins Of Montreal, and fell directly in to the hearts of bugaloo-happy indippys.  Clad in a tie-dyed cape that he possibly found in the mud in a farm in New York state sometime in 1969, VanWyngarden hopped around stages and sang to the kids moving and grooving to support his debut.

"Congratulations" confounds and expands on their debut, making their second step more of a diagonal leap towards organic narcotic naturalism.  The lyrics spiral with involuted imagery that at times make Cream's Disraeli Gears seem entirely pedestrian and grounded.   "Flash Delirum", a chameleon prog-rocker comes replete with copious reverb and even an occasional flute riff. It is MGMT's lament on the general State of Things viewed through the lens of a seriously addled mind boasting lyrics like "the mirror ball is throwing mold/you can't get a grip if there's nothing to hold/see the flash catch a white lilly and wilt/but if you must smash a glass first fill it to the hilt."  It's pretty rad.

It's also no coincidence that this album has overt titular shout-outs to "Brian Eno" and the lesser known "(Song for) Dan Treacy" (just wikipedia him. I did).  The former describes an encounter with an etherial Eno in a Transylvanian cathedral and brings about the most up-tempo punky song on the album.  One can't help but grin at the deifying and lionization of Eno, titling him after the Return To Forever-esque breakdown, "Brian Peter George St John le Baptiste De La Salle Eno".

Tongue in cheekiness aside, "Congratulations" also sports a handful of breezy psych-pop tunes with which you can inhale the good, and exhale the bad.   The zen waltz ballad "I've Found A Whistle" sways with the essence of escapism from a nightmare.  "Siberian Brakes", the twelve minute cycle meanders a bit and gets lost in its own grandiosity, but coalesces eventually as most epic twelve minute cycles do.  You should time your high to peak right about here much in the same way you would "Within You, Without You" or "I Want You (She's So Heavy)"

The title track at the close of the album might be MGMT's best song yet.  Did I mention these guys know how to write a got-am song?  Their musical craftsmanship is the overwhelming positive note that will carry you through the album.  Their maturity and inventiveness is what makes "Congratulations" (song and album now) like stepping out and realizing there's so much to be had.  It's daunting, it's scary, but it's delightful.  The sun is shining on MGMT, and this album will make you want to take in the rays and lay in the grass and ponder about everything that is, was, and will be.  This album ain't a trick, it's the real deal.

Review: Foxy Shazam @ Mad Hatter 4/9/10

Close at the heels of national recognition due in no small part to their new record deal with big dog Warner Brothers and an growing penchant for sleeker style glam-pomp, Foxy Shazam returns (well, close enough) to their home-town Covington, KY to play the Mad Hatter. After some pleasant but rather innocuous openers the mustachioed lead singer Eric Nally and the rest of Foxy Shazam (all seeming to sport equally eccentric coiffures) took the stage, poised to command and conquer.

FZ is a favorite in the Cincinnati area, having molded a local fan-base here who seem (regrettably?) eager on bidding them bon voyage to the small clubs and corner stages and up to the midsize venues, and it seemed all too obvious that Nally & Co. have outgrown these venues.  Opening with “Yes, Yes, Yes,” and “Rocketeer” fusing both into a five minute rip-your-fucking-shirt-off artillery fire, this reviewer was flung with no apologies into a feral mosh pit in seconds.   Their sound was tight, well-rehearsed, musical; shifting seamlessly from histrionic screaming to a soulful croon not unlike Supertramp or say F. Mercury. Shout choruses and fist pumping abounded through FZ’s set as they plowed through their greatest numbers off of Introducing and their forthcoming self-titled album due out this Tuesday.  Anecdotal introductions preceded each song as mezzo-soprano voiced Nally would perch on top of a monitor, with a sort of anti-truth narrative that was neither sluggish nor pretentious.

And. It’s hard to not talk about FZ’s ethos without mentioning the concept of pretense.  It would be easy to lump FZ into the oeuvre of affected, packaged, irony-laden bands favoring pastiche like The Darkness or Andrew W.K.,  and no doubt some will do so with good cause.  But there is an acute sincerity to FZ’s theatrics, born from a little self-aggrandizement, and but a lot of passion and love. Easily noticed was the fact that Foxy loved the hell out of performing especially their newer songs “Unstoppable” and “Bye Bye Symphony”.  During these for the most part unheard tunes, the crowed allowed for the fracas to cease a bit and listen and enjoy on a civil level, or what passes for civil at a rock concert in northern Kentucky.  They sounded polished and professional and ready for something bigger.

