Everything this person has written for TUNETHEPROLETARIAT
Hold my hopes underwater
Mountain Goats – Until I Am Whole
It had been three days since Meg was caught and thrown back in the water. Meg was a fish.
She thought about it a lot. Biting down and feeling only searing pain. The tug-tug-tug upward through the water and then – gasp – breaking through into the air. Gasping for oxygen, surrounded by air. Blink-blink-blinking as a middle-aged Hispanic dude in a florescent windbreaker held her down on the top of a white cooler and yanked the hook out. Pain again. Then the perfect, serene moment as she hung in the air, twisting slowly as she fell alongside the pier before – SPLASH – hitting water.
Now, three days later, how was she supposed to react? Did everyone expect her to go right on living as if nothing had happened? As if her mouth didn’t bleed and scab over? Was she supposed to count herself lucky and treasure the gratuitous life handed her? Even after a molestation like that?
Mostly, she was stunned. She swam listlessly, feeling water pour over her mouth scab. Lately she found herself going limp. Still awake, but limp. She would just let the tide push her against a buoy, as she silently blinked-blinked-blinked at the world around her, for hours. Or she’d let the wake from a boat spin her over and over. Just drifting.
Every once in a while she got mad. What – she wasn’t good enough even to eat? Not worth the humdrum effort of a quick hammer blow to end her life? She was rejected even by her enemies, not worth anyone’s time.
She thought of suicide a lot. She would flop up onto a raft and cough to death in the oxygen and sun. Or maybe she would scrape off her own gills on some coral and suffocate under water. She knew that if she found a gaping predator mouth big enough, she would swim right on in. She didn’t doubt that for a second.
But all there was to do between now and when she plucked up enough courage to do what the fisherman had failed to do — end her miserable life — was to keep on existing.
Mountain Goats – Spent Gladiator 2
Mountain Goats write anthems for the suicidal who, thus far, have chosen not to commit suicide. AKA you and AKA me. [Transcendental Youth.]
The blood from your nose running hot in your fingers
Some thoughts on seeing Shearwater and Dinosaur Jr at The Observatory in Santa Ana on Oct. 10:
- Concerts start late. No other genre of event starts an hour and a half after the time printed on tickets. But everyone expects it with concerts. The room was only half full until right before Shearwater started.
- This means a lot of standing. I’m good at standing. I’m a competent stander. But recently I bought these new boots. They make me look fantastic and I get excited to wear them (even if they aren’t fuck-off menacing), but they suck to stand in. By the end of the show my toes were going to sleep.
- Before the show there were two lines. I asked the barkeep what the other one was for, and he said the singer from Thrice is playing worship music somewhere else in the venue. Humans have let some pretty awful things happen throughout history, and this ranks among them.
- I paid $9 for a PBR tallboy. They’re like two bucks at 7-Eleven. That’s an impressive markup. So impressive I forgot to tip the bartender. I’m pretty sure this makes me an awful human being.
- Shearwater played mostly Animal Joy material. That album is life-affirming. I felt all of the feelings, and I felt them strongly. My torso was full to bursting with liquid emotion, and I could feel it rising in my throat, threatening to choke me. I bet if I had taken off my shirt, my chest would have glowed.
- Rob Delaney talks (earnestly, I think) of better understanding his parents’ divorce after seeing a live dance performance. My parents are still together, but I felt like a wholer human being after the show.
- Chatter between songs was minimal. Sample dialog: “Dinosaur Jr will melt your faces in short order. First, we’re going to play you some songs of sadness and love.”
- That was Jonathan Meiburg. He makes me jealous. He’s tall, handsome, and has a voice like monsoon rains in the jungle. I always imagine he must have been nervous starting a band, though. Shearwater’s music is earnest and profound, and if you don’t hit the mark every time his voice would just make it sound ridiculous.
- After the blistering vocal performance of “Eternal as fire” on Insolence, the guy behind me scoffed during the brief musical pause. The feeling I felt then was anger.
- It must be tough as an opening band. You can kill it every night and still everyone (besides me, in this case) is waiting for you to go away so someone they like more will come on. That’s got to grind you down.
- This tour is sans Kim or Thor. I don’t know where they are or why they are not along. I missed them.
- Everyone in Shearwater wore jeans. I find tour apparel interesting. You’ve got to pick something comfortable but trendy, and it’s got to hold up dirty and wrinkled and frayed. This is your look, your brand. I don’t imagine bands get to wash their clothes too often. I remember David Bazan excitedly telling me about these self-drying socks he bought. He would rinse them in the hotel sink every night and they’d be ready and dry in the morning.
- Besides clothes and instruments and amps, tour vans have to fit extra drum sticks and guitar strings and gaffer tape. I imagine a slowly dwindling pile as the band incrementally goes through its stock. Planning ahead for months’ worth of guitar strings is probably not what people think about when they start a band.
- Shearwater closed with a cover, but I didn’t know it. Any help?
- Dinosaur Jr’s guitar tech has his arm in a sling, which he awkwardly worked around when setting up. Then he pulled it out when tuning the guitar. He had shoulder-length hair and was balding.
