Child’s Play

There is a church down the street from my house that is a haven of bustle from early to late every Sunday.   It’s an Ethiopian Church, specifically an Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church – one of the few pre-colonial Christian churches of Sub-Saharan Africa.  Past that, I know very little about what they believe or how they worship or for that matter what or who they worship, nor do I care.  They are friendly people and they are fine occasional neighbors.

When I moved to this neighborhood a few years back the building they occupy was admittedly an eyesore.  The structure which I believe was probably a neighborhood school at some point in the past had fallen into disrepair.  The grounds left untended were overgrown and I imagine the interiors were a perfect venue for who knows what manner of nefarious shenanigans.  So I was surprised to discover that many of my neighbors were not excited that a church was moving in and some even contemplated an attempt to block their arrival.  What I didn’t know was that this building had most recently been a make-shift concert venue and the subsequent influx of ne’re do wells had been a nightmare – cars parking in yards, loud music to all hours of the night etc. etc.  Prior to that, it had been an artists' colony that had attracted apparently a less than desirable element as well and had a similar negative impact on the community.  I guess I understood the neighborhoods’ hesitance but I couldn’t get behind not welcoming a church into our midst.   A meeting with the leaders of the church was arranged and that quickly put everyone’s minds at ease.  Soon after, they started cleaning up the landscape, painted the exterior green and our new weekend neighbors moved in.

I told you that unnecessarily long story just to tell you this – I’m glad they are here.  Perhaps I think that their presence here is good for me.  That maybe some of their devout spiritualism will rub off on me or whatever. I don’t think that it’s possible to be religious via some sort of cultural osmosis but it’s better than nothing I suppose.  Plus and a more likely reason is that I like the increased activity in the street.  I spend most of my Sundays sitting on the porch stoop plotting my next move as it were.  Which is to say, watching squirrels dig up the flower beds and trying in vain to ascertain the actual growing of the grass or this time of year watching leaves fall.  It’s not an especially productive use of my time but it’s what I do.  Having a parade of taxi cabs and sedans packed with families drive by gives me something else to look at.  Fascinating, I know.

This morning I was reminded of the real reason I like sharing a block with a church.  It’s the exuberant and seemingly never ending child’s play that comes along with it.  I don’t have kids;  so I’m more than a little shocked to find that I enjoy a gaggle of screaming children running around my neighborhood.  It’s refreshing to see kids running for no discernible reason other than running is apparently really, really fun.  And screaming while you run is even better!  Running and screaming by yourself is one thing, but if you can achieve the trifecta of running, screaming AND being chased then there is clearly nothing in this world that can give these kids more joy other than maybe rolling down a hill of course.  Screaming and running, smiling from ear to ear without a care in the world. 

I don’t remember this from my childhood.  I’m sure I enjoyed running around for no reason as much as the next kid, but it’s not something I recall.  I was a weird little dude though so I’m not sure I played like other children did. If I didn’t, I really wish I had because it looks awesome!  I assume it would be frowned upon socially if as adults we were to run and scream and chase our friends around, but oh what fun that would be.  Can you imagine that?  If in the middle of an important business meeting a spontaneous game of chase broke out?  If hide and seek was an appropriate form of conflict resolution.  Or if instead of wars, we settled our differences through an enormous game of intercontinental tag? 

So that’s today’s big epiphany.  This world is far too serious, far too often and it would be a better place if we all could recapture and embrace the simple joys and pleasures we knew as children.  Yep, what the world needs now is simply more child’s play. 

There, I fixed it.

Drinking With Strangers

Wednesday, actually this whole week, was a runaway roller coaster from hell, which in truth isn’t all that uncommon (or for that matter all that troubling really).  In my profession, days sometimes tend to take on an uncontrollable life of their own and just keeping your head above water long enough is sufficient to win the day.  That’s the most difficult and simultaneously exhilarating part of my job though. It’s all about avoiding the big suck (which sounds like a seminar or a book I will teach or write some day). IF one can accomplish that on the regular? – That’s a true measure of success in my opinion.  These untamed days are often born of something as benign as a missed alarm clock or an uncooperative morning dog but they quickly, almost Gremlin-like morph into a wild mythical beast that refuses to be broken, devolve into a smoldering retarded fire full of nonsense fuel.  When I see the first telltale signs, I almost literally hold my breath until I’m sure.  That morning, I walked into my office to a ringing telephone harboring a frantic client’s expectation of urgent (unrealistic) requests (demands) and I exhaled, and quietly braced for the inevitable impact of the fall, knowing that today was going to be one of those aforementioned days.   Dot, dot, dot, when the car coasted into the gate at the end of the ride, my soul was sore.