The closer, crowd favorite from their debut album “No Don’t Shoot” re-ignited the powder keg of the audience, filled with crowd-surfing from both fans and the band which tore this tiny club apart (literally. The ceiling half collapsed and anonymous pipes swung down from the ceiling as Eric was hoisted in the air by the sweaty mass).  It’s clear they’ve conquered this stage.   It’s on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one.

Retooling

With gum on the shoe and a dream in my bindle, I'm going to start to put up some reviews of concerts and albums on this blog.   I want to try to branch out into the music scene, and soon possibly find a way for both theatre and music to coalesce the two.   All I've to go on are the things that keep me afloat and alive and alove: theatre, music, writing.

Really?
'Yes I'm actually going to do it.  I think there's a place for me in yet another saturated market full of unique voices and talent.  I've been writing consistently for years now and want to turn a few tricks as an author.  As I stated in posts sub,  writing is complimentary to my stage career:  a symbiosis.'

Yeah, ok no but, really?
'...'

Why should I care about what you have to say about music? You got a B.A. in Clout or something?
'Taking the subjective and making it objective (and sometimes quantitative (e.g. Pitchfork)) and boiling something down to a yea vote or a nay vote may grind one's gears, but to do this gives me peace of mind.  Yeah, Kant argued that critic and genius have an inverse relationship, so again: symbiosis.'

You're on some sort of "try-to-fill-a-gaping-void-so-you-can-have-inner-harmony" kinda thing, aren't you?
It doesn't matter.  Shut up.

Are your reviews going to be as (over)wrought as your other entries?
Well, I haven't really found a voice for anything yet.  This *wicka wicka* golB *wicka* is just sort of an outlet to write, to flex my syntactic tropes , to press text deftly with hopes the opposite sex will answer the beck and notes of my lexical sets.

Fucking what?  And why are you ripping this self-referential, self-effacing, ironic interface straight from Dave Eggers?  
I'll stop.

Look, point is, prepare for some cool music to which I've formulated opinions to appear on here in the near future.  I'm going to try to narrow the focus of this here golB.

Abide in the present.   Much love.

My Toast to Nietzsche. *clink* then *shatter*

*WARNING* the following hurts my head.  I can't imagine what it'll do to yours.  Wear a helmet, son!!

I think that like first there was the sun.

A glowing disc that moves in the largest arc.  Over and over it slashes across the sky.  
We are founded on cycles.  Our cells in our bodies cycle in and out every seven years or so.  It is only fitting that we sentient beings mar this ancient annulation .  We can't just let the circle meet back to its origin without taking a detour into the abstract, to the digressive, the self-effacing, unrealizable and impossible.  We can shrink the circle, and let it spiral into oblivion.  We can alter the orientation and vector of the circle into convolution, like the mobius strip.  We can even come close to connecting the first stroke with the last, but instead let the end be devoured by its beginning like Ouroboros.  But to have a fully complete cycle?

Here's the catch about hopping on the wagon:  things start to become overwhelmingly clear and precise.  Any opaqueness and notional logic is eschewed by the unhindered focus and attention your brain is now allowed to exercise.   For someone like me, it's barbaric torture.   I thrive on getting lost in my head, searching for the pith of ... the pith of whatever it is that I believe to be bothering me.  Now, acerbity is changed into passivity, paranoia into trust, and worst of all, my mind's mic got unplugged.  Sobriety is silence:  active, like a flat white noise devoid of the frequencies that make it dynamic:  something that equally pleases all pleasure receptors:  a wavelength that is no sound at all that somehow drowns out everything else.  Imagine being hugged not by a person who's arms have strength and heat and calluses, who you can smell, who's hair falls into your eyes, who's too tall and bends down awkwardly, or two short and reaches arms around your neck the way a child would giving you the least bit of comfort, or someone too fat who you feel more belly than arm,  or too skinny so you feel like you're going to break them, no no, imagine being hugged by a luke-warm bed sheet that swaddles around your torso, cocooning you in to an absolutely average vice grip, easy to break free, but still noticeable .  That's what this feels like.
Even writing this right now is becoming a task.  I haven't had this much trouble writing in ages:  things are pragmatic.  The very title of this blog seems to me now preposterous.  What else could there be than what is actualized?   How can the objects and actions exist on any plane besides the absolute atomic and scientific verum on which they were created?  Organic and scientific equations equalling a sum.  Or no sum.  Nil.   That german philosopher fellow.  Who would think that sobriety would bring about nihilism.  I thought that the vice of substance abuse was the wondering inside of your head that lead to insecurity, involuted abstractions and aberrations of reality, but perhaps it was the crutch that can keep your brain searching.   Now, here I am, clear as a bell in spring-time, and things are obvious, and pervasive, and without something greater, without footnotes or an asterisk, without an ominous question mark or ellipses.  My ontological rhetoric is stinted, and without a complete circuit, my light bulb sits, dormant, just a filament that rattles when breathed on.