- All of Dinosaur Jr’s roadies had long hair. Part of befriending J Mascis, I suppose. One of them, when he leaned down to help pull the rug under the drum set forward, displayed a huge amount of crack.
- Murph, the drummer, wore khaki shorts. He has old man legs. It reminded me of how old these guys are — mid-40s. They’ve been making music since the early ’80s, persevering through decades and band-breakups and age and the grind of touring. There are some people who will just keep at their craft no matter what. I like that. I like to think that artists would toil away even if there was no money involved, quietly writing and editing and revising during nights after work under a sickly-yellow light of a bulb not nearly strong enough.
- Anyways, Murph is bald. He has to use a rag to wipe the sweat off his dome between songs. Mascis and Lou Barlow, when they nod their heads to noodle, hide behind their hair. It’s an odd juxtaposition.
- The shitbrains teenager behind me kept describing Shearwater as “flatline.” This puzzled me; Dinosaur Jr is as atonal as rock gets. There’s color in the guitar solos, but the rest is as straight and abrasive as it comes. What a shitbrain.
- J Mascis abandons his trademark lenticular look when he plays. I’ve never seen him without glasses on and it made me slightly uncomfortable, like I was watching him get ready for sleep or a shower (the only times I take off my glasses).
- Lou does all the talking, even though Mascis sings the majority of the songs. It’s a weird dynamic, especially if you remember that Mascis once fired Barlow.
- During one song, a guy stuck his arm out next to my head and recorded the thing on his iPhone. I will never understand this generation’s need to (shittily) document everything it experiences. I don’t like bootlegs. Bands spend months and thousands of dollars so that albums have the best version of songs on them. Why listen to the unedited version? The joy of concerts is the experience, the volume, the tremors. All of that is lost as soon as it’s crammed into an iPhone.
- I hate encores. I’ve been to several dozen concerts in my life, and can only think of one or two that didn’t do them. Listen, bands. Be honest. Play your allotment of songs and then trudge off. Encores hold negligible power if everyone does them every time. This frustrates me. We can all see the guitar and bass tech not breaking the set down yet. We can all hear the absence of house music. It’s this ritual we’re put through despite both sides knowing there’s no surprise and neither benefiting. Stop pretending.
- I chatted with a bouncer who looked like a black Joseph Gordon-Levitt. He said he doesn’t even check who is playing, just shows up every night. He also said he’s never had to jump over the fence at the front to tackle anybody, which disappointed me. Midway through Shearwater’s set, someone toked up in the middle of the standing pit. The bouncers have to see that shit, so I imagine they just don’t care. Probably ends up being tricky legal ground for venues if people keep getting arrested for weed.
- I picked up Animal Joy from the merch table because I didn’t own a physical copy yet. That means I’ve only ever listened on my speakers or headphones. What I learned on the drive home is that my car speakers are awful.
[Animal Joy / vertoiseau]
The cocooned or the coquette?
Jens Lekman – I Know What Love Isn’t
“Hey, Rawles. What’s up?”
“Whatsupwhatsupwhatsup.”
“How’s it going, boy? You want to go outside? I bet you do. I’ll bet you do.”
“So what do you think? How’s your life been?”
“Fancy a cuddle-nap? Yeah, that sounds nice to me, too.”
“Do you ever feel lonely here alone in the house? Or is it worse when I’m here ignoring you? Loneliness and being alone are different things, remember.”
“Hey, buddy, want a snack?”
“Well don’t you look dapper today.”
“Stop licking my fucking couch, dude. Just because it’s leather doesn’t mean it tastes like beef.”
“You thirsty, buddy?”
“I’ve traveled all around the world trying to lose my existential distaste for myself but I think this is one tail I’ll never shake.” Rawles blinks. “Yeah, I thought it sounded a touch pretentious too.”
“C’mon, man, don’t pee on that.”
“You know that feeling when you’re a tourist and it’s cool and all, but you can’t shake the thought that you are making the place worse or less authentic by being there? I feel like that everywhere in the world. No? You’re pretty much comfortable wherever you flop? Alright.”
“Seriously, stop licking the damn couch.”
“Man, we’ll have to pay the bills”
Life advice from Howl Griff:
On choosing a band name
Hywel Griff: My full name is Hywel Griffiths, shortened to Hywel Griff. This all started as a solo project and I chose Howl Griff as a homage to Howlin’ Wolf. I thought it made me sound like a dusty bluesman.
On second-guessing the choice of a band name
Gary Parkinson: For our first gig, we were actually billed as Howl Griff & The Black And White Needles. We might have dressed in white shirts and black ties, too. When we got to the venue and saw the poster, they’d had to make the name so small that you had to squint to see it… by the next gig we were just Howl Griff. No other names were considered, although – here’s an exclusive for you – at one point I’d like create a band called Chunky Dory. It’ll be rubbish.