So hectic was the day that I didn’t realize that I had received a package I had been waiting for.  If you’ve read this blog before you know how important and necessary the anticipation of the package is to me.  If you know me at all, you know that the package was full of books and music.  You also probably know that I believe that there is no ill this dynamic duo cannot cure.  And further, you most likely are acutely aware of the unavoidable fact that I’m about to tell you all about the contents of said package in excruciating detail and how it saved that day.  If any of the above is true then you would be right!

A few sleepless midnights back, I stumbled across a program on a television network, neither of which I had seen prior.  The show was Live From Daryl’s House on Palladia. Unbeknownst to me, this little jewel began as a web-based offering in 2007.  As I am decidedly less than digital, I’ve remained in the dark all this time.  I was jolted from my pre-dawn zombie channel surf into a heightened awareness when I heard Bodegas and Blood.  As I voyeuristically peered into their night, three questions bounced around inside my head in no particular order: How can I get invited to what seems to be the coolest house jam ever, Why does Daryl Hall suddenly seem less like a tool and Who the hell is Butch Walker?  Bodegas and Blood was the first track on the first CD I pulled out of the box when I got in the truck and if ever there was a more perfect antidote to break the fever I was in right then, I’m not sure what it is. 

As I listened to Butch Walker and the Black Widows’ latest CD Spade, I was bombarded with hyperactive glimpses of my musical memory.  At points his music sounds like what Mott the Hoople would have released if they’d been around now and not back then.  And then the next second reveals the obvious underpinnings of his southern roots, The Outlaws, Lynyrd Skynyrd et al, with an unmistakable wink and a nod to Electric Light Orchestra, Roy Orbison.  I was reminded of some of my ‘90s faves, Fastball and later Rooney, Everclear without all of Art Alexakis’ bitching about his childhood.  It’s like Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes strained through a North Georgia filter – like Georgia Satellites spun through West Hollywood knowledge. There are tones of Otis Redding and Jackie Wilson and Curtis Mayfield sprinkled in.  Don McLean, Jim Croce, Buddy Holly.  Department of Youth-like Alice Cooper riffs. Irreverent as Dash Rip Rock and as peaceful and intentioned as Taj Mahal with a Johnny Cash sense of humor to knock off the edge. There’s even an endearing Evan Dando smarminess to parts of the delivery. It’s every good bar band you’ve ever seen stumble through a set elevated to somewhere you’ve never been. It’s garagey and soulful, jangly and ordered.  There are Ramones-esque sing-a-longs and dare I say, Dixie Chicks-like Pop Country hooks and yet it’s not written with an agenda.  It doesn’t even feel like it was written so much as it feels like it just happened or maybe has always been there.  And that’s what makes it rock.  It’s Foghat meets Al Green meets KISS meets Jan and Dean meets Springsteen meets…whatever the hell Butch feels like.  There is a seamless merging of what he grew up on and what is happening now and it never crosses either line, it never feels contrived.  It’s genuine and exists only because it does. It exists perfectly.

I listened to his ’09 album I Liked It Better When You Had No Heart next and was equally as blown away.  This one’s different through the first few tracks at least, more contemplative.  The songs would be at home on Elvis Costello’s 1977 classic My Aim is True and yet they don’t feel dated.  So far my favorite is Trash Day, his scathing indictment of suburban hypocrisy.  The irony here is that I walked right past Criminal Records in Little Five when he was doing this in-store on my way to a They Might Be Giants show at the Variety Playhouse, with my head apparently buried in the sand.  But hey, at least I know now, right?

