Living and Falling in New York City (October 20, 2008)

At the end of last week a cold front moved in. The wind stirred up fallen leaves as I walked through Tompkins Square Park and the fragrance of decay filled my lungs with its distinct sweetness. It felt like Halloween. I felt like a little kid. A few hungry ghosts tugged at my coat sleeve, but this didn’t bother me. The sensations released with each crunch of my step made me aware of the life force all around – the pulsation of Earth beneath the pavement, the sky struggling to commune with her, swirling in yellow frustration. In that moment I was able to witness the perfect balance of Life and Death.

I have always walked with Death. Of course we all do, though some of us look East, some of us look West, and some of us don’t look at all. I’ve always been keenly aware of her step and the clicking of her heels has been the cause of many sleepless nights. However during those sleepless nights we’ve come to know each other. I now realize that Death is, in fact, the guardian of Life. Not only does her presence give meaning to one’s life, but Life itself depends on her – like the dead leaves softening into Earth’s embrace to create food for other organisms. Death has given us our lives and one day we’ll give them back.

Wrapped in this autumnal cloak I went to the St. Thomas Church to listen to Mozart’s “Requiem”, one of my all-time favorite pieces of music. Though I have walked by it for over two decades, I only just discovered St. Thomas Church during a rainstorm a couple months ago. On this particular late summer afternoon I sought refuge from not only the rain, but also the chaos of Fifth Avenue, and just as I nestled into a pew to meditate and bring myself back to center the organ soared into an eerie Hitchcockesque tidal wave of passion to answer the call of the storm. My body reverberated with chills for twenty minutes before I slipped back out into the rain. I imagine it was someone rehearsing for an organ recital, which they appear to have on weekends. Last week The Saint Thomas Choir of Men and Boys surpassed all expectation during the “Requiem.” Also on the program was Haydn’s “Insanae et vanae curae,” Richter’s “Missa Hyemalis,” performed for the first time since 1789, and Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus.”

Last week I also finally saw Man On Wire at Sunshine Cinema. The film documents the passion of Philippe Petit, a man who very literally walks with Death as he prepares for and accomplishes his famous illegal high wire walk between the Twin Towers. I was tremendously inspired by his conviction and the urgency with which he approached his art. His committent to – and his respect for – the unknown aspects of the creative journey – again, Life and Death – moved me to tears.

On Saturday I went to the MoMA to see Ken Jacobs’ epic Star-Spangled to Death. It was a captivating collage of footage that spans fifty years and the film felt especially relevant to my present Life-Death reflections. One character is The Spirit Not Of Life But Of The Living. It’s amazing how as soon as you fix your gaze on something the world opens up and everything seems to match its color. Inspiration translates into creation and creation translates into us and we translate into inspiration and around and around it goes. Perhaps this is the Spirit of the Living. We need each other like the leaves need to fall. Despite its heavy undertaking the film was remarkably playful. Here’s what Jacobs says about the film on his site:

“STAR SPANGLED TO DEATH is an epic film shot for hundreds of dollars! combining found-films with my own more-or-less staged filming, it pictures a stolen and dangerously sold-out America, allowing examples of popular culture to self-indict. Racial and religious insanity, monopolization of wealth and the purposeful dumbing down of citizens and addiction to war oppose a Beat playfulness.

“A handful of artists costumed and performing unconvincingly appeal to audience imagination and understanding to complete the picture. Jack Smith’s pre-FLAMING CREATURES performance as The Spirit Not Of Life But Of Living (the movie has raggedly cosmic pretensions), celebrating Suffering (rattled impoverished artist Jerry Sims) at the crux of sentient existence, is a visitation of the divine. – K.J.”

I also visited The Met for the first time in over two years. I didn’t have a lot of time before closing, so I decided to take a modest bite and stick to the “New York, N. Why?” photography exhibit with accompanying poems and the modern wing. The above “Untitled” by Anish Kapoor was a delightful surprise, for when the whispers of the couple standing nearby were amplified considerably by the design of the mirrors, the piece revealed itself in a way that would have gone unnoticed had I been alone. Another valuable lesson in togetherness.

