The Contrarian

Identity.

I spent part of the summer re-reading a few Philip K. Dick novellas; specifically the ones in the new Library of America edition. Shaky prose aside, Dick was a genius at examining the seemingly paper-thin constructs that comprise individual (and group) identity.

Of course, he did have a head full of amphetamines and a predisposition to mental illness.

But what if perceiving one's lack of fixed selfhood didn't result in madness? Is such awareness even worth pursuing? Most people are loathe to even approach the idea, especially in this culture, where ownership and entitlement are the essence of self-definition.

My friend Jebson, who is currently in Amsterdam pursuing a graduate degree in Hermetics and Western Esotericism (or is he gobbling fresh mushrooms and taking baths in hash oil?), recently wrote me with the advisement that even art needn't be proprietary:

In Western literature and art, there is a salient emphasis placed on the creator and not the created... Eastern art tends to be devoid of author, or painter or musician. I'm not saying I prefer it that way, but in our culture I think the artist is far too hard on himself for not accomplishing certain financial and/or commercial goals.

That made me think back to a profile I did on sound artist Greg Davis, who, in the course of our chat, stressed that he always tries to "let go" of a piece of music once he's finished with it. Playing the devil's advocate, I suggested that art is necessarily egotistical, being the imposition of one's aesthetic will on reality. He countered that he thinks of it more as "putting a frame around something" — an attitude not dissimilar from John Cage, a lifetime Zen acolyte and one of Davis' chief inspirations.

Hitting the cushion (with my ass, not my fist) every day has served to re-remind me of these points, to the degree that I can't believe I ever forgot them in the first place. Ego is one tricky bitch.

In any case, it's interesting to see things from the perspective of relative freedom. Struggles and hardships continue to occur, but with less fixation, they're less enduring. Ideas about oneself are more or less like cloud formations in a semi-clear sky. Kind of whoopty-fuck, you know? Selfhood becomes like a wardrobe. This one might be all you can currently afford, but it fits well enough. Tomorrow, maybe you'll even wear a vest — who knows?

Still, there are downsides to fluid identity. Those unwilling or incapable of observing their states of being may find themselves the victims of dangerous delusions. A recent post on Undead Molly references an article in the latest Wired about an internet relationship involving multiple levels of identity fraud. The spookiest thing about the story is the degree to which the principals fooled themselves. So be sure to stay mindful when you're self-swapping, k?

Nothing may be true and everything indeed permitted, but that doesn't mean it can't be plain nasty business.

Stay tuned for your regular programming...

On the Good Foot.

Aww, gee, thanks for all of the supportive replies to my last post — public and private.

I really am not trying to be a whiner; just wanted to get some stuff off my chest in the hopes of keeping a measure of objectivity about my current situation.

A  buncha new CDs  just arrived for review, so it's not like I don't have shit to do.

Additionally, I've been working like crazy on a new batch of songs. I'm going places I haven't gone before, and it's pretty interesting. One "completed" track has a Canterbury-prog sound, with acoustic guitars, celeste and mellotron, as well as "will o' the wisp" vocals. It's either beautiful or ridiculous — I'm not sure which.

But it's the tune I'm currently putting together that's got me all bugaboo. I'm channeling Queen on this one, no joke. And not in some half-ass My Chemical Romance way, either. That's the last time you'll read that name here, I promise.

Somehow my mastering skills are a bit rusty. The music is sounding pretty good in the mix, but ends up being a ball of poorly-EQ'd crap by the final bounce. Ah, well — there's always the next 10 passes. I'll post some MP3s over there in the currently-empty Contrarian Compositions section on top right side of your screen.

So yeah, things are cool, despite my bitching.

Check out this Tom Paxton clip that my friend and musical associate Marg G. Cooley sent me:

Attachments.

And not the kind you send in an e-mail.

Major personal upheavals such as job changes, moves, deaths etc. always involve a period of adjustment. A sense of identity displacement is common — Who am I? What exactly is it I'm supposed to be doing?

Lately, I've wrestled with an existential schism that has me questioning pretty much everything I've come to take for granted as a self-defining truth.

Heavy, I know.

I'm certainly guilty of a "poverty mindset" — meaning I often compare my accomplishments with those of others, which in turn makes me feel less-than. Yet a realistic appraisal of what I have achieved only seems to suggest further opportunity. It's just that it's hard to see where and how.

Somehow, over the last six or so years, I made the transition from musician to writer, and have had the good fortune to see my latter labors rewarded. I never expected to make a living with words, and I probably didn't have any right to. But now my ego has been conditioned by experience. Damn.