In an effort to remain in balance I’d also ordered a replacement copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. I’ve had several through the years and I’ve worn them all completely out.  It’s one of those books that holds an eye-level rank on the shelves.  It sits chill next to Cool Hand Luke and A Peoples History of the United States and Manufacturing Consent and Live from Death Row and Steal This Book and On The Road and The Doors of Perception and it belongs there.   Dee Brown paints a more specific picture than anyone else ever has about the true nature of our American dream.  He tells the story that the History Channel leaves out, that we don’t really want to hear – he recounts through first-hand interviews with those on the other side, what it was like on the other side as our country established its heritage.  It’s the story of our ancestors’ systematic destruction of a vast and incredibly diverse network of cultures, original gangsta’ Americans, right?  It’s what happened before it was cool to be a patriot.  I’m not about to step up to a stump and decry the manner in which we acquired the land upon which we reside, but it is important that we are all aware of that purchase.  It’s important that we understand that as lambs’ wool clean as we like to think we are, that we are not.  It’s convenient and appropriate for us to laud the sacrifices our soldiers are making today, but hard to acknowledge the blood that spilled to even give us a “land of the free” for them to protect.  You can’t profess to be an American without understanding the value of this book, without accepting the truth therein.  Knowing our origins forces the question, are we really who we think we are?  I guess that’s a rant for another day and certainly way too heavy for a Friday night conversation.

I hold a belief that all good and meaningful Heavy Metal is dead.  The first time I heard Volbeat’s Still Counting on the radio, that conviction was utterly disproven.  What a joy it has been to discover this song and this band.  The song is probably about an ex-girlfriend I surmise, but these exact thoughts have raced through my brain sitting in myriad conference rooms around the way.  “Counting all the assholes in the room, I’m definitely not alone”, that is pure insight – into one’s self and their surroundings.  It’s a song I can sing along with (at the top of my lungs) and it sounds awesome.  The louder I sing the better I sound!  The music is akin to Metallica in its rhythm and drive, but there are not so subtle undertones of Clash-like ska chording.  The Living End come to mind, even some Billy Bragg records oddly.  There are multiple time and tempo changes in a single song ala Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath.  But what carries the band is the vocal – it’s incredible, it sounds like he is harmonizing with himself.  Glen Danzig powerful, Sully Erna in some respects: reminiscent of ‘70s metal greats – Saxon and Diamond Head, but not as dark.  Everything about it is exactly as it should be.  I’m well aware of Denmark’s still thriving Punk scene but who knew the Danes were such rockers?  I love it. \m/

Let me take a moment to celebrate my affection for a little Amazon ruse they call, “People who bought this item, also bought this…”  That modest tag has resulted in more purchases of questionable product than I care to admit, but it’s absolute marketing genius really.  The only reason I mention it is that all of the items in my Wednesday box were found through a search for a Tattoo magazine subscription that was rumored to be cheaper through Amazon – I wasn’t looking for music or books; I wasn’t really looking for anything.  But, there is a common thread woven through all of these items that I haven’t yet uncovered, but I am intrigued.  I’m intrigued especially by the fact that Pimp by Iceberg Slim appeared as I perused.  This is a book I’ve heard about nearly my whole life.  And who hasn’t heard a reference to Iceberg Slim in a rap song?  The back flap describes it as, “What Sun Tzu’s Art of War was to Ancient China, Pimp is to the streets”.  Really?  That’s an obvious must-read in my opinion.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Due to a brutal roll-over crash at Lenox and Chipper’s last Friday night at Turner Field, I had time to read the first few pages of Walker’s book Drinking with Strangers while sitting in traffic tonight.  I quickly realized that the dry sense of humor I’d heard in his lyric is prevalent in his writing as well.  There’s something about it that resonates with me.  It might be that he grew up around here even though I didn’t.  Growing up in small towns in the south is different for some people, people who don’t belong I guess.  The funny thing is that the ones who “don’t belong” actually seem to love it the most and that comes through crystal clear in his writing and his music.  I dig that.  I identify with that.  I thumbed through the black and whites at center spine and wasn’t all that surprised to see that his senior picture “rock star” hair was as ridiculous as mine had been.  I haven’t yet read the book and I already get it.  His self-proclaimed “rise to the middle” is certainly unlike my path but I’m sure we share similar stories with different names.  I love that title by the way, Drinking with Strangers.  I love it as the metaphor for a life it may or may not be intended to be, I love it as a simple statement of fact.

