DOG DAYS NEWS RERUN
I put a *ton* of photos on the photo page--many from my/Posies tour in Asia, and more.
Here's a piece I wrote for an Australian magazine recently; unfortunately it was too long, and (sniff) got rejected.
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Let’s get one thing straight: I have never taken much interest in the scholarly analysis of rock or other modern musics; the messages, the poses, the reactions are easily recognized as extensions and attributes of human psychology that our species has been displaying for all of observable history. There’s the fight for dominance in the pursuit of attracting the best mates; there’s the hysteria that manifests as the pressure cooker of fear and societal repression loses its lid; and so on. I don’t find modern musicians any more fascinating than, say, Mesopotamian farmers, and in reality, I would much rather read about the latter. So, let it be stated for the record that I’m feeling a slight sense of shame for contributing more words to a vastly oversized blatherverse. I hope that I can contribute something beneficial to our society in the future by thoughtful abstinence when next asked to opine or theorize. Sadly, it’s a consequence of Wikipedia and its ilk that non-facts are compiled by non-scholars and avidly referenced by non-critical thinkers.
I am a performer. A songwriter, yes; this work is done in places you don’t see: at home, in hotel rooms, or in studios. A recording artist, as well—making the most believable-sounding, completely idealized version of me, to project my abject sensitivity from the most unassailable illusory precipice of Olympian perfection that technology can create for me. It’s all in good fun: I will point out that art in my view is a game to create the possible that could, should, shouldn’t or even might be in our future, or lost in a forgotten past.
So, what do I hope to achieve when I perform? Is it the Snake Oil Sales Division of Ken Stringfellow corp.? You don’t have to believe me, but I’m not just trying to take your money and survive unscathed. I would like to create conditions for elevating the spirit, for suspending the loathing that humans naturally have for one another, and I would like to show that being a performer is no great shakes—teach a man to fish, as they say. We can conjure this apparent miracle with simple elements and the power of temporarily shared belief. Those that are in the miracle business would hate me if I in fact had any impact on said miracle sales. I offer an alternative, and, proving that the Catholic Church is more evil than Clear Channel, (CC and CC? Coincidence? Is it ever?) no one has ever tried to crush my nascent movement. I am not preaching revolution. When archaeologists dig up the 21st century, they will find lots of Christina Aguilera rubbish; they will be extremely unlikely to discover any Ken Stringfellow-oriented shards. They will conclude that Ms. Aguilera was one of the most important, provocative artists of the 21st century, and they’ll be right. By the same token we can conclude that Homer was the John Grisham of his day, and that the really interesting stuff that intellectuals were debating has long been lost, forever. I know--the only intellectual debating my merits happens to be me.
When I perform, I am trying to join the audience—my position as focal point of the evening makes this an impossible task, but that’s my goal. And to do this, I must coax the audience to envelop me. One of the most isolating devices in music is the PA system. I mean, come on—we use essentially the same device that called us down to the principal’s office to deliver our messages to our listeners—I find that incredibly twisted. There’s nothing more pure than air you move yourself, customizing each oscillation and presenting it as a handcrafted item for each listener.
I recently went to see the Fiery Furnaces perform in a club in Paris. I think their first album is a wonderfully unfocused document, a map made by blind mapmakers—its disorganization automatically leads the listener’s brain to make outrageous assumptions and bridge untenable gaps while listening, and that’s the fun. No two people will hear the same band when they listen to that record. Contrast that with a Backstreet Boys album—all the clichés are in place, everyone’s role—the straight girl, the straight guy, more or less—is clear; the actors in each of the stories do what they’re told, no more able to change than a train is able to turn left at any time.
In concert, the FF’s abandoned just about everything that makes them interesting. They felt they should pummel us with a non-stop, balls to the wall, Foo Fighters-esque ‘for the kids’ kind of shtick. Now, I think when the Foos do this they do it with joy—I believe Dave Grohl likes his audience, and meets them where they expect to be met. He is not leading them anywhere, and that means it’s a day off from school—all sides are happy with the arrangement. With the Fiery F’s, (FF vs. FF—coincidence? Is it ever?) the disdain for their audience couldn’t be more apparent. It’s as if they came to a potluck but brought a bunch of old car batteries instead of food, and said, essentially, ‘eat shit’. The singer’s lyrics were completely buried--not even that Michael Stipe, just-enough-getting- through-to-draw-you-in-circa-1983 factor was present. She was just a shaggy chick in too-tight white pants taking up space. The guitar player cracked himself up at the ridiculous, Jay Mascis-meets-Yngwie-meets-Os Mutantes riffs he was throwing out. The drummer never looked at his bandmates. There was a bass player…I think.
The worst part is, the place was packed, and I believe there wasn’t a soul there who even likes the band. They were there because they had to be there, simple as that. Enduring the Fiery Furnaces substandard, uninspired live show was exactly like enduring Mahogany Rush’s 25-minute version of ‘Red House’ in 1972. Oddly, people aren’t stupid, naïve, etc. as would be convenient for blaming them in their complacency. They’re not complacent. They’re scared. We all need to get laid, put sperm to egg and push our respective lines a generation forward. If we go off the migratory track, there’s more wolves than bitches, and skeletons don’t get laid. It’s hard to look appealing when a raven is digging your eyeball out of your skull, and you’re sitting their dead like an idiot, doing nothing about it.
As for showbiz, I present you: Queen. Or, two Queens and 3 other guys. Now that was a show. In theory. In practice, it was the running of a mathematical proof—a theory becomes a maxim when the experiment produces the same results every time. Brian May is an amateur scientist, who could have gone pro if it wasn’t for the fact he believed in dragons and fairy fellers. But, he had to prove that the experiment would still work, and this he set up laboratory conditions in stadia all over the world. I think he, too, loves his audience. And misses them. He’s wealthy, he’s beloved and respected by his peers— so, why else would he drag himself around with a Chuck-Norris looking dude that doesn't even know the words to ‘We Will Rock You’ than to assuage a profound longing for the company of the people he doesn’t know but are sure to be seated in front of him when his band’s name is on the marquee? It must be love.
I certainly don’t hate my audience. I admit I have a few showbiz parlor tricks I use to make each show go in the direction that’s most comfortable for me. Occasionally it doesn’t work, and that’s OK. I hope that even as I approach my autumn--and I’m hovering around Labor Day weekend right now, hoping that there’s a generous Indian summer ahead—I can be more explorer than performer. Performance implies replay—the car performs as it was designed to do. Exploration means that each mountain needs to be named, each cliff face needs some iron spikes driven in it to hold the next guy’s ropes, and that there will be cannibals and flat topped Venezuelan mesas covered with orchids. There’s every chance that I’ll slip on some mud and starve to death in a ravine. I’ll write my last journal entries in blood, and share my secrets with whoever finds the artful arrangement of my shredded clothes and mossy bones. Now that’s a performance.
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Love
KS
Oslo, NORWAY