Since giving up my slot on an editorial masthead, I've been dipping my toes into the ice-cold waters of freelance writing. I'd always scribed on the side, mostly to keep from getting burned out on a single voice. All I really want to do is expand my base a bit; maybe contribute to a few more magazines and the local alt-newsweekly. Seems pretty reasonable, no?

Perhaps not. I've found that the majority of people I've attempted to connect with are either way too busy to have anything to do with me, or are just plain callous. Of course, there have been a couple of exceptions.

The struggle is not to take it personally. I mean, I'm a published entertainment writer, not some fresh-faced college kid looking to break into the business. But in reality, I have nothing to prove. I've already done this kind of work, and there isn't a reason beyond an egotistical one to continue. Does the world really need another self-referential, snarky blowhard armed with adjectives and hyphens?

I aspire to bring my skills in alignment with more altruistic endeavors, but I'm unsure what that might look like. Right now, I'm thinking soup kitchen.

Back when I was an editor by title, I did my best to reply to all of the queries sent my way. And let me tell you, a lot of 'em were utterly absurd. Yet I'm sure a few things slipped through the cracks, so it's easy to imagine my current situation as somehow karmic in nature.

Still, is it that hard to answer a fucking e-mail? I'm a big boy, I can handle rejection. It's the silence that kills me.

Here's another example:

A few weeks ago, I had coffee with a big-shot editor at a certain big-shot daily, whose underlings had previously promised me a staff position, only to have it yanked from my grasp at the 11th hour due a previously unmentioned "internal candidate." Although this was a major fucking letdown/inconvenience for me, I took it in stride, and accepted an offer from said editor to meet at a later date.

Did I mention I was originally contacted by them completely unsolicited?

At our little get-together, the dude actually offered me another job, which he told me they were in the process of creating. I've sent him two friendly e-mails since then (the first of which was that same day, and simply said "thanks for meeting with me"), but have gotten no replies.

Would that not drive you crazy?

Anyway, I know that rejection is nothing new, especially in this game. So I'm trying to just move forward. Still, I wish I could figure out what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing right now.

Maybe you're looking at it.

I'm actually cool with that.

Mail Maven.

[Editor's Note: This is Brooke's post — it even says so right at the bottom].

I got a job!

A little over a month ago, actually, which is why I disappeared from the blogosphere. I can't mention my new employer by name, but I can say it's part of an organization I've supported for many many years and I am happy to be affiliated with said unnamed entity. I am now responsible for the direct mail campaigns (AKA junk mail, useless clutter, paper waste) for my organization. I am encouraging a shift towards online solicitations, but the fact is, a lot of us actually respond to direct mail, which is why it continues fill our mailboxes every day. 

A highlight from the new job was getting to sit fifteen feet from Elizabeth Edwards when she gave a speech at a work-related function. That was my second day. A few hours later, I heard Hillary Clinton talk, though my seat wasn't as good. I was sorry to miss Barack Obama's speech, as I would've liked to have heard him. [Editor's Note: "Blah, Blah, tea-parties with foreign dictators; invade Pakistan, Blah, Blah..."]

If the veil of secrecy is ever lifted (say, after my probation period), I'll write in more detail about the experiences I've had. Suffice it to say there are some people in this city who are really commited to helping others change their lives for the better.    

More Randomness.

Found this interesting article about the lessons print media has or hasn't absorbed after ten years of online experimentation. More or less a zero-sum game.

Shoegaze principals My Bloody Valentine may be reuniting. That is, if Kevin Shields can be persuaded to leave the house.

Did I ever mention how much I love John Lee Hooker? "Throw those fancy chords away." Testify.

We've said it before, but If you're not watching "Mad Men," you're just being foolish. If you don't get AMC, buy it from iTunes. Or hell, steal it from the damn internets, I don't care.

Lastly, be sure to check out my massive essay on "The Old New Rock" over at ProgBlog. My thesis may be shaky, but hey, free MP3s!

Stay tuned for a rare blog post from Brooke...

THIS JUST IN:

Our pal Arthur Adams of Blammos just sent the following plea:

We are in the running for a CMJ showcase contest
through AmieStreet.com.  We'll get a showcase slot, a
hotel stay and 10,000 if we win!  The first
elimination round ends next weekend and relies soley
on fan voting...so please go and vote for us here:
http://amiestreet.com/contest/vote/1/17

You will need to create an Amie Street account, but
don't worry, it's simple and harmless...we promise...

We'll probably send some more reminders and status
reports out later in the week...

Thanks so much!