To enjoy the beauty of this season outdoors I recommend the 9th Street Community Garden at Avenue C, a wonderful place to observe the foliage. With found art, a gazebo, gardens, a generous toy collection in the sandbox, and a goldfish pond, this is an East Village gem. Of course Central Park is the King of Parks, but The New York Times created this list of “Small Parks, With a Bit of Peace in Every Nook” last month, also worth checking out.

It’s nearing bedtime, so I want to also mention Lola Montes and Ballast, both at the Film Forum. The newly-restored Lola Montes is a masterpiece of color and sound. Ballast is an powerful, intimate independent film – and it closes tomorrow, so you’ll have to hurry.

Chili peppers from Saturday’s Greenmarket in Union Square – a very good way to stay warm.

Store your scraps in the fridge and take them to the NYC Compost drop-off, also at the market, every day.

Happy Birthday, Tom. And good night!

Living and Falling in New York City (October 20, 2008)

At the end of last week a cold front moved in. The wind stirred up fallen leaves as I walked through Tompkins Square Park and the fragrance of decay filled my lungs with its distinct sweetness. It felt like Halloween. I felt like a little kid. A few hungry ghosts tugged at my coat sleeve, but this didn’t bother me. The sensations released with each crunch of my step made me aware of the life force all around – the pulsation of Earth beneath the pavement, the sky struggling to commune with her, swirling in yellow frustration. In that moment I was able to witness the perfect balance of Life and Death.

I have always walked with Death. Of course we all do, though some of us look East, some of us look West, and some of us don’t look at all. I’ve always been keenly aware of her step and the clicking of her heels has been the cause of many sleepless nights. However during those sleepless nights we’ve come to know each other. I now realize that Death is, in fact, the guardian of Life. Not only does her presence give meaning to one’s life, but Life itself depends on her – like the dead leaves softening into Earth’s embrace to create food for other organisms. Death has given us our lives and one day we’ll give them back.

Wrapped in this autumnal cloak I went to the St. Thomas Church to listen to Mozart’s “Requiem”, one of my all-time favorite pieces of music. Though I have walked by it for over two decades, I only just discovered St. Thomas Church during a rainstorm a couple months ago. On this particular late summer afternoon I sought refuge from not only the rain, but also the chaos of Fifth Avenue, and just as I nestled into a pew to meditate and bring myself back to center the organ soared into an eerie Hitchcockesque tidal wave of passion to answer the call of the storm. My body reverberated with chills for twenty minutes before I slipped back out into the rain. I imagine it was someone rehearsing for an organ recital, which they appear to have on weekends. Last week The Saint Thomas Choir of Men and Boys surpassed all expectation during the “Requiem.” Also on the program was Haydn’s “Insanae et vanae curae,” Richter’s “Missa Hyemalis,” performed for the first time since 1789, and Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus.”

Last week I also finally saw Man On Wire at Sunshine Cinema. The film documents the passion of Philippe Petit, a man who very literally walks with Death as he prepares for and accomplishes his famous illegal high wire walk between the Twin Towers. I was tremendously inspired by his conviction and the urgency with which he approached his art. His committent to – and his respect for – the unknown aspects of the creative journey – again, Life and Death – moved me to tears.

On Saturday I went to the MoMA to see Ken Jacobs’ epic Star-Spangled to Death. It was a captivating collage of footage that spans fifty years and the film felt especially relevant to my present Life-Death reflections. One character is The Spirit Not Of Life But Of The Living. It’s amazing how as soon as you fix your gaze on something the world opens up and everything seems to match its color. Inspiration translates into creation and creation translates into us and we translate into inspiration and around and around it goes. Perhaps this is the Spirit of the Living. We need each other like the leaves need to fall. Despite its heavy undertaking the film was remarkably playful. Here’s what Jacobs says about the film on his site:

“STAR SPANGLED TO DEATH is an epic film shot for hundreds of dollars! combining found-films with my own more-or-less staged filming, it pictures a stolen and dangerously sold-out America, allowing examples of popular culture to self-indict. Racial and religious insanity, monopolization of wealth and the purposeful dumbing down of citizens and addiction to war oppose a Beat playfulness.