So, if you’re not familiar with anything that is italicized above I suggest you make yourself thus.  It’s important, plus there will be a test at some point (I’m almost sure of it [maybe]).  Meantime, I’m heading out to my local to have a drink or two with strangers and to shake off the sticky residue of this week.

A Red Letter Day

Saturday last, I had the good fortune of spending the day among ‘my people’ as it were, hawking my wares at the East Atlanta Strut.  If you were there, you know that this year’s event was one of the biggest and best in its (15) year existence.  I’m proud of my bit-part in that play.

I’ve discussed at length in this blog the inner personal conflict of selling and the converse joy of making art but I don’t think that I’ve ever truly understood either before Saturday.  The barrier that had prevented me from allowing the outside world inside my art was a fully self-constructed insurmountable wall of fear.  There is a little paperback I read two or three times every year called Art and Fear that deals with this apparently universal phenomenon.  The authors wholly illuminate the incredible reward of clearing that obstacle but for years I’ve conveniently withheld comprehension of that detail so as to reinforce that which I thought to be true – that my work wasn’t good enough.  Or that it wouldn’t sell.  Or whatever myriad of excuses I’ve thrown out over the years.  It was just too big of a risk for me.  For whatever reason early this spring, I decided that if I didn’t take on that risk full-force now, I never probably would.  And if I didn’t, I would most likely always regret it.  In spite of myself, I sometimes tend to be a rational person and usually (occasionally) weigh risk versus reward.  I finally decided that the potential reward far outweighed the potential risk.

And so I sat Saturday before the firing squad…

…tick, tick, tick…inside my head, time was on a death march to nowhere.  Nothing sold. My worst doubts were rearing their ugly heads – self-actualizing my own fatalistic prophecy.  (I’m well aware of how ridiculous this must all sound, so feel free to scoff.)  The knowledge that I was publicly falling flat on my face was consuming me.  I left Black Joe in charge and went for a walk to clear my head, to regroup.  When I returned, I saw him fiddling with the cash box.  Really?  Really.  I sold my first piece of the day and I wasn’t even there to see it!   Regardless, when Joe told me what I’d missed, that oft defended impenetrable wall crumbled.  I relaxed. I began to enjoy the day.  There was nothing but upside from then on.

I sold one piece and then another and then two – I brought (28) to the show and came home with (20). In between I talked to a ton of awesome people about something that I love to do.  That for me was even more rewarding than the actual selling.  I’ll probably never be a “working” artist and I’m not sure I want to be.  The truth is Saturday could have been a complete anomaly, lightning in a bottle or whatever.  I may never sell another piece.  None of that matters because I’ve found something that is all mine, that is all real and that no one can take away.  I cannot explain in words how mesmerizing it is for me to have a conversation with someone who not only appreciates but genuinely likes what I do.  I’m astonished by it really.  I’m floored by the fact that someone is willing to part with their hard-earned dollars just to have a canvas I painted hang on their wall.  It’s as satisfying and humbling an experience as I have ever known and I’m even more motivated to continue down this path.  I’m even more convinced that what comes out of my studio adds value to the world.

That last line might have sounded arrogant.  I’ve been told that I write from a position of power, that my words are often taken as egotistical, that I’m superior somehow.  I accept that assessment as I do all criticism, but that’s not what this is.  On the back of my business card is a level suggestion that if you don’t look closely for you will miss.  It says “go make art”.  It is an acknowledgment that the paint and thought that I put on canvas is no more exceptional than the art that you or anyone else is capable of.  It is only art because I used my own two hands and the wonky brain inside my head to make it.  The fact that I chose to do it, makes it art.  Everyone on this earth is an artist if they choose to be.  That shared possibility makes my everyday a little brighter.  Art matters.  I’ve always been aware of that truth but I was reminded of it in a most profound way Saturday.

If you came down to my ‘hood this weekend and I was privileged enough to speak with you about this thing I do, please know that you left a mark.  I’m unable to fully express how uplifted and inspired you’ve made me feel.  It’s impossible to put into words the depth of my gratitude.  All of the above is yet another example of my typically overstated method of stating the obvious – 15 September was a long overdue red letter day for this old soul.  I now have a touch point in time to go to when the real world gets in my way.  Thank you.  Thank you for giving me that.