And here stands my altercation with cycles.   I can't connect the alpha and omega in a cordial fashion.  I am somehow either jettisoned out into the ether, there to ponder where it started and where it will go;  or found at the beginning again, only to realize i'm staring at the jaws of what started this sequence.


Maybe I'm not there yet.

Automatic Transition

A story:

His morning was a Merriam-Webster routine.  Double taps on the snooze.  Releasing himself from a down duvet.  An iambic walk to the kitchen.  Sweats pulled on.  Grind beans.  Auto-drip.  Something called Truvia.  Hobbled gait.  Sit at desk.  Squint.  

And every day there came the silence of the first minutes against the dawn.  It was these acute moments that his consciousness, still infantile, expanded and tried to stretch into the day.  He put his wrists together as if he were being handcuffed and cradled his chin. His lids closed easily.

It was cars he saw, just cars.  A line of traffic filing into a beltline, one whirred by, then two, then six. It was mesmerizing, and the accelerando of increments made him plain giddy, more and more, a Boléro of cars.  Soon it was a paralytic rush hour, complete with a cacophony of horns and screeching rubber and tiny clouds of exhaust from each of the stalled motorists.  Frozen in his creaky chair, he stared a thousand yards through his wall, the coffee's steam whisping into his nose, looking at these cars grid-locked on an eight-lane freeway.  Every day, as true as the sky is blue,  this cerebral traffic jam occurred, without fail, just like his coffee and slitted eyes.  Cars of all kinds piled in: an '02 Ford F-150 with subwoofers so loud it hurt your balls,  a '97 Grand Am who's sporty headlights were about the only thing sporty about it,  a '92 Buick with rust creeping up from the bottom but comfy seats, a '93 Ford Taurus with a faded maroon exterior and interior to match; a '97 black Honda Civic with not a sun- but a moon-roof;  a stick-shift '98 Dodge neon who's speedometer always seemed far too big for the dash, a BMW motorcycle with leather saddle-bags, a white VW Cabriolet without power steering; another Ford Taurus, black, with faulty weather-stripping so inevitably when the car accelerates above 30mph, you reach for the automatic window roller-upper button only to be reminded for the x-ieth time that that hissing of wind won't go away.  More and more and more the cars sat, bumper to bumper, and he sat in stasis bemused at the tonnage of memories.  Each car idling in his head while the day inhaled and held its breath, and while to any other level-headed human the idea of a packed commute would be simply ingratiating and create a rage-laden anxiety unparalleled by any other worldly occurrence, but to the man, it was a time of clarity and understanding.  There they all were, together, a pile of steel that stacked from the bottom of his heart to his throat humming the tune of an engine in waiting.  He wished he knew where they came from and more importantly he wished they didn't have to get to where they were going, but in these first minutes against the dawn, he would bring all the cars together, pack them in tight, and look upon the love that each vehicle held.  His face went numb, and heated as if just coming in from the cold.  He smiled.  Soon, with the exhalation of the a.m.,  they would disperse and speed away, exiting off various ramps, continuing on.  He tried to hold on, to keep them crammed in, but they would leave just as they came, in small groups, then six, then two, then one. 

And throughout the day a car would zoom by, hard to recognize what it was, though.  Maybe a Mazda 626 that took him to a concert in high school, or maybe a Dodge conversion van where a friend's step dad smoked while he drove, or was it that hatchback sans a rearview mirror.  The anxiety of loss and the emptiness of his highway left him but to finish his coffee, shower, dress, and get into his car, and take the morning drive to work.  And as he idled on the freeway, he looked at the other cars, and knew no one, and it just wasn't the same.