“A handful of artists costumed and performing unconvincingly appeal to audience imagination and understanding to complete the picture. Jack Smith’s pre-FLAMING CREATURES performance as The Spirit Not Of Life But Of Living (the movie has raggedly cosmic pretensions), celebrating Suffering (rattled impoverished artist Jerry Sims) at the crux of sentient existence, is a visitation of the divine. – K.J.”

I also visited The Met for the first time in over two years. I didn’t have a lot of time before closing, so I decided to take a modest bite and stick to the “New York, N. Why?” photography exhibit with accompanying poems and the modern wing. The above “Untitled” by Anish Kapoor was a delightful surprise, for when the whispers of the couple standing nearby were amplified considerably by the design of the mirrors, the piece revealed itself in a way that would have gone unnoticed had I been alone. Another valuable lesson in togetherness.

To enjoy the beauty of this season outdoors I recommend the 9th Street Community Garden at Avenue C, a wonderful place to observe the foliage. With found art, a gazebo, gardens, a generous toy collection in the sandbox, and a goldfish pond, this is an East Village gem. Of course Central Park is the King of Parks, but The New York Times created this list of “Small Parks, With a Bit of Peace in Every Nook” last month, also worth checking out.

It’s nearing bedtime, so I want to also mention Lola Montes and Ballast, both at the Film Forum. The newly-restored Lola Montes is a masterpiece of color and sound. Ballast is an powerful, intimate independent film – and it closes tomorrow, so you’ll have to hurry.

Chili peppers from Saturday’s Greenmarket in Union Square – a very good way to stay warm.

Store your scraps in the fridge and take them to the NYC Compost drop-off, also at the market, every day.

Happy Birthday, Tom. And good night!

Living and Falling in New York City (October 20, 2008)

At the end of last week a cold front moved in. The wind stirred up fallen leaves as I walked through Tompkins Square Park and the fragrance of decay filled my lungs with its distinct sweetness. It felt like Halloween. I felt like a little kid. A few hungry ghosts tugged at my coat sleeve, but this didn’t bother me. The sensations released with each crunch of my step made me aware of the life force all around – the pulsation of Earth beneath the pavement, the sky struggling to commune with her, swirling in yellow frustration. In that moment I was able to witness the perfect balance of Life and Death.

I have always walked with Death. Of course we all do, though some of us look East, some of us look West, and some of us don’t look at all. I’ve always been keenly aware of her step and the clicking of her heels has been the cause of many sleepless nights. However during those sleepless nights we’ve come to know each other. I now realize that Death is, in fact, the guardian of Life. Not only does her presence give meaning to one’s life, but Life itself depends on her – like the dead leaves softening into Earth’s embrace to create food for other organisms. Death has given us our lives and one day we’ll give them back.

Wrapped in this autumnal cloak I went to the St. Thomas Church to listen to Mozart’s “Requiem”, one of my all-time favorite pieces of music. Though I have walked by it for over two decades, I only just discovered St. Thomas Church during a rainstorm a couple months ago. On this particular late summer afternoon I sought refuge from not only the rain, but also the chaos of Fifth Avenue, and just as I nestled into a pew to meditate and bring myself back to center the organ soared into an eerie Hitchcockesque tidal wave of passion to answer the call of the storm. My body reverberated with chills for twenty minutes before I slipped back out into the rain. I imagine it was someone rehearsing for an organ recital, which they appear to have on weekends. Last week The Saint Thomas Choir of Men and Boys surpassed all expectation during the “Requiem.” Also on the program was Haydn’s “Insanae et vanae curae,” Richter’s “Missa Hyemalis,” performed for the first time since 1789, and Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus.”

