It’s that time of year again!
I have a cold and am exhausted. Still unpacking from the move. My studio remains a work in progress. Too many unopened boxes. Need a new (gargantuan) bookcase. Art is wrapped in Kraft paper.
My feet are cold (literally).
Tea always helps.
(Does it for you?)
Decided to suck it up and add to today’s NaNoWriMo word count anyway.
108 good little soldiers.
Better than nothing, right?
Until tomorrow, I have the laziest of intentions:
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
Haven’t stepped foot outside since the last sunset. Don’t plan on breaking this chain. Not today. Today my will is adamantine. Hard as a scimitar. Laziness, my chosen luxury.
Someone else brought a package in, retrieved the mail. All junk, anyway. Glad I didn’t waste those fifteen seconds. Time spent under a new duvet is precious, irretrievable. Pushing it off is forsaking a cloud in favor of the gutter.
Tea doesn’t steep through telekinesis. Mugs aren’t self-sugaring. Spoons do not come with ‘automatic stirring’ buttons.
Books exist to be read. Aged pages feel good when rubbed between fingers, the scent produced intoxicating.
It’s drizzling. Cool. A haze of rain. Grey. Nonstop. A wall of grey.
DISCLAIMER: I fucking curse in this review, so beware! I know, I know. Why is a dainty book nerd like myself wielding profanity? I am a many-petaled sunflower, okay?
While y’all are sitting around watching Super Bowl LIII, I’m listening to Thelma and the Sleaze and drinking cheap booze. In other words: when it comes to gen-u-ine American pleasure, I’ve got you beat by yards.
Wait, who? Thelma. and. the. Sleaze. Remember those words. You’ll want to remember my name, too, so you know who to thank later. You’re welcome, by the way.
LG and LG’s Pals.
Queens of Rock.
From Nashville, Tennessee.
You’ve gotta see ’em live. That’s imperative.
As musicians, they kick ass all over any stage brave enough to hold them.
LG is the eye of this hurricane. She’s raunchy, rowdy, and fucking hilarious. But, she doesn’t do it alone: everyone up there with her is worth the price of admission any damn gig they play. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Their energy is its own entity. Ultimately, you need to be in the same room as that shit to understand its pull. Trust me on this. I could describe a TATS show down to the smallest sweaty detail, until you felt fucking transported to that place and time. Virtual Reality Level: 10. It still won’t do it justice.
Fortunately, there’s something that is closer than anything short of seeing them live.
That’s a magic word, right there.
Your ticket to TATS nirvana.
What is a RELIX?
Oh, hey! Thanks for asking. It’s just…the best.
“Officially” (via LG on Facebook) RELIX is an “open concept not album.”
Or (in my-speak): it’s a sixteen-song treasure box whose contents keep changing.
I bought version two on Friday, when it was still pay-what-you-want-or-can. By the time you’re reading this, it will cost $217.00 or an original poem. But, probably not. Or, maybe. See, it’s that kind of exchange. Elastic, symbiotic, fiercely creative. Ya know, art. The real deal, brought to you by demos recorded, I believe, at home, and left unmastered.
Imagine trying to bluff your way into a hip stranger’s house party. You’re a bit shaky at the prospect: dry mouth, moist palms. “Do people really do this kind of thing? Is it normal? Am I an idiot for even trying?” You ring the bell. The door flings wide. Maybe you manage a few mumbly words of greeting. Nothing you say matters, though, as you discover there was no reason to worry about being caught and called out for trespassing. You weren’t invited, because no one was: everyone’s welcome, the food and drinks are plentiful, the conversation is actually interesting. Better yet? Some richly talented chicks are hanging out in the living room, playing lit-as-hell songs. As you wander from room to room, meeting new people, getting wasted together, you keep hearing the musicians as they run through a bunch of songs. Sometimes the music is loud, sometimes the music is low, but it’s always radically compelling. Of all the waves in the universe to inhabit, everyone in the house is sharing the same one. (Except for Janet, who has shit taste in music. Fuck Janet.) What are the odds? (That’s rhetorical. I’m not a statistician, so please don’t come at me with your fancy numbers. Also: I don’t care.)
