Come What May

As of yesterday, I've turned in all my materials to the music magazine: my 7 CD reviews and my interview/feature about the hip-hop band. It's out of my hands now. I fear I made some rookie mistakes--my one and only pan may have been a little hasty and narrow-minded; my feature's a little wonkish, politically speaking, and seemed to require a level of journalistic experience I don't possess; and my tone is . . . well, what it is, and it may well be found off-putting. But the point is, I guess (I hope), that I took the assignment seriously--though not without a spirit of fun--and completed it (just barely) ahead of schedule. So while I can, and probably will, torture myself just a little with wondering whether any of it will be printed, whether they'll ask for the CDs back and tell me never to write again, or whatever, the truth is that I'm done unless they ask me to revise something (which would be a good sign, right?).

Between that and the successful completion of my first levels test, I can now turn my attention to worrying about my teaching project on a full time basis. Actually, I'm trying to absorb these last two landmarks, because I think they'll have a positive effect on my teaching, if they let them. My martial art studies have really gotten me thinking about what it means to be an artist who functions from a physical place, while writing about music has me thinking both about being an artist who addresses things by way of language and about being a critic, an artist whose art is to analyze art, critique it, try to generate (or discourage) the interest of a would-be audience. I'd like to think there are some lessons on perseverance and multi-tasking in there, as well.

All of this now has me hankering to perform again. That's neither good nor bad in and of itself. I don't have much control over whether anyone in town happens to produce anything that piques my interest; if I'm to write it myself--whatever it is, be it a solo show, music, mutant sketch comedy--it'll be months, at best, before anything is presentable. But I've got the itch, and it actually feels sort of good. It may be that I'm comforted that I still possess that urge to any degree, or it may be that I recognize in the things that I'm doing the seeds of my growth as a performer, and I'm just getting excited to start planting.

There's nothing that inspires me to perform like a truly inspiring performance, which brings me to last night. Well, other than a really BAD performance, in which case I want to perform just so I can fix the damn thing; but really, there's nothing that so cements my investment, my belief, in the vivid, sensual, violent, compassionate power of art than a performance that wields that power confidently, rapturously, and unapologetically.

So I thank my stars that I was able to witness the glory of TV on the Radio at the Showbox last night.

I'm a latecomer to TV on the Radio fandom; they just never showed up on my radar until this last year, when I heard them playing in the ticket office at the theatre where I'm employed. I was struck by a resemblance to . . . well, I thought at the time it was Genesis as led by Peter Gabriel, and I stick by that to a certain extent; my only revision is that they might more aptly be compared to Peter Gabriel at about the time when he recorded "Biko", after he'd worked with Fripp and Eno, when world music was his new tool and not the whole toolbox, and his gift with an anthemic melody was at its peak.

Anyway, I would hear them now and again over the last year, and think, "Damn, I should get me some o' that." But for some reason, I never did. There's just too much music out there, you know, and I only periodically scrape together enough money to purchase CDs (which points to one of the top 5 reasons I'm trying to turn myself into a published music writer: free music). Then, earlier this summer, when I decided to treat myself to some music, I simultaneously made the decision to specifically seek something new, so I could write about it and send the piece to the magazine with which I'd been in contact. As luck would have it, TVOTR had a brand new release: Return to Cookie Mountain. If you're interested, you can check out my review here. In any case, I've never looked back. The album truly grows richer and more complex with each listen. But what really emerges is something that you usually expect to see up front: an anthemic heat that speaks to some common passion buried deep in the cells. TVOTR is that rare collection of studio wonks that takes clear aim at a universal pop vocabulary, experimental populists who can navigate the perfect hook or a rogue harmonic theory with equal aplomb.

Did I say studio wonks? Guitarist/vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Dave Sitek can't really escape that charge. Comparing him to Lee "Scratch" Perry and Brian Eno has become so pointedly the norm that it's no longer subject to charges of hyperbole, and the dense layers of noise that make up TVOTR's recorded output are clearly the product of someone--or several someones--playing with toys in their home studio (dammit, I want a home studio!!!). Given that, these boys have every right and reason to suck live.

Good thing they don't.