Last week I also finally saw Man On Wire at Sunshine Cinema. The film documents the passion of Philippe Petit, a man who very literally walks with Death as he prepares for and accomplishes his famous illegal high wire walk between the Twin Towers. I was tremendously inspired by his conviction and the urgency with which he approached his art. His committent to – and his respect for – the unknown aspects of the creative journey – again, Life and Death – moved me to tears.

On Saturday I went to the MoMA to see Ken Jacobs’ epic Star-Spangled to Death. It was a captivating collage of footage that spans fifty years and the film felt especially relevant to my present Life-Death reflections. One character is The Spirit Not Of Life But Of The Living. It’s amazing how as soon as you fix your gaze on something the world opens up and everything seems to match its color. Inspiration translates into creation and creation translates into us and we translate into inspiration and around and around it goes. Perhaps this is the Spirit of the Living. We need each other like the leaves need to fall. Despite its heavy undertaking the film was remarkably playful. Here’s what Jacobs says about the film on his site:

“STAR SPANGLED TO DEATH is an epic film shot for hundreds of dollars! combining found-films with my own more-or-less staged filming, it pictures a stolen and dangerously sold-out America, allowing examples of popular culture to self-indict. Racial and religious insanity, monopolization of wealth and the purposeful dumbing down of citizens and addiction to war oppose a Beat playfulness.

“A handful of artists costumed and performing unconvincingly appeal to audience imagination and understanding to complete the picture. Jack Smith’s pre-FLAMING CREATURES performance as The Spirit Not Of Life But Of Living (the movie has raggedly cosmic pretensions), celebrating Suffering (rattled impoverished artist Jerry Sims) at the crux of sentient existence, is a visitation of the divine. – K.J.”

I also visited The Met for the first time in over two years. I didn’t have a lot of time before closing, so I decided to take a modest bite and stick to the “New York, N. Why?” photography exhibit with accompanying poems and the modern wing. The above “Untitled” by Anish Kapoor was a delightful surprise, for when the whispers of the couple standing nearby were amplified considerably by the design of the mirrors, the piece revealed itself in a way that would have gone unnoticed had I been alone. Another valuable lesson in togetherness.

To enjoy the beauty of this season outdoors I recommend the 9th Street Community Garden at Avenue C, a wonderful place to observe the foliage. With found art, a gazebo, gardens, a generous toy collection in the sandbox, and a goldfish pond, this is an East Village gem. Of course Central Park is the King of Parks, but The New York Times created this list of “Small Parks, With a Bit of Peace in Every Nook” last month, also worth checking out.

It’s nearing bedtime, so I want to also mention Lola Montes and Ballast, both at the Film Forum. The newly-restored Lola Montes is a masterpiece of color and sound. Ballast is an powerful, intimate independent film – and it closes tomorrow, so you’ll have to hurry.

Chili peppers from Saturday’s Greenmarket in Union Square – a very good way to stay warm.

Store your scraps in the fridge and take them to the NYC Compost drop-off, also at the market, every day.

Happy Birthday, Tom. And good night!

BECK at United Palace (October 13, 2008)

The end of last week was rather uncomfortable, with everyone screaming crisis and Mercury in retrograde and freakishly warm (though beautiful) weather… I’d say the anxiety level in Manhattan was moving towards red. And the anxiety level is always pretty high here – kind of like how we call yellow lights “yellow,” but they are really orange. NYC has a color scale of its own. This city either creates or attracts some of the most neurotic people. I can attest to both.

But the trees are still green – just barely yellowing. I went up to Central Park Friday afternoon to commune with a few and they had very sweet things to say. I was able to hang out in the yellow and – I realized – wow – I was seeing Beck that night.

Going to concerts has changed as I’ve gotten older. I still get excited, but when I was younger I used to become delirious in the weeks surrounding a show – manic beforehand and then very depressed afterward. The worst was when I was thirteen and I saw Tom (childhood hero) Petty front row at Irving Plaza – once the glow of the ceremony faded I sunk into such severe postpartum that my family was ready to disown or at least evict me. My sister said I was acting like someone died and I remember my mom telling me I wouldn’t be allowed to go to concerts anymore if this is how I’d behave afterwards. But who can go back to high school life after Tom?