On finding time for band practice despite being an adult
Parkinson: I’m website editor for FourFourTwo football magazine. I’m also a father of two. You just have to be hyper-organised, Zac, or perhaps get by without sleep. The other guys also have jobs: bassist Steve [Kennedy] works in post-production effects for movies, which is less glamorous than it sounds. Drummer Nick [Moore] is a freelance journalist – he’s been doing 14-hour days on the Olympics and Paralympics. We sometimes find him asleep on his snare, snoring in tempo.
On dealing with hurtful reviews on the Internet
Griff: Somebody once said ‘Howl Griff aren’t my cup of tea’ and we’ve been slagged off by a few others too, but it’s best to not let this stuff get to you otherwise you’d just stop doing what you’re doing. You have to be very thick-skinned in this business. I just ignore most of the stuff people say about us. Unless it’s nice.
On choosing the music for the way to the gig
Parkinson: If you’ve just joined a band I’d recommend making “mixtape” CDs for your new compadres – but no more than one song per artist. Choose wisely, Jedi…
On extracurricular listening
Griff: I must admit to not listening to much music. As I create my own I feel I need a rest from music when I’m not working. So talk radio goes on or I’m forced to listen to my girlfriend’s tastes, which has been Prince and Elliot Smith of late.
Someday you might find your soul endangered
They sit silently. There are three of them, taking up three of the 12 seats set up in a circle in the living room of an old Los Angeles house. The couches are plaid and floral and ugly and old. The ceiling has water damage. They sit in silence. It is an unprogrammed Quaker meeting. A peace sign six feet tall rests in the weeds out front.
A cat bounds onto the center coffee table and casually preens itself. The whole house smells like cats and cat piss. In an unprogrammed meeting, any member led by the Spirit speaks. If the Spirit does not lead, the members do not speak. They sit in silence.
Malory’s head nods briefly. She is wearing perfectly round silver glasses. Her hair is silver. Her clothes are frumpy and her body lumpy. The cat rattles something in the kitchen, so she shuffles to the back to investigate and slowly shuffles back.
Bill shaves his mustache but not his gray beard. The leather of his brown shoes is cracked. There is a gap between his two front teeth. He has not flown since 2001 because he assumes he’s on the no-fly list. A fly buzzes in the stale air for a bit and then leaves the room. The air does not move. He is the clerk.
On the mantle sits an old scale, the kind you have to use weights on the bottom to figure out how heavy something is. The only thing it is measuring now is dust. No one is measuring the time either; Marge’s mouth is open in snoreless sleep. They sit silently, praying, waiting. [Harvest Moon.]
Sometimes I get a little scared and drunk
My roommate says 7-Eleven and Vegas share a similar vibe. It’s open all night. The clientele is filled with a quiet desperation, a certain depravity. It facilitates poor life decisions.
I had to make a bee-double e-double arr-ewe-en at 1 a.m. As I crossed the street, a couple passed the other way. A cop stopped at the light called them over, and, seeing the open Corona the guy was trying to hide behind his leg, got out of his car, all crisp blue uniform and authoritative sobriety. The girl — skin-tight black dress down over the impressive curve of her thighs and not much else — obediently backed off into the parking lot. The guy sat down on the curb, handing his license up into the beam of the flashlight.
I hightailed out of there; I know I’m white, but cops are scary, okay?
The 7-Eleven down the block has two demographics. Half is older, burned-out, ethnic, from the residential side of the street, there to pick up six-packs and menthols. Half is from just across the road, hipsters drunkenly stumbling out of a club called Que Sera for smokes and snacks. I grabbed a PBR tallboy and an Arizona ice tea and fell into line behind two hefty white dudes comparing notes about arm tattoos. Outside, two senile black guys missing teeth elbowed each other and snickered at unfunny jokes about the lost girl in the parking lot, talking on her phone to stranded friends. “She’s really got some sugar on that cookie, huh, oh man.” The girl tugged on her black-and-white striped skirt and looked away.
I left. I prefer to make my poor life decisions in the comfort of my own home.
Hey, are you awake?
Douglas was 6-foot-2, 42 years old, and a cuckold.
Douglas sighed deeply — a sigh that seemed to deflate his torso like a punctured exercise ball — swung his legs out of bed, and was a cuckold.
Douglas wore a suit to work, which made his shoulders look even more broad, and loosely fingered the cufflinks his wife had bought him, and was a cuckold.
Douglas slid his size 13 feet into dress shoes using a shoehorn that a now-distant friend had given as a wedding present, and was a cuckold.
Douglas’ voice cracked during a conference call at work and, later, when Debbie, the secretary, asked him if everything was alright, he said it was, and didn’t mention that he was a cuckold.
Douglas walked brazenly out of work early, slumped into his leather car seat, and was a cuckold.
Douglas picked up his daughters — seven and nine — who squabbled and tittered in the back seat, while he sat silent in the front, driving slower than the speed limit, and was a cuckold.
Douglas traded his suit for a polo and poured himself an inch of Woodford Reserve, and was a cuckold.
Douglas idly stroked his youngest daughter’s straw blond hair when she fell asleep on his lap on the couch, and was a cuckold.
Douglas went to bed, alone.
[Cherry Tree.]