Return to Cookie Mountain is such an impressive feat of technology and songwriting that I'd like to think I could be forgiven to hearing the prog-rock and missing the sexy, sweaty soul music that actually sits at its core. If I still didn't recognize the soul after seeing them live, you'd have to conclude that I wasn't paying attention. Lead singer Tunde Adebimpe oozes charisma both sexual and spiritual, and sings with a fierce conviction rarely seen today in either the theory-drenched world of post-punk and indie rock or the prefab monotony of big studio pop. Kyp Malone adds a suitably weird presence to the proceeding, augmenting and harmonizing with Adebimpe's fervent yowl and blending the angular precision of funk guitar with the steady wash of noise championed by classic shoegazer bands like the Jesus and Mary Chain. Sitek is a more elusive presence visually, but he still makes that presence felt, both sonically and in the theatrical sense.

Collectively, TV on the Radio exude all the athletic grace and rhythmic rapture of a Gospel service, even a Pentacostal revival. When, on their first encore, a girl from the audience leapt onstage and began dancing with Malone and Adebimpe, they didn't miss a beat. When they invited Grizzly Bear--the opening band, a psychedelic folk outfit in the same vein as Animal Collective--onstage to tinker with percussion instruments for the final song of the evening, the idea of musical performance as ritual, as community gathering, as celebration was realized in a way that I haven't seen since my last Sky Cries Mary show (and TVOTR's songwriting is stronger). Even now, almost 12 hours after the fact, my feet still aren't quite touching the ground. Even at its earthiest, this experience was not of this earth.

Good Things and Unintended Consequences

This is gonna be a quick one. Basically, I wanted to say that I passed my martial arts level test; I'm now a phase one, level 2 student. There are three phases, and three levels in each phase. This really just expands the number of classes I have the option of taking, accelerates the pace a bit, and increases the number of weapons I may get to handle in any given class. It hardly puts me in any elite upper tier, but it moves me closer to where I can lobby to become a core team member (level 3 or above), and, eventually, start training to teach others.

I don't want to jinx anything, so I won't name names or count on publication . . . but I was finally contacted by a nationally distributed music magazine. They were interested in my writing, and I've been reviewing the CDs they sent me over the last two weeks (I've sent them 4 reviews; I've three more to cook up), and I had my first interview with a band yesterday for a 1500 word feature due . . . well, any day now. The transcription of the relevant points from the interview already well exceeds my necessary word count, so I'm not worried about coming up with the verbiage. Some judicious editing, a good intro/conclusion . . . we'll see. No guarantees at this point, but I've heard some great music, learned a lot about my own writing (when your reviews are supposed to be 250 words, you learn a lot about distillation), and had the opportunity to meet and speak with two of the nicest, most intelligent members of the Seattle arts community and of, I'm given to presume, the hip-hop community nationally.

If it turns out that any of what I've written gets printed, I'll be sure to let y'all know. And if you're a visitor to this site and DON'T buy my published work, I will find a way to punish you. No, really.

So once I write my remaining reviews (no sweat--of the 3 CDs left, two are actually among my favorites of the batch) and my feature (terrifying prospect, but at least I've got all the content I could possibly use--like I said, these cats were smart), my next major priority, aside from just plugging away at my training, will be the teaching project. Which still terrifies me, of course, but I feel like I've got a little more credibility simply through tackling these other obstacles.

It's funny how succeeding on your own terms can create as much angst as it does pleasure. I'm as stressed, anxious, and plagued with insecurity as ever: probably more so. I don't know if I'm good enough to do any of these things, that I'll be exposed as a fraud any minute now. But I'm getting better at simply acting on the demands placed upon me; my insecurities don't keep me from doing the things I feel unqualified to do.

Anyway, that's it for now. Hope the weekend finds you all well.

Some Prosaic Greatness

Apologizing for navel-gazing on a blog is like apologizing for farting at a chili cookoff: it's probably the right thing to do, etiquette-wise, but the guests knew what they were in for when they showed up. But since we're all into worrying about how we come off, I'm going to apologize for the navel-gazing. The fact is, for all my attempts at altruism and self-improvement; for all exercise of my listening skills, kinesthetic response, and empathy; for all attempts at a truer, more generous state of being, I remain among the more singularly self-absorbed people I know. There are pluses and minuses to such a character, and I'll probably be forever working on that balance. But for now, I'm somewhat entrenched in a period of self-regard and self-analysis. So here we are.