By the way this Dave Stewart portrait can be yours for a mere $3000/$4200 framed. Or just walk by the gallery on Bowery at Bleecker and blow kisses every morning like I do.

I eventually got over this sickness – the post-show blues, not the air kisses – by following Phish. After a Phish show there was always the next night’s show, so the mania just kind of escalated until replaced by exhaustion. And then I thought I should maybe go on my own tours…. (I’m not going to get into the “hiatus” or the “break-up” because there are some wounds time cannot heal. They are so getting back together anyway). So I was really excited to go and be a member of the audience for a change. And to be wowed. I was a little nervous that I had built up my expectations too much, but if anyone can annihilate expectations it’s Beck, the only person other than myself that I have ever wanted to be. Truly. I think we all have one person – or a few – who we need to get us through the dark ages of youth. If Tom, Beck, and Phish aren’t responsible for saving my life they at least deserve credit for saving my soul. And Beck is one of the few artists I can depend on not just for his artistry, but by going to a show I’m pretty much guaranteed transformation. (I’ve said it before: Radio City… Valentine’s Day 2000… the bed lowered from the ceiling… “Debra”… the song that made me a woman).

After a lovely dinner at Candle Café I headed up to United Palace, which is worth the trip itself. Here are some wise words from the interior:

I enjoyed MGMT’s opening set. I had never seen them before and they looked really excited to be opening for Beck as they walked across the stage, which made me smile. Rightfully so.

The stage design was very different from Midnite Vultures’ neon playfulness. That was a different era: no Bush, no war, no recession… slightly more ice cap. There was a bit more to celebrate back in 2000. At least on the surface. But Friday night was dark. I’m sure this was partly colored by the events of the week that I brought into the venue with me, but the album is called Modern Guilt, after all. As the band dove into “Devil’s Haircut” I felt like we were crouching underground. It all felt very close – the venue is intimate and we were close to the stage, but it felt like bomb shelter close. The stage was cluttered and several extremely large spotlights stooped over the band, watching closely – kind of like that little Pixar animated character that hops around before the movie begins. Like alien beings. Then they immediately went into “Girl,” which was an awkward, oddly beautiful contrast to the décor – awkward because of its buoyancy and its breath. It’s sparkle. And as they cracked into “Timebomb” I thought – “okay, this is really happening” – expectations were officially removed. Bravo.

As we entered the Modern Guilt songs the entire back wall of the stage ignited. Throughout the show these lights served as a conveyor belt sucking us deeper and deeper into this post-apocalyptic cave. The whole show had an overall heaviness to it – a weight – even during moments like “Loser,” which was awesome on the electric guitar (why is he married? not fair) and “Hell Yes,” performed on head sets and hand-held drum machines as you see here:

The show had a quiet intensity – an urgency – like a low voice that makes you lean in close before really speaking its mind. It was seductive in its own way – not like the “Debra” bed, but perhaps even more seductive in its subtly. The motion established in the beginning – that shocking intimacy and intentional understatement – lured me into the cave and then once I was close enough to realize I wasn’t breathing the mirror came out – the light images behind the stage shifted from dead branches to an anonymous crowd to our crowd as film crews wormed around for the duration of the show. The image that remained after the band’s final exit was this projection of hands seeming to want to claw through a glass box:

Apparently, like the branches and the ice caps, we aren’t immune. Even though we left happily humming the “na nas” of “E-Pro,” as I looked back at those hands I was struck by the fragility of the human race. Of life. Human hands created this masterpiece – the gorgeous church, the music, the set, the lights, the city, the clothing, the transportation waiting outside – and yet the impression of these human hands, like kindergarten finger-paintings – is so preciously delicate. We have left our mark… but is this it? Is this really the end of the show?