LOVE
BLAMMOS

So there you go. And don't forget to visit ProgBlog, now...

Update.

Ran errands for most of the day. Guitar Center in Rockville, MD is seriously out of hand.

I also began work on a ginormous post for the other blog, which may in turn be spun into a feature-length article.

I leave you with one music-related musing before I retire. For the day, that is:

Is M.I.A. the Neneh Cherry of now?

[Warning: epileptics and/or those with any graphic design sense will want to skip that first link.]

Complete Insanity.

I'm getting a little bored with stealing post subjects from other blogs, but you absolutely have to watch this YouTube clip I found at FailedPilot. It's an interview with a band from Fort Worth, Texas called Complete:

I went a step further and harvested some live performances:

Oh my sweet Jeebus:

It hurts so good:

I suppose they're Fort Worth's premiere noise rock band:

I think I'm gonna start a label just for these guys.

Old Friends, Hot Band.

Went to see Carrigan last night at DC9 — they're in the middle of a 15-date tour that will slingshot them out to Ohio and back.

Although I've been friends with these two guys for a long time, I have a complicated relationship with their music, which has occasionally struck me as a facsimile of other admittedly awesome acts.

Guess that's all in the past, 'cause this performance was fresh and original.

For a two piece, Carrigan sure conjure a lot of sound. Front-fella Zach Martin often moves from guitar to keyboard to mini trap kit to effects pedals to laptop several times within a single song. He's actually trimmed down his arsenal considerably — In the old days, he'd even play xylophone, a la Tortoise.

Throughout their seven-year history, Carrigan has struggled to find their true sound. In the past, they aped Kid A-era Radiohead, making extensive use of moody guitars and atmospherics. This comparison was only furthered by Martin's warbly, Thom Yorke-esque tenor. At least they never sounded like Muse, Thank Fucking Christ.

I'm happy to report that Martin is finally coming into his own as a singer, with emotive phrasing that can produce goosebumps. 

Carrigan's arrangements are likewise evolving; compelling detours and sonic flourishes make you forget that most of the songs are built on two-chord progressions. Dynamics really go a long way.

Drummer Ken Johnson's propulsive rhythms keep things moving. Without him, it might sound like a dude dicking around with a buncha cool gear. As a timekeeper, Johnson is rock-solid, and may someday end up giving Battles/Tomahawk percussionist John Stanier a run for his money. I just hope they mix up the beats a bit more on their next record, 'cause the krautrock-meets-John Bonham thing is getting a little stale. I mean, it is almost 2008.

I love that Carrigan's excellent Young Men Never Die has developed a life beyond the disc. The original versions, while terrific, are the result of a good deal of studio fuckery. Onstage, the band relies on chemistry and sheer musicality to put the songs across, with much success.

One thing I noticed is that Carrigan has no trouble winning over new audiences. I must've overheard a half-dozen conversations in which awe and/or admiration was expressed.

It was fantastic seeing these guys really nail it, and I'm sure they'll only continue to do so.

For a taste, visit Carrigan's MySpace page.

You can purchase their latest record on eMusic and iTunes; the latter also carries their self-titled debut EP.

This is an article I wrote about them a while ago.

And some less-than stellar pics from last night's show, taken by yours truly:

Black Metal is Officially Dead.

Which is probably just how those little necro bastards like it.

Check out this Brazilian fashion designer's new line of gravewear. Perfect for group sacrifices and church burning socials (courtesy Idolator, of course):

Here are a few of my all-time favorite Black Metal videos:

The uncensored (and dead sexy) version of Satyricon's "Mother North":

This one's from the always hillarious Immortal:

And finally, a band I love to the bottom of my grim and frostbitten heart, Gorgoroth:

I almost forgot this strange and sad picture from Candleblog (via RiotClitShave):

How to Be Seen in DC.

This strange man stands outside my building all day long.

I live in the surveillance capital of the nation, which also happens to be the nation's capital.

But you know things are getting crazy when they start videotaping hapless movie audiences.

Actually, it's an attempt by Warner Brothers to catch people in the act of recording their films for illegal distribution. The most recent reported occurrence was at a showing of The Invasion. Considering that movie's piss-poor box office performance and shitty reviews, it's amazing anyone would even wanna bootleg it.

The Invasion is supposedly set in DC, yet you can see skyscrapers outside Nicole Kidman's office window. This, in addition to several geographical gaffes, has drawn the ire of the locals. I mean, if you're gonna protest something, it might as well be the details of the fourth remake of a tired sci-fi story. Not like there's a war on, or anything.

Links courtesy BoingBoing & DCist.