Musings of the Annular

it has been a tumultuous few weeks here in the larson camp.   between opening a big old show at CSC and creating a psycho-reality for myself that is utterly nonnegotiable and debilitating, i feel like a failed piece of saran wrap trying to be stretched over a casserole dish, ripped in the middle, slowly collapsing into a small sticky heap ready to be discarded out of knowing 

frustration with a sense of ‘doesn’t this always fucking happen with this two-bit stretchy piece of shit plastic?’

but, mind you, that this is not reality. not the reality that i know i’m living in. i've since punched a ticket for a harrowing journey into my head, there to ponder annular dialectics, ontological rubix cubes, and a 'stomach level sadness' that exists there.  this is the lovely and radiant anti-truth i’ve created for myself, due in part and with many thanks to Infinite Jest, a (from the back cover) ‘…gargantuan, mind-altering comedy about the pursuit of happiness in America.’  well who doesn’t want that?  i sure do.  i've talked about this book previously in it's infantile stages of reading, but now as i reach the, oh let's say, the 40% mark at round about page 360, i need to freeze this frame and take a breath before i let this Jetsonian treadmill like whirl out of control, leaving me helpless but for a plea to stop this crazy thing.  

'How do trite things get to be trite?  Why is the truth not usually uninteresting but anti-interesting?'

i told my friend with whom i'm concurrently reading this book, 'what's hard for me is that i think [david foster wallace] despises all of his characters.' and she corrected me and said that 'no, only in that he may despise himself and see himself for who he is.'  the characters are naked, translucent facets of himself; authentic and arrestingly honest and become, for any engaged reader, facets of my/oneself .  i am hal,  orin,  pemulis, James O. but more accurately, i see myself hovering over this book, encompassing and embracing its whole context.  i see my thoughts expressed with such acuity and precision that it just often pisses me off, like that anger you get when you bite into a moist brownie whose taste transcends compliments and praise and just makes you get angry 'fuck you, that's a delicious treat'.  its infuriating how he's exposing me like a frat boy hazing me, making me run naked through the commons trailing behind me a roll of toilet paper set afire and attached directly to my ass 'figure it out, larson! run! run!'  it's infuriating exposing my surroundings  as a cyclical exercise of addiction and competition and entertainment.  and what plans does he lay out for escape?  professional sports, terrorism, suicide, weed, psilocybin, DMZ ( 'the Yale U. of Ivy League acid') or live a life of trite little cliches, One Day At A Time, Hang In There, Fake It Till You Make It.  

[that , up there, right what you just read, *needed* to happen.]

but like i said supra-supra-, this is a reality i've created for myself.  this is not the new way, the new leaf i've turned over, but a temporary insanity that i'm choosing to commit to until an opportunity of escape presents itself (that, for the love of g.,) doesn't include the aforementioned options.  this, too, shall pass. 

the last thing, that i always forget: it's hilarious.  i laugh, out loud, every day reading this book.  what joy it gives me

in other news, i'm 99% positive i'm attending Sasquatch this year, which i couldn't be more excited for.  camping, seattle, and a whole megaton of bands that i'm gonna be aching to see.
job still in limbo.
but, at the end of the day?  i'm happy.  very, very, happy.

I'll defer that note to my wig and glasses

continuing work on this role that i didn't audition for, nor am i technically right for.  whatever.  we can all find one hundred excuses why a role isn't working but i'm putting my energy into how to make it work.  and i'm succeeding.  i'm sure i'll look back at these posts/this role with a dismissive tone, chalked up to gum-shoeyness and inablity to get sea-legs quick enough.

that being said, i'm on page 260 of infinite jest and it is, bar none, the most engaging, challenging, rewarding tome i've ever fingered through. (fingered).  myself and others have had trouble expressing just how to write about this book so i'm going to wait until i'm done.  i haven't been marking my favorite quotes in the book, but i just usually come about some and text them to my good friend sabrina (who is concurrently reading the book with me)

me. yorick. dfw. we all are truly fellows of infinite jest.

the continuing story of bungling billy shakes

'why do i fall in love with every woman i see who gives me the least bit of attention?'
-eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