If you didn’t make it out, mark your calendars for 3 November.  I’ll be at Chomp and Stomp in Cabbagetown and we’ll chat then.

Slow Train to Johannesburg

I drew the short straw of travel tonight and was relegated to the middle seat – a fortune worse than death considering my absurd claustrophobic mania.  Factoring in the probability of my propensity to attract unseemly travelers, I was forced to confront the reality of my compulsory, impending doom as I stepped onto the plane.  That seems negative, doesn't it?  It is, but it’s not really, all at the same time.  This pessimistic expectation, though rooted in certain historic fact is admittedly, an especially counterproductive prospect. 

First to the row; I sat down, stowed my bag and metaphorically rolled the dice.  The day had been gold up to then so I fully expected the other shoe to fall in the form of a fat, sweaty, vocal, heavy-breathing, misogynistic, racist, Republican asshole.  Bring it, said I to self and psychologically prepared to do battle with said asshole and/or to convene the tenets of my untimely demise at the hand of his misguided verbal assault.  I could not have been more surprised (and relieved) to see who I was actually going to spend the next hour and a half or so with.

So preoccupied with what I had internally created to be an epic battle of political and/or social dischord was I, that I only faintly recognized that she was carrying a guitar.  I only vaguely recall her courteous request of endorsement for admittance to her seat on my right side.  Reassured that I would not be forced into a cultural/emotional/theological Thunderdome, I relaxed and retreated flipside to my ridiculous Patterson paperback pretention.  Through the ensuing requisite conversation, I was delightfully enlightened with the decidedly obtuse details of her Christian missionary endeavor – traveling extended to South Africa solo for the first time.  I was just about to silently, psychologically address the obvious chasm between her path and mine when my astonishing left-side companion appeared, beleaguered with too many flowery bags and bad knees.

She was an American. Loquacious, Reform Jewish, unsure-expatriated, (17) years-in-Japan-weary, board certified lawyer – a paid lecturer, an academic, a scholar of the highest order, debating the potential pitfalls and positives of spending her golden years in Boca Raton. What once had held the promise of a fight-to-the-death, made for TV movie or at least a peaceful flight of self-programmed iPod, Jack Daniels’ induced bliss, quickly devolved into a celebration of…or at least a conversation about…I’m not sure exactly.  It was entertaining though: I was dutifully regaled with dichotomistic tales of idyllic garden landscapes and suppressive governmental authority presented across the tattered backdrop of her remembered American dream.  We talked about art and politics and foreign policy and Germany and Atlanta and colors and light and architecture and everything before and after and in between – as satisfying a dialogue as I have had with a perfect stranger in recent memory. 

Occasionally, my new-found missionary friend would interject random, witty anecdotes, punch lines.  As distressed as she proclaimed to be about the going she was on, she had an unspoken peace about her that I found refreshing.  There was a light about her countenance that I rarely see.  She had a lot to say but was too young to know what it was and yet was still confident, even if apprehensively.  I remember feeling that way a million years ago.  The difference is that she is apparently able to focus what was for me a random, undisciplined angst into a focal, refined purpose.  That’s incredible.  That is something to envy.  That makes me believe in the collective possibility of the human condition – even if we are as screwed up as I perceive us to be.  I would have liked to have been someone like who she is now (20) years ago, right? 

I wish I would have talked to her more than I did.  I think this kid could have taught me a thing or two.  I would have liked to have taken that (17) hour slow train to Johannesburg with her, but alas I am busy and important and have many volumes of leather-bound books or whatever bullshit I’m selling myself today.  That’s a joke.  She had more soul in her pinky finger than I’ve ever even pretended to have. 

I guess, that’s the lesson, eh?  Do what you want because you believe in it – not because you should, or “they” think you should.  I’ve always said some pseudo-intellectual variation of the same but it was all show most times.  She gets it – and doesn’t even know that she does.  I’m not often inspired my human beings.  I think as a general rule, we suck…but maybe not all of us.  I am a better person for our paths having crossed.

 At the end of the flight, all I could do to repay was point her to the train.