The party breaks-up. People go back to their lives. The only remnant of that night, aside from a short-lived collective hangover, is the whisper of “Oh, my God! Have you heard of this band?” to friends and strangers alike.
That’s the joy of RELIX.
I hope you’ll listen, and join the chorus.
So, here we are. What’s left to speak of, except for:
Mutual generosity, getting-and-giving, the vulnerable transaction between creators and consumers. Are they mere ideas, or the lifeblood of every artistic project worth a damn?
RELIX is simultaneously a gutsy experiment, a middle finger to corporatized art, and a gift to those music lovers who will, in turn, give a damn right back.
When I bought RELIX a couple of days ago, I paid xx amount of dollars of my choice. I wish that I could have paid more dosh, but, ya know, bills. The majority of my bills are due on the first of the month. That’s adult life, right? I told LG that I would write a poem to pad out my contribution. As you know, when it comes to indie artists I try to put my money where my mouth is. After all, I am one and I respect the hell out of creative types who forge their own path. Look out for my next post (which is going live in a few minutes). It, I believe, more than fulfills my promise.
THELMA AND THE SLEAZE LINKS:
It’s that day of the year again.
This was originally published here on 7 December 2012. In what is turning into an annual tradition, I am re-posting it today in honor of its subject, my buddy Frank.
What is on your reading list this month?
Have you given yourself permission to take it easy, as the year comes to a close?
Or, as we race the clock to 2016, are you trying to stuff as many books into your brain as possible?
I am doing the latter.
Very much the latter.
Since 1 November, I’ve finished:
- Holding on Upside Down: The Life and Work of Marianne Moore by Linda Leavell
- Eleanor Marx: A Life by Rachel Holmes
- Benjamin Britten: A Life for Music by Neil Powell
- All Art is Propaganda: Critical Essays by George Orwell
- Careless People: Murder, Mayhem, and the Invention of The Great Gatsby by Sarah Churchwell
- Gloria Swanson: The Ultimate Star by Stephen Michael Shearer
- Vintage Reading: From Plato to Bradbury: A Personal Tour of Some of the World’s Best Books by Robert Kanigel
- A Woman of Temperament by Lucile Duff Gordon (in progress)
To Be Read by 30 November:
- Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller (the only novel on the list!)
- Edith Wharton by Hermione Lee
- Madcap May: Mistress of Myth, Men & Hope by Richard Kurin
- White Heat: The Friendship of Emily Dickinson and Thomas Wentworth Higginson by Brenda Wineapple
- The Mad Potter: George E. Ohr Eccentric Genius by Jan Greenberg & Sandra Jordan
- Oscar Micheaux: The Great and Only: The Life of America’s First Black Filmmaker by Patrick McGilligan
And, if I finish all of these…I have Michel de Montaigne’s essays waiting in the wings.
What is your favourite book this month?
Which book on your list are you most looking forward to reading?
Please share with me in the comments!
I always find interesting books at Goodwill.
This was originally published on 7 December 2012. I am re-posting it today in honor of its subject, my buddy Frank.
Frank died at 87 1/2 years old. Picture this: When he was a tow-headed little boy, just a toddler, his parents dressed him in short pants and a striped shirt and posed him on the hood of the family Model T, grinning. Feisty. He was named after a prominent ancestor, Benjamin Franklin, and they shared more than a name: both were brilliant, larger-than-life, charismatic. Actually, he came from a long line of characters: a grandfather who died, in his 90s, as the result of a bar fight, a father who was an early aviator. That family bred their men big, bold, and memorable. Frank, my Frank, my friend, came of age during the Great Depression. He had an older brother, equally brilliant; when it came time for Frank to attend college in ’37 or ’38, there was no money left. None. His brother had the degree that Frank…
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Another day. Another birthday celebration. Another book. This one is particularly nifty!