I felt like I had just taken a ride in a time machine/spaceship with that screen of lights serving as our windshield. It was like future retrospective of now, and I think that’s what was so striking about the show – its relevancy to this moment in human history. The industrial, salvaged feel of the set seemed to say, the apocalypse came, and here we are, picking up the pieces. Or so we hope. How beautiful and significant that hundreds of individual lights are needed to form the one image.

Okay, time for bed. I didn’t mean to get so carried away, and especially because I don’t believe in reviews. You shouldn’t either. So let’s hope they release this masterpiece on DVD.

Good night!

BECK at United Palace (October 13, 2008)

The end of last week was rather uncomfortable, with everyone screaming crisis and Mercury in retrograde and freakishly warm (though beautiful) weather… I’d say the anxiety level in Manhattan was moving towards red. And the anxiety level is always pretty high here – kind of like how we call yellow lights “yellow,” but they are really orange. NYC has a color scale of its own. This city either creates or attracts some of the most neurotic people. I can attest to both.

But the trees are still green – just barely yellowing. I went up to Central Park Friday afternoon to commune with a few and they had very sweet things to say. I was able to hang out in the yellow and – I realized – wow – I was seeing Beck that night.

Going to concerts has changed as I’ve gotten older. I still get excited, but when I was younger I used to become delirious in the weeks surrounding a show – manic beforehand and then very depressed afterward. The worst was when I was thirteen and I saw Tom (childhood hero) Petty front row at Irving Plaza – once the glow of the ceremony faded I sunk into such severe postpartum that my family was ready to disown or at least evict me. My sister said I was acting like someone died and I remember my mom telling me I wouldn’t be allowed to go to concerts anymore if this is how I’d behave afterwards. But who can go back to high school life after Tom?

By the way this Dave Stewart portrait can be yours for a mere $3000/$4200 framed. Or just walk by the gallery on Bowery at Bleecker and blow kisses every morning like I do.

I eventually got over this sickness – the post-show blues, not the air kisses – by following Phish. After a Phish show there was always the next night’s show, so the mania just kind of escalated until replaced by exhaustion. And then I thought I should maybe go on my own tours…. (I’m not going to get into the “hiatus” or the “break-up” because there are some wounds time cannot heal. They are so getting back together anyway). So I was really excited to go and be a member of the audience for a change. And to be wowed. I was a little nervous that I had built up my expectations too much, but if anyone can annihilate expectations it’s Beck, the only person other than myself that I have ever wanted to be. Truly. I think we all have one person – or a few – who we need to get us through the dark ages of youth. If Tom, Beck, and Phish aren’t responsible for saving my life they at least deserve credit for saving my soul. And Beck is one of the few artists I can depend on not just for his artistry, but by going to a show I’m pretty much guaranteed transformation. (I’ve said it before: Radio City… Valentine’s Day 2000… the bed lowered from the ceiling… “Debra”… the song that made me a woman).

After a lovely dinner at Candle Café I headed up to United Palace, which is worth the trip itself. Here are some wise words from the interior:

I enjoyed MGMT’s opening set. I had never seen them before and they looked really excited to be opening for Beck as they walked across the stage, which made me smile. Rightfully so.

The stage design was very different from Midnite Vultures’ neon playfulness. That was a different era: no Bush, no war, no recession… slightly more ice cap. There was a bit more to celebrate back in 2000. At least on the surface. But Friday night was dark. I’m sure this was partly colored by the events of the week that I brought into the venue with me, but the album is called Modern Guilt, after all. As the band dove into “Devil’s Haircut” I felt like we were crouching underground. It all felt very close – the venue is intimate and we were close to the stage, but it felt like bomb shelter close. The stage was cluttered and several extremely large spotlights stooped over the band, watching closely – kind of like that little Pixar animated character that hops around before the movie begins. Like alien beings. Then they immediately went into “Girl,” which was an awkward, oddly beautiful contrast to the décor – awkward because of its buoyancy and its breath. It’s sparkle. And as they cracked into “Timebomb” I thought – “okay, this is really happening” – expectations were officially removed. Bravo.