'i fall in love with someone new practically every day/but that's ok that's just the price i pay/for being a man'
-the divine comedy (band not book)

as with every production i do, i reach a point where i just have no idea what i'm doing.  no idea about anything, supremely no confidence, and supremely serious anxiety about everything that i do.  without fail. every production.  since college.  nothing helps.  nothing can be done.  it's a supreme flaw in my professionalism and personality.  it goes away eventually.

anyway, the 'removal' of gratiano from myself is going poorly.  so so poorly.  trying to plan choices and be someone else from out of the gate is proving disastrous.  i'm going to clean house.  start anew.  tomorrow.  it's scary, but i have to.   i have to work on this role the way i'm best at, not the way someone outside of the process tells me to.

pleading temporary insanity

eight days into 'othello' rehearsal and it is far and above the best shakespeare show i've ever worked on.  here's the proverbial thing:  my AD asked me to create a character that is more removed from who i am; wanted to see something different than he's seen.  this got me thinking about the benefits and drawbacks of working in an ensemble. 

 theatre is a very temporary art form: what you create lasts for only a firing of a synapse: (interesting thought: you could exponentially increase your enumerated moments based on the scale of time. is the whole play your one moment?  is that one vowel sound just a portion or your art?)  it is that (unfortunately) all too rare time when the audience is left with a section of time from a play that sits like an afterimage in their brain.  in my years of seeing theatre, i can probably remember only a handful of great 'moments' on stage.  but what i do remember are great work as a whole, great balance, and great stories.  so, what is the pressure we have as actors to create this individualistic art?  is this our ultimate selfish goal, to be personally remembered in a fleeting medium?  i'm talking about feeding the artist beast in this instance, and not the more objective principles of what constitutes good acting (intentions, objectives, listening, etc...)  i want to leave an impression for something that is inherently instant.  that doesn't make sense to me. so what do i want out of it?  how is this selfish desire satiated?

i can't be.

this is where the 'ensemble' becomes so important.  it can never be about your moments, about how clever you are, about your walk, your voice, your choices.  don't strive for this or that, because it's more about cohesion, and creating a unifying story.  try to leave behind the antiquated notion that you will be remembered.  you won't be.  but your show can.   i think sometimes we as actors all need this remember, to take the importance of the self, and put it toward everyone else.  because, frankly, you're about to be stricken from the record if you don't have an ensemble underneath you to lift you up.

in reading this, this sounds a little pedestrian and a little obvious to anyone who's ever taken a class in acting, but let me tell you that remembering that this profession is not about you is a hard thing, an any actor who tells you otherwise is lying through their teeth.  and it's something i (we) need to always be reminding ourselves of.   it's not about you.  it's not about you.  it's not about you. INAY!

which brings me back to my request from my AD.    to properly synthesize this request based on my current opinions on the craft would probably make me fall apart*.  but my insecurities about character work fall directly about my above manifesto about theatre.  but change is good.

 so my goal throughout the next couple of weeks to to continue to share the process of this character that is "removed" (sic to pretty much every acting lesson ever)  from me.  will it enmesh with the rest of the cast?  will i stand out like a copy of finnegans wake in the 'young adult' section, so incomprehensible and byzantine when all i really want to do is read about are sparkly sexy vampires?

right now, i have a different vocal placement (like scottish but with hard american r's) , horned rimmed glasses, a limited gesture index, a wig, a snappy suit.  dir. wants me to be late 30s.  stillness, pre-occupied, and incredibly well-educated.

IN OTHER NEWS

I got my tickets to joanna newsom.  theatre once again thwarts my attempts to see a real rock n roll show (my morning jacket).  i could go up to pittsburgh to see the hold steady.   i'm considering it.  here's a tribute the the band i can't see.

*i don't know if i'm shedding my skin as a rebirth or being peeled away like an onion toward a finite end.  either way, i'm literally falling directly apart.  my fake tooth came unhinged and my fingernail was ripped off due to another rogue fingernail trying to escape out the side of my right index finger.  i've had dreams where all my teeth fall out recently which all signs point to severe insecurity

i wasn't born of a whistle or milked from a thistle at twilight

Joanna Newsom.  lets talk about her .



there are few bands here on this earth that can create a 16 min spinning folk epic fueled by a harpist with a voice that sounds a little like a 7 year-old joan baez (or a 70 yea- old joan baez).

there are few bands that can use the word 'thou' and 'thee' (save possibly Dragonforce) without me rolling my eyes completely out of my head.