I have two major events coming up in the next month (or so) that have me absolutely petrified. The first is a "phase test" in my martial arts class. See, at our school, since we're studying multiple disciplines (Kali, JKD/Jun Fan, Panantukan, CSW, BJJ, Savate, and Muay Thai), there aren't "belts" in the traditional sense; rather, they've devised a system of phases. There are three phases with three levels each, and students test once every 2-4 months. This would be my first test, and, if I pass, I'd move to phase 1, level 2. Which would just mean that I'd have a couple more options as to which classes I'm allowed to take, and would hopefully mean I'd get to play with weapons (!!!) a little more.

Thing is, I haven't been quite as consistent in my attendance as I'd like. I've been shooting for going to class 3-4 times a week, but it's really been more like 2-3, and some weeks have been a little less. Not exactly a shameful track record, but enough that, given how new all of these arts are to me (and how little they resemble the Goju-Ryu Karate, Aikido and Capoeira Angola I've already studied) and the length of time it's been since I last studied martial arts, I definitely feel . . . not so much unprepared as unready.

The second petrifying event is the beginning of my education project in mid-October. For those who missed the last few descriptions of this project, a close friend of mine and I will be co-teaching a series of classes on physical theatre, improvisation, and acro-balance. The emphasis will be on how one may apply martial-arts principles thereto, with a secondary emphasis on how one may use the performing arts as a platform for understanding the warrior ethic, insofar as one takes that to mean the ethic by which the "warrior" takes responsibility for her community, and to offer humility and healing by way of her art.

In this case, my fear stems from some of the same concerns, specifically the concern that I'm simply not a good enough martial artist to teach these principles (though the literal martial character of the art is essentially stripped away--we're only dealing with technique in the abstract). I'm worried that, never having taught before, my attempts will be awkward, amateurish. More prominently, though, I fear that these kids will see through my cirriculum and ideas to the lily-white face of my privelige, my paternalistic liberal desire to "give to the community". I find myself second-guessing my own motivations, wondering if my very intent with this project is so stone self-serving that my credibility will be shot before I open my mouth to say my first words.

As I approach these challenges, I hear the steady drone of the same old insecurities: that I'm a mediocre talent, that I haven't managed to do much of anything with myself, that I've a lazy intellect, that it's too late to establish any meaningful direction in my life. Basically, that I've squandered my modest gifts and given the shaft to any chance I might have had at greatness.

Greatness, you say? Yeah, that most prosaic of all goals, greatness, the longing for which is almost ironclad proof of mediocrity, even when the quest for it leads to a quiet (or not so quiet) contempt for all that is perceived as mediocre.

Greatness is a difficult thing to quantify for a dedicated abstractionist like myself. Though I've always hoped for comfort, I never sought wealth; though I crave recognition, I've never chased fame. Of course, I'm pretty sure I always secretly craved both wealth and fame, and had, at one time, that secret, youthful, vaguely megalomaniacal self-regard that whispered in my all-too-eager ear that I was gifted, dammit, that I was special, and that riches both literal and figurative would emerge as my birthright if I pursued truth, love, vision, and autonomy at the expense of all else (that those four directives might prove incompatible never occurred to me). But I've failed to create any legacy as an actor, a writer, a cultural critic, a martial artist, a musician, or a philosopher; attempts at fusing these disciplines into a single line of pursuit has been futile. I keep hearing the snide voice of this guy I heard, once, on NPR, talking about how, with few exceptions, people don't achieve greatness at pursuits picked up later in life, and I worry that the years wherein I could have made this work are past me, that sinking in anonymous routine is the only option left.

Obviously, studying new martial arts in my thirties and teaching eight weeks of an after-school theatre program to at-risk youth could hardly be called bids for greatness. I certainly don't seek fame or fortune in teaching or combat sport. But as these projects certainly pertain to my quest for truth, so, too, do they relate to my longtime musing on the abstract matter of greatness. My insecurities on all matters seem to rise from the same place, that dark little center where I wonder, at every moment, whether I'm an irretrievable failure. Of course I'm chanting on matters micro (the test, the classes) and macro (the quest for truth, the yearning to succeed at something), and it's kept me from getting stuck in too ugly a spiral. But this week in particular, I feel mired in doubt. And while my more immediate doubt is that I'm not enough of a martial artist to pass this relatively simple test, my greater doubt is that I'm not enough of anything to offer these kids any guidance, that I've already squandered my future, that all I have to share is a mish-mash of half-formed ideas that have already demonstrated their own poverty.

I suppose, all said, that all I can do is persevere, envision myself succeeding at these challenges while preparing NOT to chastise myself if I should fail, and hope that either truth or success peaks over some horizon.