As we entered the Modern Guilt songs the entire back wall of the stage ignited. Throughout the show these lights served as a conveyor belt sucking us deeper and deeper into this post-apocalyptic cave. The whole show had an overall heaviness to it – a weight – even during moments like “Loser,” which was awesome on the electric guitar (why is he married? not fair) and “Hell Yes,” performed on head sets and hand-held drum machines as you see here:

The show had a quiet intensity – an urgency – like a low voice that makes you lean in close before really speaking its mind. It was seductive in its own way – not like the “Debra” bed, but perhaps even more seductive in its subtly. The motion established in the beginning – that shocking intimacy and intentional understatement – lured me into the cave and then once I was close enough to realize I wasn’t breathing the mirror came out – the light images behind the stage shifted from dead branches to an anonymous crowd to our crowd as film crews wormed around for the duration of the show. The image that remained after the band’s final exit was this projection of hands seeming to want to claw through a glass box:

Apparently, like the branches and the ice caps, we aren’t immune. Even though we left happily humming the “na nas” of “E-Pro,” as I looked back at those hands I was struck by the fragility of the human race. Of life. Human hands created this masterpiece – the gorgeous church, the music, the set, the lights, the city, the clothing, the transportation waiting outside – and yet the impression of these human hands, like kindergarten finger-paintings – is so preciously delicate. We have left our mark… but is this it? Is this really the end of the show?

I felt like I had just taken a ride in a time machine/spaceship with that screen of lights serving as our windshield. It was like future retrospective of now, and I think that’s what was so striking about the show – its relevancy to this moment in human history. The industrial, salvaged feel of the set seemed to say, the apocalypse came, and here we are, picking up the pieces. Or so we hope. How beautiful and significant that hundreds of individual lights are needed to form the one image.

Okay, time for bed. I didn’t mean to get so carried away, and especially because I don’t believe in reviews. You shouldn’t either. So let’s hope they release this masterpiece on DVD.

Good night!

BECK at United Palace (October 13, 2008)

The end of last week was rather uncomfortable, with everyone screaming crisis and Mercury in retrograde and freakishly warm (though beautiful) weather… I’d say the anxiety level in Manhattan was moving towards red. And the anxiety level is always pretty high here – kind of like how we call yellow lights “yellow,” but they are really orange. NYC has a color scale of its own. This city either creates or attracts some of the most neurotic people. I can attest to both.

But the trees are still green – just barely yellowing. I went up to Central Park Friday afternoon to commune with a few and they had very sweet things to say. I was able to hang out in the yellow and – I realized – wow – I was seeing Beck that night.

Going to concerts has changed as I’ve gotten older. I still get excited, but when I was younger I used to become delirious in the weeks surrounding a show – manic beforehand and then very depressed afterward. The worst was when I was thirteen and I saw Tom (childhood hero) Petty front row at Irving Plaza – once the glow of the ceremony faded I sunk into such severe postpartum that my family was ready to disown or at least evict me. My sister said I was acting like someone died and I remember my mom telling me I wouldn’t be allowed to go to concerts anymore if this is how I’d behave afterwards. But who can go back to high school life after Tom?

By the way this Dave Stewart portrait can be yours for a mere $3000/$4200 framed. Or just walk by the gallery on Bowery at Bleecker and blow kisses every morning like I do.

I eventually got over this sickness – the post-show blues, not the air kisses – by following Phish. After a Phish show there was always the next night’s show, so the mania just kind of escalated until replaced by exhaustion. And then I thought I should maybe go on my own tours…. (I’m not going to get into the “hiatus” or the “break-up” because there are some wounds time cannot heal. They are so getting back together anyway). So I was really excited to go and be a member of the audience for a change. And to be wowed. I was a little nervous that I had built up my expectations too much, but if anyone can annihilate expectations it’s Beck, the only person other than myself that I have ever wanted to be. Truly. I think we all have one person – or a few – who we need to get us through the dark ages of youth. If Tom, Beck, and Phish aren’t responsible for saving my life they at least deserve credit for saving my soul. And Beck is one of the few artists I can depend on not just for his artistry, but by going to a show I’m pretty much guaranteed transformation. (I’ve said it before: Radio City… Valentine’s Day 2000… the bed lowered from the ceiling… “Debra”… the song that made me a woman).