t.a.f.b. that can conversely created lovely little pop songs that defy definition.  it's not that she sings about the minutia, but the makes the tiniest noun sound Proper.  that's her drowning bell, that's her wool, that's her bean sprout, that's her belfry, that's her journal that she recorded mnemonic devices to tell the difference between a meteorite, a meteor, a meteoroid  (ok that last one probably is Proper).   never is she vague about her images... she paints a pastoral musical portrait which is like walking through a rusted and wooden consignment shop, overgrown with antiques and trinkets, filled with lone woodland creatures and non-sequiturs.

i only write this to show my love for her, and my excitement for her new album 'have one on me' coming out in 3 weeks.  a 3 cd set.  i just can't wait.

my morning jacket is playing with the preservation hall jazz band in columbus.  i will be there.

i just did a reading of "boy gets girl" by rebecca gilman.  that play is just flawed, as is i think her other play "spinning into butter".    she has very intelligent views on perception of women (former) and race (latter) but presents her characters as cut-outs that only develop through passive stories.  it's frustrating to actually try to act: "this one time i found this rock and it meant so much to me and this is why you should care about me know and i hope i opened a door for you to the inner chamber of my beating heart."
or something like that.
though:  this reading was a huge giant awesome step into hopefully filling monday night with rich readings of plays and hopefully paul leiber and i playing some songs in that room.  i'd love to get some original scripts read , too.  who's got one?  send it my way.

othello starts tomorrow, which is possibly one of the best plays ever written.  and i get to be in it, playing lodovico/gratiano (melted into one super senator).  it's one of those times where i really am blessed to have this job.  it's a work in progress, this job is, but man do i love the work.

my onion article audition

"Area Man Not Actually Down With O.P.P."

WAUSAU, WI-- On Thursday night, 28 year-old Scott Wakowski realized after the fact that he was actually not "down with O.P.P". "I've heard that song before," said Wakowski, "and never gave it much thought, but now that I have a girlfriend, I don't know how I or Jessica would feel about it." Naughty By Nature's summer jam from 1991 was played at a New Years eve party where he and girlfriend Jessica Ploeger were attending. "Everyone was shouting 'yeah you know me!' with me, too. I mean, do they know they're just allowing infidelity with the ones they love? Just think about the lyrics." Ploeger could not be reached for comment, but sources close to her say that she was and probably will be one of the "every last ladies", despite Wakowski's new-found impressions about the song.

f.t.t.h

This is a repost from something I had written about 7 months ago. Maybe you're interested?

"See you in hell."

I remember the first time I thought, "This was a bad idea."

On my refrigerator in college, there were the words "fuck theatre to hell" written in out in those poetry magnets (the single dumbest idea ever realized). Somoene had even drawn a little fire around it with a red and orange erasable marker. Every morning, I would wake up, open the fridge only to have that little phrase stare me in the face. I would dismiss it. Whatever. Or not even notice it somedays.

Eventually I would say it to myself when I'd stare at it. "Fuck theatre to hell. Heh."

Then I'd think about it during the day. Maybe put a little melody to it (Toto's "I'll Supply the Love" was a good one. )

Slowly, and without warning, it became a mantra. "Fuck. Theatre. To. Hell." It was my answer to everything; the panacea for whatever ailed me.

The self-fulfilling prophecy began. I became jaded, old, cynical, ironic, detached, hatful, and hated, like, all in a few short weeks. And all because of those poetry magnets.

I would amble about, always questioning what I was doing, how selfish this stupid profession was, how I could be paying an institution for them to teach me how to stipple a fake hobo beard on my face, or to crawl around on the floor in sweatpants screaming at other people "NOOO!!" as they encroached on my invisible pile of post-apocalyptic government-issued bread loaves in an acting exercise geared toward expanding th-- fuck this. Fuck this to hell. Surely this can't be real.

Though:

I would take solace in the fact that I was "doing what I want", but I would step back, and third-eye the situation: I'm getting a degree in pretending, storytelling, entertainment, buffoonery, talking. Those people you see on Disney cruise ships that play at 2:00, 4:00, 6:30, and 9:00 to tracked, canned shitty medleys of Frank Sinatra and Cole Porter tunes, those actors you make fun of on the Soaps, your bearded high school drama teacher who was "a little too nice" to the girls, the girl putting extra espresso in your latte in the morning, the guy getting you some more water: they all did this, too. They took the classes, got the degrees. And here I am. In the middle of Wisconsin, at a school you wouldn't hear of in all your life time. And I'm taking the classes and getting the degree."This was a bad idea."