After a lovely dinner at Candle Café I headed up to United Palace, which is worth the trip itself. Here are some wise words from the interior:

I enjoyed MGMT’s opening set. I had never seen them before and they looked really excited to be opening for Beck as they walked across the stage, which made me smile. Rightfully so.

The stage design was very different from Midnite Vultures’ neon playfulness. That was a different era: no Bush, no war, no recession… slightly more ice cap. There was a bit more to celebrate back in 2000. At least on the surface. But Friday night was dark. I’m sure this was partly colored by the events of the week that I brought into the venue with me, but the album is called Modern Guilt, after all. As the band dove into “Devil’s Haircut” I felt like we were crouching underground. It all felt very close – the venue is intimate and we were close to the stage, but it felt like bomb shelter close. The stage was cluttered and several extremely large spotlights stooped over the band, watching closely – kind of like that little Pixar animated character that hops around before the movie begins. Like alien beings. Then they immediately went into “Girl,” which was an awkward, oddly beautiful contrast to the décor – awkward because of its buoyancy and its breath. It’s sparkle. And as they cracked into “Timebomb” I thought – “okay, this is really happening” – expectations were officially removed. Bravo.

As we entered the Modern Guilt songs the entire back wall of the stage ignited. Throughout the show these lights served as a conveyor belt sucking us deeper and deeper into this post-apocalyptic cave. The whole show had an overall heaviness to it – a weight – even during moments like “Loser,” which was awesome on the electric guitar (why is he married? not fair) and “Hell Yes,” performed on head sets and hand-held drum machines as you see here:

The show had a quiet intensity – an urgency – like a low voice that makes you lean in close before really speaking its mind. It was seductive in its own way – not like the “Debra” bed, but perhaps even more seductive in its subtly. The motion established in the beginning – that shocking intimacy and intentional understatement – lured me into the cave and then once I was close enough to realize I wasn’t breathing the mirror came out – the light images behind the stage shifted from dead branches to an anonymous crowd to our crowd as film crews wormed around for the duration of the show. The image that remained after the band’s final exit was this projection of hands seeming to want to claw through a glass box:

Apparently, like the branches and the ice caps, we aren’t immune. Even though we left happily humming the “na nas” of “E-Pro,” as I looked back at those hands I was struck by the fragility of the human race. Of life. Human hands created this masterpiece – the gorgeous church, the music, the set, the lights, the city, the clothing, the transportation waiting outside – and yet the impression of these human hands, like kindergarten finger-paintings – is so preciously delicate. We have left our mark… but is this it? Is this really the end of the show?

I felt like I had just taken a ride in a time machine/spaceship with that screen of lights serving as our windshield. It was like future retrospective of now, and I think that’s what was so striking about the show – its relevancy to this moment in human history. The industrial, salvaged feel of the set seemed to say, the apocalypse came, and here we are, picking up the pieces. Or so we hope. How beautiful and significant that hundreds of individual lights are needed to form the one image.

Okay, time for bed. I didn’t mean to get so carried away, and especially because I don’t believe in reviews. You shouldn’t either. So let’s hope they release this masterpiece on DVD.

Good night!

Sunday Morning (October 12, 2008)

While reading this morning I revisited this lovely poem by Wallace Stevens. It pressed a little deeper than the last time I read it… everything seems to be pressing a little deeper these days. (“Well maybe it’s just the time of year/Or maybe it’s the time of man….”) In this very tender time on Planet Earth it feels like a beautiful ode to death, or the human condition, or perhaps Kali. I hope you’re all enjoying your Sundays. Jai Kali Ma.

“Sunday Morning”
by Wallace Stevens

I

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

IV

She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
There is not any haunt of prophesy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

V

She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

VI

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

“Heaven… heaven is a place… a place where nothing… nothing ever happens…”