But the very next synapse that fired from my brain was:
"Nope, this is what I love."

For better or for worse, I had fallen in love. Fallen in love with the acting exercises, the plays, with other actresses, with the parties, the complete ego trip that it was, the thrill of applause, the possibility of creating artMany actors hang all their collective hats on this theory that they are artists or will one day create art. It helps them sleep at night. Please don't disturb or question this idea, or you'll mess with the very fabric of actors' existences. , and the relative meaninglessness of all that was promised to me.

So, here I am. A few years later. With that same mantra "Fuck Theatre To Hell" tacked to my wall, scrawled in Sharpie. Like Theopholis, Faust, Robert Johnson, Zeppelin, MTV, Bernie Madoff, and "2 And A Half Men", I sold my soul to the devil for a chance at a taste. To suckle like Judas, Brutus, and Cassius (All three of whom are dream roles all actors want to play. Coincidence?) at the teet of Satan. So here I am.

Why don't I stop? Cause the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. And the devil I don't know would probably include more schooling and douche-bags and less casual smoking of weed and bi-curious women. And I don't care to meet any other life-sucking, wang-shrinking, fire-breathing, soul-shattering, personality-homogenizing, gateway-drug demon than Theatre.

I'm in hell. And I'm not leaving until I die.

See you in hell.

hold steady

one of my favorite bands (and frankly just one of the best live shows i've seen (thanks lindsey)), the hold steady, lost their delightfully anachronistic keyboard player two days ago (to quitting, not to death). he added this color to the band that was much needed: the guitarist is a detached mystic white boy, the bass pl. is a bass pl., and the drummer purposefully gets his rock-kit groove on. but craig finn needed that yang, that dichotomy that made t.h.s. something to remark. what entity goes better with those barked lyrics 'we drink and we dry up and we get covered in rust/we get wet and we corrode and now we crumble into dust' than a preposterously mustachioed ham, pounding it out on the B-3 or the Korg.

anyhow, Paste did their top 8 t.h.s songs. a fine list, sure.

here's mine:

Lyric Honorable Mention: Citrus : "i've had kisses that made judas seem sincere"

Muisc Honrable Mention: Most People Are DJs

Honorable Mention: Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night - this song is over far too soon. if there's one gripe i have about t.h.s , it's the declarative unity of the pronoun 'we'. however this tune goes yard with that concept to describe debaucherous nights for us. the best song that conveys a unity of subject and author. you just want to say 'fuck yes'.

*bonus points for terrific rhyme (we mix our own mythologies. we push them out through pa systems. we dictate our doxologies and try to get sleeping kids to sit up and listen) 4*

8. Stay Positive - a sort of 'where-we've-been-how-we-got-here' tribute to their friends, vices, characters, and fans. they stumbled upon something many writers do and few bands can do well: bringing it back. t.h.s do that so well without sounding precious. it's almost jarring to hear them sing about anything else than Holly-leuja or Gideon or Ybor City.

bonus points for fist pumping shout chorus: 3

7. Knuckles - at his barkingly best, finn just succumbs to the fact that he'll never be anything but some self-effacing bastion of mediocrity. a lying liar. or is he commenting on someone else? an introduction to the tiered structure to t.h.s. songs. armed with a shield of characters and a weapon of wit.

*bonus points for the sunny d line (i've been trying to get people to call me sunny d/cause i got the good stuff that kids go for/ but people keep calling me five alive) : 4 *

6. Stevie Nix - by virtue of the last verse, this earns a spot. unique lyrical brush strokes unparalleled save maybe by bret easton ellis in 'less than zero' (he never rocked this hard, though.) catholic mythology + minnesota + /drugs *weak-willed teenagers looking for escape = the t.h.s. oeuvre

*bonus points for naming your song after stevie nix - 32*

5. Stuck Between Stations - i popped this album into my car after much hype by virtually every music mag, and it was one of those transported moments, both cinematic and out of body. too amazed to rock just yet. now, yes, subsequent listentings provided opportunity for plentiful air guitar, drums, and esp. piano, but what a great song.

*bonus points for creeping closer to the E-Street Band - 5*

4. Chips Ahoy! - a diddy about cookies? nope. the name of fortuitous pony that came in 6 lengths ahead and allowed the purchase of copious pharmies and weed only to further distance young men from young women? hell yeah. 1,000 chips delicious indeed.

*bonus points for shout chorus - 4*

3. Certain Songs - for all their high-falutin irony, gen-y ennui, and caustic myopia and 20/5 hindsight, t.h.s. have a soft spot for that old time of rock n roll. they love music, and here is their torch song for billy joel and meatloaf. certain songs get scratched into our souls (see blog posts sub.) and they ain't always the greatest, but when it hits, you feel no pain. or maybe a lot of pain. either way: truth.

*bonus points for hitting the nail on the head: 4*

2. Positive Jam - proof positive that finn is spinning a story. the foreward to a band actually committed to a song, complete with cliff notes on the 20th century, and a mantra that becomes turned on its head so quickly it barely is recalled fondly. but how often have we given ourselves a resolution only to have that resolution take on it's own perverse irony based on how much we fucked it over? they start off on a good note full of resolve. the fall is great. the further t.h.s. get into their career, the stronger this song is.

*bonus points for telling someone to do what your band name is: 6*

1. First Night - a masterpiece. a post-mortem for his characters, a lament on the fleeting nature of youth, and recalls everything for me from those nights with blurry vision at a party, or at a bar, or in a room with old friends, old girlfriends. steeped in nostalgia and ruminations of choices and mistakes and the haze of something that existed as undefinable in the past that now brings a crystal clear definition to the present. anchored by the words of kerouac 'boys and girls in america have such a sad time together', the music builds to a spine-tingling climax to finn repeating 'when we kiss we spit white noise'. finn is always looking back at the youth, an OTS glance as he's writing. he never seems to stare at the problem and analyze it. it's off-the-cuff reflections coupled with the introspection of crippled soul.

ok. its just one of the best fucking songs. period.

*bonus points for still giving me shivers: 7*

yrstruly discusses objective baking

i've been cooking vegan/gluten-free food lately and what do you know, it's tasty. and healthy. and challenging. i'm usually not a "baker", per se, simply because it's one of those perfectionist food preparation styles. measure everything out and it's perfect. fuck something up, and you've got some sort of ruined cake that you'll pass off as intentional. cooking is more a "feel it out" subjective kinda thing. now, i really like all of my other activities besides acting to be very objective to balance out the sheer insanity of having a profession based solely on concepts and grey areas of success and failure. sports, building ikea shelves, putting my shoes on those shelves; things that are clearly right and wrong. Baking may become that other thing. though, i hear that you have to alter recipes and tweak things to add your own eponymous 'jeremy's rough-hewn chocolate chip cookies'.

holy shit the new spoon album is incredible. listen to britt daniel on "written in reverse". there's some incredible song-craft on 'transference'.

miss julie is opening... well... now. i got about 30 min until i start dancing like hormone crazed teen and melding to and fro into sexual poses. it's midsummer's eve, what do you expect?

get ur freak on.

the year of glad

happy new year. the year of glad. 2010. the future.
sorry i've been slow to update this blog since christmas and everything. i've been distracted with video games and shadow-fucking as peasants in 'miss julie'. serious stuff. not to be meddled with.
i'm, as promised, 84 pages into 'infinite jest'. carrying this thing around is work enough. i probably appear to everyone i work with as this over-reaching pseudo-intellectual, like i'd think of someone if they always carry around the bible. "i get it, thumper." but as a matter of a fact, i have great reasons for reading this book, and heckers, you shouldn't need a reason to read.
we open 'miss julie' next week along with 'krapp's last tape' and 'hughie'. what barn-burners! i actually think it's some of the company's best work this year. dissimilar to most theatre jobs, (and similar to most real jobs), i have to go in and february and defend my position in the company. while i think it's a necessity and a definite good thing, it's gonna be a little scary.

like waiting for the STD test to come back from the doctor.

i worked with stoker and sabrina to create possibly the funniest, f(c?)ringiest sketch ever committed to digital 1s and 0s. another far more tame sketch is obviously a clearer more thought-out version and will garner laughs from the peanut gallery, but this... oh... this. you'll see.

i need to do more. more writing, flex my creative digits, (side-note, i've had an infected finger for about a week now. most irritating), juice my art fruit, or whatever.

commercial auditioning has been going well, but no bookings yet.

got a couple v/o auditions on monday.

and then there's this: