October 2006

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Ghost Story

Ten years ago, my wife's cousin Vanessa was killed in a car accident. She had a bunch of kids, many of whom were in her station wagon that night. She went the wrong way on a freeway entrance ramp. She was killed instantly, but the kids were OK.

We drove down to Iowa for the funeral. I spent much of the actual funeral driving around in our car with our months-old son sleeping in the back. When he awoke, I went into the basement of the church, where the parish was feasting and remembering.

Her kids were sitting around, dazed and confused. Quiet and bored. Un-kidlike. I rounded up a bunch of them, gave them some change, and taught them how to pitch coins. I'd done it growing up, and was intent on showing them the thrill of a deftly tossed coin leaning up against a wall or step.

I showed them technique, and explained that the winning pitch is the one that hits, and remains closest to, the wall. Winner take all. None of them had ever pitched coins before, so they were pretty psyched.

The group was small at first, but it grew in size and volume. At its peak, it was about 16 kids, the youngest of whom was Vanessa's four-year-old son, James. After about 20 minutes, some of the adults gathered around to watch. Some even reached into their pockets and provided spare change sustenance to the losers.

James got hot and won four or five in a row. At one point, all of the kids and many of the dead mother's friends, siblings, sons, daughters, aunts, and uncles were chanting, "James! James! James!" so loud you'd have thought you were at a Vegas craps table.

We drove home to Minneapolis the next day. It was around this time of year, with the cold wind howling, like it is tonight.

After my wife and son had fallen asleep, I spent the night reading Women and Ghosts, a collection of female-penned short stories about spirits, poltergeists, and the afterworld.

It was around midnight. Just like tonight. When I finished reading, I got up from my chair, turned off the light, and, as I made my way across the room, I felt a coin drop out of the front pocket of my jeans.

I turned the light back on and bent down to pick it up from where it had landed. It was a quarter -- leaning up against the base of the wall, a perfect winner.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 30, 2006 11:02 PM | Comments (2)

 

Song du Jour: "Slash Your Tires"

Luna, "Slash Your Tires."

Haiku For The Tire-Slasher On Our Block

Dude and slash or dudette
Whatever is up with that?
Do you like Summit?

Haiku For super-chef Anthony Bourdain Who Told MPR's Kerri Miller He "doesn't like writers" Because They're "not working class" Or Some Shit

Cookie me thinketh you
Protesteth tooth mucheth
Ever heard o' Yeats?

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 30, 2006 9:47 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "Life During Wartime"

God Johnson, "Life During Wartime" (live at the Cabooze, 10/28/06).

Something's happening. In his A-List for Michael Franti and Spearhead, Britt Robson wrote about it: "Watching Franti, a six-foot-six dreadlocked former b-baller, deliver the goods onstage is the perfect sustenance for door-knockers and cold-callers putting their shoulders to the tectonic plates to produce the lefty tsunami of Election 2006."

Franti and Robson and the door-knockers aren't alone. Above ground, as the pendulum swings and politicians like Keith Ellison talk about love, the underground is teeming with a movement of punks, hippies, and other uncategorizables, many of who were in costume last night at the Cabooze for the free love-in that is Wookiefoot.

Hugs between utter but not complete strangers abounded, and I am so tempted to invoke the '60s here, but I won't because this is a new generation of lovers, who have blitzed through their own cynicism to embrace, as Barack Obama has it, "the audacity of hope."

This Talking Heads tune, done by some squeaky-clean porn-star boy-angels in robes spoke to it, all of it. Sung by the "You Looked Better On Myspace" T-shirt-sporting keyboard player, the song lifted the room and turned it into, yes, a party, a disco, some foolin' around -- with a throbbing conscience and consciousness that will serve all concerned well over the next couple weeks and years.

In other words -- just one, actually -- what was it that V (Guy Fawkes) heard all night at the Cabooze? Over and over, from young and old, drunk and sober, high and grounded, coming up to him, dancing, clasping his hand, flashing him the V-peace-victory sign, showing him their coat-hangered V tattoos, giving him the light-dark love, asking him where he would be on November 5 and invoking the quote, "remember, remember the fifth of November"?

What was it?

What was it they said?

Oh, yeah:

"Revolution."

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 29, 2006 9:27 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "I Got The Darkness"

The Falls, "I Got The Darkness" (unreleased demo).

Tonight as the crescent moon rises, cock your ear toward Lake Nokomis. A garage band, in the garage, ripping it up like the bastard bloody stray cat ghoul nephews of Eddie Cochran. I'll be this guy:

I know you'll be there in spirit.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 28, 2006 9:13 AM | Comments (0)

 

Spirits In The Night

This time of year always reminds me of the chats I've had with First Ave. staffers about the First Avenue ghost. Here's a few testimonials.

Molly McManus, bar manager, who first saw the ghost in the fifth stall of the women's room on a Tuesday night in 1991, around 2 a.m. as she was making the rounds after bar close: "I opened the door to that stall, and saw a woman hanging up there. She was wearing a green army jacket, and had long hair. It wasn't anything gory or anything, she was just hanging there with her neck to one side. What I thought was that it was a real tragic incident. I thought someone had hung themself. I thought, 'Oh, God, what am I gonna do here?' It was more that than anything. I was just freaking out. And then I looked back, and there was nothing there.

"I didn't run, but I was really shaking. I finished up as soon as I could, and got out. I didn't tell a lot of people about it right away, because it was so weird. But after that, I would never, ever be in the building alone. Daytime, nighttime, never.''

Valerie Cenedella, bar manager: "That is definitely a hot spot. Every night, the women's bathroom was just this huge challenge for me. You would walk through there, and with all the mirrors, you'd see things. Things would catch your eye, and if you ever were brave enough to stop and look, there would be nothing there.

"I'm not always susceptible to that kind of stuff, but there was something definitely there. It was physically tangible; you could just feel it. It was like, 'Okay, I'll be gone soon, just don't hurt me.'''

Matt Gerhard, longtime staffer: "There are millions of stories,'' like the time in 1983, when Gerhard and another employee were guarding the film equipment overnight for the production of "Purple Rain,'' and all the lights in the place went berserk for 30 minutes.

Oscar Arredondo, longtime staffer: "One night after close, this single balloon made it's way around the club, up from the dance floor and past the women's bathroom, and settled next to me at my table with this circular gust of icy air. It was like someone was leading it by a string. Normally, I was skeptical about most of the stories that other employees told me. But the weird thing about this was the cold air, because it was a warm summer night.''

Conrad Sverkerson, longtime stage manager: "I've been there some pretty odd hours, and I've never seen anything. But that doesn't mean anything. There have been some pretty credible people who have worked here over the years who have seen some pretty strange things. You wonder what's going on.''

Rod Smith, longtime deejay: "I've seen a couple of the manifestation things, and I've never seen it manifest as anything other than a woman.''

John Casey, bartender/musician, on the ghost of his friend Mark Sandman, leader of the Boston-based trio Morphine, who died of a heart attack onstage in Italy on July 4, 1999, but came back for an apparent encore on Aug. 27, the night after Morphine was to have performed at First Avenue:

"We (the John Casey Band) were finishing up our set in the Entry that night, around one o'clock, and I dedicated Blind Lemon Jefferson's 'See That My Grave Is Kept Clean' to Mark. Half way through the song, I saw something dripping from the microphone. At first, I just thought is was my sweat.

"It was just one of those nights where the words, and the music and the pacing were just seamless. All night long. Oh, it was a good night. It was one of those reasons why you do it. It was at another level, almost. I don't know what the deal was.

"Just as I saw the dripping coming off, (guitarist) Eric (Christopher) yelled over at me, 'John, are you bleeding?'

"I was like, 'What the hell are you talking about?' And Eric kind of gestures to the pool of blood - I hate to call it blood, I don't know what it was - but it was forming in front of the mic stand, and it was becoming about the size of my head. It had a pretty wide circumference. It was bizarro.

"I didn't get creeped out until I put two and two together and thought, 'Holy s—, it's Mark.' It was powerful. I felt it. It's hard to explain that feeling that I had, but at that moment, I thought I was going to start flopping around that stage like a crappie.

"I touched it at the end of the night. It was warm and red. We watched it coagulate on the mic and in front of the mic stand as we were tearing down. A lot of folks saw it. We were all freakin' on this. Right after the gig, we had floor guys with mag lights coming in, inspecting the walls and floor, trying to get to the bottom of it.

"It might have been something else. You know, something left over from a GWAR or Impaler show. But it just seems like too much of a coincidence. It was symbolic, if nothing else. I don't know. It was really creepy.

"I don't know who it was, or what it was, but I do know that there was some very mysterious mojo in the house that night ... First Avenue once had a seance, and the psychic reported that there are over 40 spirits living inside the club. Sometimes, when I look at the Entry stage, I think God, maybe Mark is still with us.''

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 27, 2006 3:44 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "Growin' Old"

Pigeon John, "Growin' Old" (from the new one Pigeon John and the Summertime Pool Party).

My boy Steve and I went to the Hold Steady the other night. He's in his late thirties, I'm in my late forties, and Craig Finn was up there rhyming/pining, "Oh, to be 17 forever... Oh, to be 33 forever."

On the way home, Steve and I talked about nostalgia, and about how everyone in that room had been personally transported by Finn's rich imagery of Minneapolis, the specifics of which aren't even necessary, for everyone had their own mind-movie accompanying the various streets, buildings, and characters that burst out of Finn the way they do from all great writers who have fallen in love with a place, and a sense of place.

Here, Pigeon John raps about living in L.A. and listening to the Beasties and KRS-One and other hip-hop pioneers. It's part lament, but mostly celebration, and I'm usually fiercely anti-nostalgia and live-in-the-moment, but sometimes it feels good to wallow in what is sold as, like the knick-knack shoppe at the Mall Of America has it, A Simpler Time.

Yeah. I don't think about age most of the time. I don't feel too strange about being interested in music and art made by people decades younger or older than me. It still feeds me. So the issue of growing older doesn't haunt, unless it comes up like it did a few weeks ago, when I moved two friends out of their apartments.

One is a beautiful 25-year-old woman. Her new apartment has an array of built-in mirrors that came with the place, at which she made a crack about being a vain silent movie star. The other is a dying 87-year-old woman. She asked me not to put up any mirrors in her new place so she doesn't have to look at the haggard face staring back at her.

You and I are somewhere in between.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 27, 2006 9:01 AM | Comments (3)

 

Alberto VO5 To The Rescue

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 26, 2006 9:54 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "Jean Jacket Weather"

Ol' Yeller, "Jean Jacket Weather" (from their latest, Good Luck).

Around this time of year, on a typical Minneapolis weekend in the '60s, citizens and wiccans alike would take to raking their lawns. If they cocked their ears and imaginations to the wind, they could hear the crowds of Memorial or Metropolitan stadiums, roaring for their tribes and gladiator heroes battling in the great outdoors. If their ears and imaginations failed them, they could always stop what they were raking and hear the sound of WCCO-AM on transistor radios, incanting across the zephyr.

Autumn is here, and a young man's thoughts turn to these things. Perhaps because raking is the dullest and most fruitless of all of Satan's chores, for it only accomplishes a chump's clarity: Would it be so bad to leave unmade the bed of dead leaves and dirty grass? Would it be such a disaster if it all simply rested beneath the snow, snuggling as one big slop trough, for six months?

Once upon a time, though, there was a pay-off. A ceremony. Incense. Ritual. To be sure, when it comes to olfactory orgasms, there is nothing like fall. Nothing -- not the lilacs of spring, the bouys of summer, the brace of winter -- delivers the same bittersweet symphony. Fall is the time of year when the dark night of the soul whispers "something's missing," and harks to a time of rustling school corduroys, and the perfume of burning leaves.

It is no myth. It was everywhere. It was pure pagan celebration, sanctioned by the city fathers. We would rake and rake and rake, and then pile scratchy brown-and-orange effigy-ready piles on the lawn, street, curb, or gutter. Some would jump into the veiny mounds, but that was kids' stuff. Most raked only to torch a pile or two as the sun went down.

They were smoke signals, nothing less. And in the lighting of a pile of leaves in the middle of the city, there was some serious black magic being played out; a communing with other smokers down the block, across the river, and through the woods. It was a connection to something ancient, something mystical, and a way to live out what a brick in front of the Writers Museum in Edinburgh, Scotland says: "Go back far enough and all humankind are cousins -- Naomi Mitchison (1897-1999)."

Go back far enough in this city's history, and you will discover a flamin' groovy time before 1971. That was the year the outdoor burning ban went into effect. Some tree-huggers got their undies in a bundle about the ozone and dioxins, and pushed through a measure to stop the fires and turn leaves into compost and mulch for the sake of future generations.

And now here we are--safe and sound and fireless. "I miss burning leaves," said my friend Shawn, an expatriate Minnesotan living in Hollywood. "We lived in the country and would burn the 'brush pile' that had accumulated over the summer. Dead branches, dead mice, dead birds, dead leaves, dead grass. We would dump a few gallons of used car oil on it and light her up. Then we would be out there 'til midnight waiting for it to die down."

"My father had a leaf-burner next to the garage by the alley," said my friend Erik, an expat from Seattle who recently returned to Minneapolis. "It had holes in the sides where fire had burned through over the years. It made raking leaves much more fun, and it smelled and felt good to be next to the fire. When my parents told me we couldn't do it anymore and why-- 'Because it was bad for the environment'-- I felt bad that I had enjoyed it before."

Oh, but it was good. So good. Never mind global warming, the pagans contend that "burning oak leaves purifies the atmosphere," not to mention serving as "doorways to the mysteries, health, money, healing, potency, fertility, strength, endurance, good luck, longevity, primeval strength, and to preserve youthfulness."

I can't get enough of that stuff, so I summoned the Minneapolis fire marshal, Dave Dewall, to see if he'd give my bursting-at-the-sternum inner pagan a permit to burn leaves. He was a total puritan wet blanket. He said there's a city ordinance against burning leaves for good reason, but that fires can be had on private property with "cord wood, no branches, leaves, or debris, and the pit must be no more than three feet in diameter."

Not exactly the sort of thing that inspires whooping and getting naked around the circle of life. Dude had nearly doused my inner flame, until I realized I don't need a watered-down version of my flaming youth. I've got my memories to keep me warm. To wit:

When I was a lad growing up in this bastard burg, one of my household chores was to take out the trash and burn it. After dinner and dishes, I'd haul out a paper bag of tin cans, dirty diapers, plastic cartons, and the like, and toss it into a metal trashcan near the alley. Then I'd light a match. If it didn't catch, I'd sprinkle in some lighter fluid and watch the smoke and flames lap the stars.

Same thing with leaves. One night, during a particularly high bonfire in the alley, my brother found a crippled bat. He picked it up and tossed it on the pyre. We cackled as the heat immolated the fur and wings, setting into motion an entire chain of events that brought all who were present that night blessings and curses that the pagans say come from standing around cauldrons and candles and burning leaves, not bending and bagging and tying.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 26, 2006 8:59 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour: "The Ballad of Paul and Sheila"

Mason Jennings, "The Ballad of Paul and Sheila."

Sent: Tuesday, August 05, 2003 4:31 PM
Subject: Paul and Sheila Wellstone World Music Day

An E-Proposal From Me to You

By Jim Walsh

I am standing in the northwest corner of Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis, in front of a silver monument that looks like a heart, a broken heart really, and I am thinking about how wrong the world has gone, how Minnesota Mean it all feels. I'm thinking about how much everyone I know misses the man I've come to visit, how sick I am of sitting around waiting for change, and about what might happen if I ask you to do something, which is what I'll do in a minute.

Like most Minnesotans, I met Paul Wellstone once. It was at the Loring Playhouse after the opening night of a friend's play. He and Sheila were there, offering encouragement to the show's director, Casey Stangl, and quietly validating the post-production festivities with his presence: The Junior Senator from Minnesota and his wife are here; we must be doing something right.

The year before (1990), I'd written a column for City Pages encouraging all local musicians and local music fans to go vote for this mad professor the following Tuesday. He won, and, as many have said since, for the first time in my life I felt like we were part of something that had roots in Stuff The Suits Don’t Give A Shit About. That is, we felt like we had a voice, like were getting somewhere, or like Janeane Garofalo's villain-whupping character in "Mystery Men," who memorably proclaimed, "I would like to dedicate my victory to the supporters of local music and those who seek out independent films."

After the election, Wellstone's aide Bill Hillsman told me he believed my column had reached a segment of the voting populace that they were having trouble reaching, and that it may have helped put him over the top. I put aside my bullshit detector for the moment and chose to believe him, just as I choose at this moment to believe that music and the written word can still help change the world.

When I introduced myself to Wellstone that night as "Jim Walsh from City Pages," he broke into that sexy gap-toothed grin, clasped my hand and forearm and said, with a warm laugh, "Jiiiiim," like we were a couple of thieves getting together for the first time since the big haul. I can still feel his hand squeezing my forearm. I can still feel his fighter's strength.

For those of you who never had the pleasure, that is what Paul Wellstone was -- a fighter -- despite the fact that the first president Bush said upon their first encounter, "who is this chickenshit?" He fought corporate America, the FCC, injustice, his own government. He fought for the voiceless, the homeless, the poor, the little guy -- in this country and beyond. He was a politician but not a robot; an idealist, but not a sap, and if his legacy has already morphed into myth, it's because there were/are so few like him. He was passionate, and compassionate. He had a huge heart, a rigorous mind, a steely soul and conscience, and now he is dead and buried in a plot that looks out over the joggers, bikers, rollerbladers, and motorists who parade around Lake Calhoun daily.

Paul and Sheila Wellstone and six others, including their daughter Marcia, were killed in a plane crash on October 25, 2002. I remember where I was that day, just as you do, and I don't want to forget it, but what I want to remember even more is October 25, 2003. So here's what we're going to do.

We're going to start something right here, right now, and we're going to call it Paul and Sheila Wellstone World Music Day. It will happen on Saturday, Oct. 25th. On that day, every piece of music, from orchestras to shower singers, superstars to buskers, will be an expression of that loss and a celebration of that life. It will be one day, where music��"which, to my way of thinking, is still the best way to fill in the gray areas that the blacks and whites of everyday life leave us with��"rises up in all sorts of clubs, cars, concerts, and living rooms, all in the name of peace and love and joy and all that good stuff that gets snickered at by Them.

Now. This is no corporate flim-flam or media boondoggle. This is me talking to you, and you and I deciding to do something about the place we live in when it feels like all the exits are blocked. So: First of all, clip or forward this to anyone you know who still cares about grass roots, community, music, reading, writing, love, the world, and how the world sees America. If you’ve got a blog or web site, post it.

If you're a musician, book a gig now for Oct. 25th. Tell them you want it to be advertised as part of Paul and Sheila Wellstone World Music Day. If you're a shower singer, lift your voice that day and tell yourself the same thing. If you're a club owner, promoter, or scene fiend, put together a multi-act benefit for Wellstone Action! (www.wellstone.org). If you're a newspaper person, tell your readers. If you're a radio person, tell your listeners. Everybody talk about what you remember about Wellstone, what he tried to do, what you plan to do for Wellstone World Music Day. Then tell me at the email address below, and I'll write another column like this the week of Oct. 25th, with your and others' comments and plans.

This isn't exactly an original idea. Earlier this year, I sat in a room at Stanford University with Judea and Michelle Pearl, the father and daughter of Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl, who was kidnapped and murdered by members of a radical Islamic group in Pakistan in February of last year. After much talk about their son and brother's life and murder, I asked them about Danny's love of music. He was a big music fan, and an accomplished violinist who played with all sorts of bands all over the world. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Pearl was also a member of the Atlanta band the Ottoman Empire, and his fiddle levitates one of my all-time favorite Irish jigs, "This Is It," which I found myself singing one night last fall in a Sonoma Valley bar with a bunch of journalists from Paraguay, Texas, Mexico, Jerusalem, Italy, and Korea.

The Pearls talked with amazement about the first Daniel Pearl World Music Day (www.danielpearl.org), the second of which happens this October 10th, which would have been Pearl's 40th birthday. I told them about attending one of the first Daniel Pearl World Music Day activities at Stanford Memorial Church, where a lone violinist silently strolled away from her chamber group at the end, signaling to me and my gathered colleagues that we were to remember that moment and continue to ask questions, continue to push for the dialogue that their son and brother lived for. I vowed that day to tell anybody within earshot about Daniel Pearl World Music Day, and later figured he wouldn't mind a similar elegy for Wellstone, who shared Pearl's battle against hate and cynicism.

Wellstone didn't lead any bands, but he led as musical a life as they come. He lived to bring people together, to mend fences: Music. When he died, musicians and artists were some of the most devastated, as Leslie Ball's crest-fallen-but-somehow-still-beaming face on CSPAN from Williams Arena illustrated. Everyone from Mason Jennings to Larry Long wrote Wellstone tribute songs in the aftermath, and everyone had a story, including the one Wendy Lewis told me about the genuine exuberance with which Wellstone once introduced her band, Rhea Valentine, to a crowd at the Lyn-Lake Festival. Imagine that, today.

So ignore this or do whatever you do when your "We Are The World" hackles go up. I’d be disappointed, and I suppose I wouldn't blame you; in these times of terror alerts and media celebrity, I'm suspicious of everything, too. But I freely admit that the idea of a Wellstone World Music Day is selfish. That day was beyond dark, and to have another like it, a litany of hang-dog tributes and rehashes of The Partisan Speech and How It All Went Wrong, would be painful, not to mention disrespectful to everything those lives stood for and against.

No, I don't want anyone telling me what to think or feel that day, or any day, anymore. I want music that day. I want to wake up hearing it, go to bed singing it. I want banners, church choirs, live feeds, hip-hop, headlines, punk rock, field reports, arias, laughter. I want to remember October 25, 2002 as the day the music died, and October 25, 2003 as the day when people who've spent their lives attending anti-war rallies and teaching kids and championing local music and independent films got together via the great big antennae of music and took another shot.

I am standing in the northwest corner of Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis. In front of the silver broken heart, three workers stab the fresh sod with shovels and fumble with a tape measurer. Flowers dot the dirt surrounding the statue base. I pick up a rock and put it in my pocket.

The sprinklers are on, hissing impatiently at the still-stunned-by-last-autumn citizens who work and hope and wait and watch beyond the cemetery gates. The sprinklers shoot horizontal water geysers this way and that. They are replenishing patches of grass that have been browned by the sun. They are telling every burned-out blade to keep growing, and trying to coax life out of death.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 25, 2006 8:16 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour: "Sad Sad City"

Ghostland Observatory, "Sad Sad City."

This Austin, Texas duo positively slayed a room of 200 in the Entry last night, with a test-tube baby of '70s rock and techno that played the Stooges to Melodious Owl's Stones. Heavy beats, hooks, and humor (more Ween-sly than Tenacious D-duh), and a version of dance music that transcends time, space, and war. Call it Pre-Funk.

That this space-kronk issues from the capital of twang would be suprising were it not for that city's deep history ("Keep Austin Weird," goes the saying/music festival, which reminds me: Keep Minneapolis Weird), and these guys are as rooted in Gibby Haynes (who coined the term "Weirdo-American community") and the Butthole Surfers as they are Prince and Bootsy.

This tune was a highlight among many, the chorus of which could be the most basic sentiment on the planet at the moment; a shout-out to lovers and leaders alike:

I need you to want me
To hold me
To tell me the truth

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 24, 2006 9:49 AM | Comments (0)

 

R.I.P. Sandy West, Runaways drummer

R.I.P. Sandy West; Irish wake tonight at the Joan Jett show at First Ave...

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 22, 2006 11:22 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "Vampire Girl"

Jonathan Richman, "Vampire Girl" (from You Must Ask The Heart).

'Tis the season...

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 22, 2006 1:24 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "Degrees Of Separation"

Badly Drawn Boy, "Degrees Of Separation" (from the new one Born In The U.K.)

I interviewed a witch/pagan the other day for my column for next week. As we sat over coffee at the Riverview Cafe, she started talking about oneness, and I knew what she was going to say before it came out of her mouth, because it -- and solitude and the human experience -- are the themes that keep cropping up in columns/conversations lately. Somehow, they all feel connected:

Anna Mahan-Miller, witch: "A person is part of everything. You're never really alone. You feel like it at times, and get depressed about it, but it's never truly the case. The air that a tree emits is the air that you breathe, and it's the same air the cat down the street breathes, and you walk on the same ground. You’re a natural being. You're a cosmic being. You're part of everything."

Nuzi Haneef, born-again Muslim-turned-humanist: "I think I am more of a humanist. I can call my sister in Boston and tell her that and not have her go, 'Oh no, Nuzi is an atheist now!' My point was that there is no code of conduct that I can satisfy. And so as a humanist, the code of conduct is, 'From your mind, from your heart, do good to the universe, be a good citizen.' But I went to the Humanists of Minnesota meeting, and they were very unwelcoming."

Allen Christian, artist: "I have a choice here: I can either close the world off, or I can really open it up and embrace it and trust that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time that night. By giving of oneself, you kind of leave yourself open to the goodness of people. I think 99 percent of humanity...I think we're good people. That's why I leave the door open. I've been ripped off, but I'm not going to lock it. I'm not going to keep it closed. I just want to believe that that's not the world I'm going to live in."

Mad Peeaire, street philosopher: "Say 'yes' to the seedling within. A great tree cleaves to the forest. Say 'yes' to the universe, be neighbors with the planets. 'Yes' is the password to utopia. 'Yes' reveals the one true goddess, and she is crazy, fuckin' nuts about you."

William Frost, labyrinth builder: "Everything that attracts our attention in our lives is there for us specifically for a reason. Otherwise we wouldn't notice it."

Russell Packard, musician: "When I traveled the Middle East with my guitar, the generosity of the Arab people was amazing. You could leave your wallet in a restaurant, and you could come back an hour later and they'd give it to you and say, 'Here, have a sweet or some lemonade or something.'"

Janis Amatuzio, coroner and near-death experience expert: "I spent years counting bullet holes and tracing stab wounds and testifying and all of these things. But what I've really become interested in is what is left. The energy that is left. I've begun to study more physics, metaphysics, and energy. Not everything that counts can be counted; not everything that is measurable can be measured; there are other qualities. I'm beginning to see that life is a continuum.

"People who have had these [near-death] experiences are different than the rest of us. They have a sense of peace that can't be disturbed. This one lady said to me, 'I know I'll see my son again. It's not if, it's when.' The words they all come back with are, 'You know, doc, everything really is all right.'

"When I ask them to expand on that, they say, 'Nothing matters.'

"'Well, what do you mean?'

"'You know, if I were to tell you anything, doc, I'd tell you to be kind--to yourself and others. Be patient. Give yourself a break. Don't be so hard on yourself. No fear, no guilt. Take better care of your body.' So many who have seen their loved ones waiting for them [on the other side] say that we as humans deserve nothing but kindness, just for being here, for getting through. Forget all this judgment and morality. They have this unshakable peace. They have this inner strength. They don't try to prove anything to me, they know."

JoJo Nash, musician: "We're almost like psychedelic Taoists. We fell in love early in life with Chuang Tzu, who became dubbed as an early Taoist teacher. But for the most part he was a hermit, and he made observations about daily life. He had a really good sense of the follies and footfalls of man. We try to stay away from concepts of good and bad; we really tread the middle, because we know we're living in a dualistic society. The folly of the human animal has to be comedy for us."

Nathan Skerbinc, sci-fi fan: "Discworld from Terry Pratchett is one of the funnest [planets]: flat planet, bounce on the back of four elephants, ride around on the back of a giant turtle floating around space. A world like that existing is a million-to-one shot, but as any good wizard will tell you, a million-to-one shot happens nine times out of ten. I like the concept of someplace where what you believe in is what will happen to you."

Woody McBride (a.k.a. DJ ESP, musician/organizer of the Amateur Psychologists' Convention in St. Croix Falls: "I find myself with a huge investment in the immaterial world, that doesn't always make sense in the real world. I thought the name (of the convention) went straight to the core of every music lover and every arts lover. Maybe more than other people, we seem to be more interested and sensitive to the human condition. So I thought it was the perfect filter, firstly, to scare away people who wouldn't enjoy it, and a really good inside joke for people who would pick up on it. And it worked."

Sean Mooney, tombstone engraver: "I deal with death every day, but it's almost not a reality for me. I'm not afraid of it in any way. Not that you don't care about anything--just live to the fullest every day, because you never know. We've made a lot of stones for people our age and younger."

Chuck Lofy, theologian/philosopher: "Scott Peck is another hero of mine. He wrote the book The Road Less Traveled and he also wrote A Different Drum. He said that a lot of relationships start at what he calls the "pseudo-beginning level." We're polite and we talk about social things. He calls this "pseudo community," where you emphasize similarities. But he says if you're ever going to get anywhere, you have to understand differences. When you're always trying to convert the other person to your way of thinking, or just being nice and talking about the weather, both of these become so painful that neither works.

"So what does work? Scott comes up with the idea of emptiness, and I drove 350 miles to Milwaukee to thank him for that, because it changed my life. The emptiness is that I empty myself of the need to convert you to a way of thinking. And when you empty yourself, you become open to where the other person is: "Why do you think the way you do, and what is your experience?" And then you find out that, if I was in your shoes having your experience, I'd think the same way you think. And that is love--the capacity to differentiate. But uniformity as opposed to unity feels much safer.

"So what I'm finding is that there is a huge hunger. People say, "Is this really what you're talking about? This isn't theology or psycho-babble?" No. This is about love, which is about awe, and the wisdom that's in nature. It's about reverence towards the sacred. It's about beauty and about how beauty is the highest form of consciousness."

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 21, 2006 10:31 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour: "Because It's Love"

Robyn Hitchcock, "Because It's Love (Saint Parallelogram)" (from the new one Ole! Tarantula).

My brothers and I grew up in a house divided between liberal Catholicism (Mom) and think-for-yourselfism (Dad). Dad's holy trinity was Vernon Howard, Edgar Cayce, and, especially, J. Krishnamurti. I'd see him up in his room after dinner, a deep thinker reading other deep thinkers, and while I didn't delve into much as a kid -- other than checking out symbiotic subjects the occult, U.F.O.s, and Seth Speaks!, and putting a math book under my pillow in attempts to score some quick osmosis learnin' Cayce-stylee -- the alt-spirituals and their words stayed on the periphery.

In recent years I've caught up with them, as have my brothers. They say fathers have the biggest influence on their sons, and as I sit here, on my bookshelf are books my brothers and I have shared. Music stuff, sure. But also David Schwartz's What Really Matters, J.R. Moehringer's The Tender Bar, Philip Toshio Sudo's Zen Guitar, and Shunryu Suzuki's Not Always So: Practicing The True Spirit of Zen.

Of late, I've been downloading audiobooks from iTunes (which are good at the end of the day when my eyes are too tired to read), and making weekly visits to Half Price Books' psychology/philosophy/spirituality section. I'm voracious for it: Not seeking, but finding.

As I've read and listened, I've wondered what my kids think about their weird old dad. I'm sure we goofed on Dad, and I welcome some of that payback now. But I also know how he taught us, almost by mistake, and I'm sure it's part of why my brothers and I are all writers and songwriters, and why my brother Terry chose Van Morrison to pay tribute to with his band the Belfast Cowboys, who play at Lee's tonight (Saturday) with my brother Jay on guitar.

Point being, I had a small but cool unbroken circle moment the other day. I've been loving Krishnamurti lately, and found a book at Half Price that I (or my father) had never seen, Questioning Krishnamurti, in which the likes of Iris Murdoch, Huston Smith, and David Bohm converse with the great mystic. I cracked it open when I got home and on the first page was this:

"I feel the meaning of Krishnamurti for our time is that one has to think for oneself and not be swayed by any outside religions or spiritual authorities."

--Van Morrison

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 20, 2006 11:28 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour: "It's Not The Only Way To Feel Happy"

Field Music, "It's Not The Only Way To Feel Happy."

Scarlett Johansson has been named "The Sexiest Woman Alive" by Esquire magazine. Looking at her in her underwear, enjoying her in a page-flipping way, it occurs to me that the sexiest woman alive doesn't pose for pictures. Not because she's a prude -- far from it -- but because of the trying-too-hardness of it all, and something about it would steal her soul, her chi, her sexiestness. Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow, etc.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 19, 2006 6:50 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour: "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward"

Michael Sturm, "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward."

"My name's Michael, and this is the Billy Bragg tribute here at the Dubliner. I'm here every Tuesday night. It's the only one in the Midwest, and, as far as I know, the country."

So said Sturm earlier tonight at the little Irish pub on the corner of Vandalia and University, in introducing "St. Swithin's Day," Bragg's cry-in-your-Jameson's lament in which a lover creatively if incompletely summons his ex ("I miss the thunder, I miss the rain"). He followed that heartbreaker with this classic, updating a couple lines ("basking in the 15 fame-filled minutes of the myspace blogger... doing the Billy Bragg tribute show he asks me what the use is?/I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses") to a smallish crowd who for the most part ignored him.

Still, every Tuesday since July, this 27-year-old St. Paulite has played four sets of Bragg material (9 p.m.-1 a.m.). A noble undertaking, that, for if folk music is indeed music for folks, then the natural environment for these working-class anthems and political-personal tunes (timely as ever) is a bar like the Dubliner, where songs are passed along live -- to whoever happens to be tipping a few after a hard day's night. Long may it run.

Photo: Steve Wolf

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 17, 2006 11:03 PM | Comments (0)

 

Fun With Vinyl

Fun with vinyl.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 16, 2006 8:36 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Sinead O'Connor, "He Prayed" (from the year's most overlooked CD, Throw Down Your Arms)

True story.

Yesterday morning I wrote a song. Or parts of a song, called "From The Basements of Minnesota," about the "prophets and poets" from here, and about how the feel-it-in-the-air sea change is coming in part from the Midwest and its wallflower-until-pushed people. Afterwards, on a brilliant autumn Sunday in Minnesota, I took the dog to that little oasis of civility, the dog park by Lake Of The Isles, where complete strangers talk about life and how much they love their dogs.

I wasn't in the mood to socialize. I'd gotten my fill of people on the weekend, so after I picked up my pup's entrance poop, I walked across the park and sat down on a bench in the sun.

Almost immediately, an older couple joined me. I offered the woman a crappy plastic footrest I'd had my feet on, which she politely turned down. Their dog was a beautiful white English Setter with brown spots. I called her "the prettiest girl in school."

"Joan, are you OK here?," said the man, a seventysomething gent with a baseball cap who looked to be in as good a fighting shape as his wife, and that's when I realized I was sitting next to the former vice-president of the United States and the former second-lady.

We sat there and stayed quiet until I cleared my throat and said, "Looks like we're gonna throw those bums out in November."

To which Mrs. Mondale said, "Oh I hope so," and we were off and running. He said he'd just read Bob Woodward's State Of Denial, the most pertinent fact of which to him, he said, was the revelation from a Bush aide that the current president has never asked a single question. Of anyone. Which recalls what Jimmy Carter said of Reagan and their transitional meeting in 1980, and how "disturbed" the outgoing chief-of-staff was at how unconcerned the new president was with details about domestic and international affairs.

"I bet you guys asked a few questions back in the day," I said, and Mr. Mondale said that you can't discuss international situations without asking lots of questions. I said my son goes to Anthony Middle School, and that at the beginning of the year I asked his civics teacher how I could get my son to talk about school at the end of the day.

"That's a good question," said the teacher. "I don't have a good answer, but Albert Einstein's parents would always ask him when he got home from school, 'What questions did you ask today?'"

They loved that, and said they were going to pass it on to their grandchildren. I told them the way things are going, the Republican convention in 2008 here could be a wake for the GOP, and that my 25-year-old friend Brianna predicts it could be something like the Democratic National Convention of 1968, which inspired riots in Chicago.

The second-couple seemed impressed with the kid's sense of history and hope.

Finally I told them that I write for City Pages, and that I'd just written a song that morning, about how we're living through a moment and how it feels like change is going to come, yet again, from here. The second-lady said she wanted the song to be out NOW. The ambassador to Japan nodded and said, "It's a very unique state."

We talked for 45 minutes. About how happy their daughter Eleanore and son-in-law Chan Poling are, and about our dogs. Theirs is a puppy, named Biscuit, after the great left-for-dead champion Sea Biscut, about whom Mrs. Mondale is encyclopedic. I told them my family, city liberals from way back, has loved them forever -- all six kids and my mom, but not my dad, a deep thinker, voracious reader, alternative spiritualist, and a staunch Republican.

"You working on him?," said Mrs. Mondale, with a confused smile.

"Since the Vietnam War," I said, and we laughed and talked some more. She asked me if I'd read Garrison Keillor's column on "losers" that morning, and I had, and we both agreed what a great writer he is, and she said it was cool that Keillor had been "so nice to Fritz." I said that sometimes winners, like the ones in charge now, are the real losers. The vice-president smiled warmly and got up from the bench to walk with Biscuit.

Keillor:

"(Walther Mondale) lost the presidency by one of the biggest landslides in history to an aging actor whose grip on reality, never firm to begin with, was becoming hallucinatory. Mr. Reagan was sort of the Columbus of our time, a better P.R. man than sailor, but so be it. Mr. Mondale is a buoyant man with a sense of humor who enjoys his life in Minnesota, where people are happy to see him, and when you do, you see that losing is far from the worst thing that can happen to a man. Far from it."

After a few more minutes I said goodbye, and the second-lady and I jinxed each other when we said, "It was a real pleasure meeting you." The vice-president had moseyed over to the middle of the dog park, and as he stood there alone with his dog, looking off at the lake and the wild blue horizon of downtown Minneapolis, I couldn't help but think of those old Life magazine photos of Bobby Kennedy running on the beach with his Irish Setter.

When he saw me leaving, he turned toward me, put out his hand, shook it, and said with a wide grin, "Say 'Hi' to your dad for me."

So I did. I called him up when I got home and got him and my mom on the phone and told the tale. They were thrilled. My mom reminded me that my sister-in-law Kim works down the hall from Mr. Mondale, whom I addressed as "sir" the entire time. My dad said, "(Walter Mondale) comes from the same town as your grandfather. Graceville. He played football for the high school."

Maybe there's hope for the old man yet.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 16, 2006 12:02 AM | Comments (3)

 

Song du Jour

Prince, "Billy Jack Bitch."

My letter to the Star Tribune:

Letter of the Day

Farewell to a Square (Ode to Kersten)

this town is lousy with
good writers and poets
and you hire
Missus Center For The
AmeriKKK-and-everyone-knows-it?
but it's all good
all in the past
everyone from my 'hood
knew she wouldn't last

what we want to know today is
now that she's lost her
clout-y
will she still
be getting paid
on november 8
after we throw da other bums
out-y?

Jim Walsh
Minneapolis

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 15, 2006 3:56 PM | Comments (5)

 

Song du Jour

The Ike Reilly Assassination, "The Uprising" (from the forthcoming new IRA CD).

When I told him I was going to see Reilly at Valleyfair this weekend, an asshole lawyer said to me, "So has he changed the face of rock & roll yet?" It took me a second to catch on to the dig; that he was referring to my constant proclamations and critical hosannahs over the years about Reilly, not to mention all sorts of other music I've gone heels-over-head for, but I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to say that Ike Reilly stood on a stage at an amusement park in Shakopee, Minnesota last night, in front of 200 or so hardy souls in fucking hats and gloves and down coats, fending off winter and celebrating Halloween and Friday the 13th, and sang "Who says you can't take a shot at a president?" and "We're drinking to your assassination" three weeks before Election Day. And those might not have even been the best moments; those came during all those complicated love songs. Then he and his band showed up at the Liffey in St. Paul and drank and sang on stage with me and my brother's band and blew away a surprised rockin' wedding party, whose gobsmacked groom it turns out is a huge Reilly fan. After Reilly and the Belfast Cowboys graced the room with an impromptu "Wasted Friends," and serenaded the couple with a gorgeous "Crave," the groom said to me, "So I guess this marriage is getting off to a good start," and so I guess my answer to the asshole lawyer would be

Yes.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 14, 2006 12:11 PM | Comments (2)

 

Song du Jour

Peter Himmelman, "Waffles" (from My Fabulous Plum).

I wasn't even sure it would work. It had sat in the basement of my parents' house, gathering dust amid old records, books, photos, and clothes, and it had survived the move to a smaller, less cluttered basement. I grabbed it when my mother asked if anyone wanted it, because I thought our kids would think it was cool, and because I wanted a mooring; something from my childhood, something warm and durable dug up from the ocean floor and from a time before everything got so complicated.

I have no rose-colored memories of the waffle iron. No farm-kid yarns about waking to the smell of sizzling waffle batter and the sound of Dad coming in from milking the cows. I am a city kid, and, save for my grandma's hand-knit afghans, my family is more about insults-as-sentimentality and getting on with the present than passing down artifacts from the past.

But when Mom fobbed it off on me, my nostalgia neurons instantly summoned up how it sat on the counter next to the stove, and her hovering over it with the promise of Friday night waffles in the air and the radio pulsing with sports scores, farm reports, and the happy news of the happy days.

"Waffles" for my kids has always meant the frozen kind popped into the toaster, or the whipped butter-topped ones at Curran's or Perkins. They're fast, and convenient, and the insta-ness of it all has always gnawed at me. I wanted them to see how something is made, not microwaved.

So I got out the waffle iron, and figured that its smudged silver casing with the hieroglyphic "Toastarter" and detachable electric cord looked like something from the Mesozoic Period to them. I was afraid it would short out when I plugged it in, or stay dead and cold, and we'd be forced to slouch towards the frozen blandness that beckoned from the freezer.

But when I plugged it in, the little red light came on and glowed faintly. I unplugged it, wiped it off with a damp paper towel, turned the knob to "Dark," and plugged it back in.

The kitchen filled with the smell of dead fish. The kids started making moaning noises that would do fasting ascetics proud, and asked if they could have something else for breakfast. I ignored them, made the batter, poured it in the iron, let it carom to the edges, closed the lid, and hoped that I could stave off their hunger long enough to put the brakes on the chaos of modernity.

The dead fish smell grew stronger.

Steam rose from the iron and filled the kitchen.

I pretended not to smell the fish, but just in case it transferred to my masterpiece, I tossed the first drippy bastard in the garbage, explaining to my audience that all the great waffle chefs of the world toss out the first one. They left the kitchen and I made four waffles -- crisp or fluffy, to their specifications -- set them on plates, put out syrup, butter, milk, and forks, and stayed in denial about the stench that was coagulating with the sweet baking smell that hung in the air.

When I called them in for breakfast, they tumbled in, buttered up, poured the syrup, and dug in. I kept my head down and fussed with the scrambled eggs and sausage, trying not to show my trepidation about how awful they might taste. They put forks to mouths. The waffles hit their tongues. No faces were made. Nobody spit them out. There were no Ewwws. They loved them. They devoured them. They asked for seconds.

I love it. I love the smell of hot coffee brewing and the feel of being in my robe, rumpled and with nowhere to go. I love the feel of cold linoleum on my bare feet, the blast of a warm stove, and the looming winter being double-dog dared to try and compete with homemade waffles unpeeling from an ancient iron.

The jury is still out as to whether or not I'm a good dad. I couldn't fix a car engine if my life depended on it, couldn't help them build anything remotely complex, and I'm not exactly handy around the house. I don't care if our lawn is cut, our walk is shoveled, or our garden is beautiful. I embarrass them regularly. I don't pretend to know what or even if I do right by them. But sometimes you get a glimpse.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 13, 2006 8:53 AM | Comments (3)

 

Hugs and kisses to/from the universe

Hugs and kisses to/from the universe

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 12, 2006 10:43 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Amy Millan, "Baby I" (from the new one Honey from the Tombs).

The other night, James and Brianna and I were walking down 1st Ave in the middle of the night. It was closing time, and the drunks were out in force. In front of a dance club, bouncers and sweaty post-seduction players milled about, watching and laughing as a girl in a miniskirt furiously humped a parking meter.

"It's the Patti Smith song," noted Bri, astutely calling up "Land" from Horses ("saw this sweet young thing humping on the parking meter, leaning on the parking meter"). Another astute thing Bri wrote is this riff on The Kinks, which made me cue up "Art Lover," in which Ray Davies Humbert Humbertly beholds the beauty of a sweet young thing -- the same beauty Chuck Berry sang about in "Sweet Little Sixteen," the same taboo Springsteen gawked at in "You Can Look (But You Better Not Touch)," the same older man-younger woman trip Ani DiFranco celebrated in "Untouchable Face," and the same thing someone called Jumbler Javalina wrote about in "Bite into the Mysteries" for Underground Pronoia:

"'Heterosexual,' 'bisexual,' 'lesbian,' and 'gender queer' are not terms I use to describe myself. They're too limiting, like every other name and role I've had the pleasure of escaping. In a pinch, I might agree to call myself ocean-fucker or sky-sucker or earth-bonker. As much as I love men and women, they can't satisfy the full extent of my yearning. I need intimate relations with clouds and eagles and sea anemones and mountains and spirits of the dead and kitchen appliances and the creatures in my dreams. To be continued. To be enhanced and amplified and enlarged upon, world without end, amen. One day I really do hope to be a wise enough lover to be able to fuck the ocean. To give a forest fire a blow job. To make a pride of lions come just by looking at them."

It's also what Amy Millan sings about all over her new record. This particular tune is a great lost love song, but at the heart of it is peace ("Baby I 'm goin' on without you/Maybe I'm even gonna get through/Baby I'll tell you something that'll never be true: Baby I'll get over you"). Or maybe it's a restless peace, if such a thing can be: A peace that comes from growth if not perfect understanding, born of that moment when desire morphs into compassion and selfless caring for the whole, and a living out of the old adage, "if you truly love someone you set them free."

A peace that Joseph Arthur tapped into at the Fine Line and on Letterman the other night, when he pounded his chest and sang,

No matter where you live
Where you've been
You found an open road
And a friend
If you're a peaceful soul
Peace will come
So don't you hide away
What you've done

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 12, 2006 8:30 AM | Comments (0)

 

Jack Sparks kicks ass

Jack Sparks kicks ass.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 11, 2006 9:18 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Shawn Colvin, "Fill Me Up" (From the new one These Four Walls).

Me, calling directory assistance yesterday.

Recorded voice of operator: What city are you looking for?

Me: Minneapolis.

Recording: What state?

Me: Minnesota.

Recording: For what listing?

Me: The Wedge co-op.

Recording: One moment, Faith will be right with you.

Me (inside): Faith will be right with me? Awesome! I mean, with the way things are going, I could use a little faith!

Faith: Thank you for waiting. Searching Minneapolis for...

Me: Do you know what they say when we're on the line waiting for you? It's great. They say...

Faith: I know...

Me: "Faith will be right with you." It's not "Faith will be with you someday in the distant future," or "you gotta have faith" or "keep the faith," but Faith will be right with you. Like it's a promise. A done deal. I love that. I mean, who knew you could just call up and get a little...

Faith (bored): Yeah, I know. Here's your number.

Click.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 11, 2006 8:03 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Alabama 3, "How Can I Protect You?" So you're clipping along, doing your daily dad duty, and along comes this ass-kicker, courtesy of the Ipod shuffle and the universe, bringing to mind the musichead father who turned you on to it, not to mention Joe Henry's "Safe Here With Me." Then the next day there's this paragraph in the morning newspaper, the only paragraph that sings amidst the facts and opinions and news you can use, because the sorrow is as poignant as it was when you sobbed your way through it 17 years ago:

Dear friends: Saturday it will be 17 years since my son Joe died in a seven-story fall from his college dorm room in Madison, Wis. He had taken LSD; he was 18. The column I wrote at the time is at www.startribune.com/a1809.

This weekend I'll be lighting sparklers, as always: They brighten the night, but they're gone much too soon.

Hug your kids.

Al Sicherman: 612-673-4998 asicherman@startribune.com

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 10, 2006 6:56 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour

The Black Lips, "Dirty Hands." Fuck-all hippies who sound like Johnny Thunders' kid cousins and kinda sorta embody what Diane Ackerman wrote in her latest book The Alchemy Of The Mind, or maybe I'm just hearing things and it's an excuse to pass it on:

"Whether we fall in love with a human demigod or with a deity, we feel that they can return us to a primordial state of oneness, that then our inner electric can run its full circuit, that we can at last be whole. Only the thinnest rind of skin stands between us, only events slender as neurons. Only the fermenting mash of personality keeps us from crossing the boundary that organisms cherish to become one appetite, one struggle, one destiny. Then, when we finally reach that pinnacle, we feel more than whole: we feel limitless."

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 9, 2006 8:44 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Nina Simone, "Forbidden Fruit."

Email from my married thirtysomething female neighbor "Sunny" (all the names have been changed to protect the children):

Have you heard the song "Wait" by Get Set Go? Love it. Makes me nostalgic. Here's something funny:

Yesterday I had lunch with my friend Bob, and then we took a walk around the lake. We're chatting, it's gorgeous out, I'm happy, and the lake is crawling with teenagers who are apparently out on some phy-ed adventure. Bob is in the middle of some story, and I am taking in the scenery, which at that moment includes the broad shoulders of a boy in a white jersey and long basketball shorts walking perhaps 5 yards in front of us. But resting on those shoulders was an astonishing head of hair. Long, golden locks, swirling around, shining in the sun. Now, I'm not usually a woman who likes long hair on men, but this, well, this was something.

And then, it got better yet, because he turned his head, briefly exposing a perfect profile, to talk to the equally hot young Asian boy. After a few moments, Golden Boy looked over his shoulder to see who was behind them, and he caught my eye, and something registered. He smiled a spectacular smile, nice white teeth, wide grin on a solid jaw. I knew on some deep level that I knew him, but I didn't even try to figure it out. I was so enjoying the moment, basking in his youthful beauty. Fuck! We're talking Greek God. I think my tongue hit the sidewalk. He continues to walk forward while looking over his shoulder smiling at me. I'm smiling back. Bob is blathering on. I'm thinking to myself, I am so glad I have this particular bra on; my tits are riding high. I wonder if my hair looks as good to him as his to me. Now his is hair I'd like dragged over my nude body. Look at his full lips. I could teach him a thing or two about using those lips. God could I. Oh he's strong. Look at his shoulders. I love strong men, but strong boys? Never gave it a thought. Until now. Now. And he's still smiling at me. Me? Me! And I will walk and smile and smile and walk until I die from exhaustion if I have to because nothing could be more pleasant.

Of course, that couldn't last, and I'm sure in real time those thoughts were compressed into two, three seconds tops. Slooooo-moooooo-shuuuun. I drew myself out of my reverie slowly, beginning again to hear Bob, who by now has also noticed the boy looking back at me rather playfully. The grin penetrates me first. I know I've seen it, but on a smaller face. A face that used to be doughy, a face that the smile didn't fit on before but now so beautifully does. And that hair, never have I seen hair like that before. Or have I, maybe? Shorter, but still the same golden highlights, on the doughy face? The doughy boy face with the twinkley eyes. Eye twinkles like that are rare. I've seen those eyes. I know this kid. Yes, it's coming. It's coming. I wish I were coming, but no, all that comes is the realization that this little hottie is probably only smiling at me because I was the room mother for Mrs. Wright's class when this boy and my daughter were in 3rd grade together.

There. I'd placed him, but his name was slow coming. While it percolated, I continued to smile and nod, lifted a finger as if to say, "Wait, it's coming, I know your name, I'm sure I do."

Jason. Jason Johnson. I didn't recognize you with that gorgeous hair. [Did I just say that?]

Yeah, it's a lot longer than the last time you saw me. [Oh, honey, I bet IT is.]

And aren't you boys supposed to be in school? [Can you skip so easily? Good! Good! I'm free most days, 8-2!]

We're on a run for ??? some cause ???

I can see that. [smirk]

Yeah, well, we worked out already this morning, so . . . .

I can see that, too. [Whoa! Did I just say THAT? My daughter would be mortified!]

Well, bye . . . .

Bye . . . .

I could barely take my eyes off of him. Fucking Mrs. Robinson.

Bob was looking at me like I'd just flashed them or something. A little later, after I kept grinning and rethinking it all, I fessed up to Bob about needing to stay sexy and appreciate sexiness in the world. He said, I thought you were flirting with that kid but didn't want to say anything. Then he got all philosophical about women and the whole invisibility thing. I rewound the tape a bit and enjoyed my Jason Johnson moment almost as much as I had the first time around.

Life is good.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 8, 2006 9:12 AM | Comments (3)

 

Song du Jour

The Clash, "Police On My Back" and KRS-One, "Sound Of Da Police."

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 8, 2006 2:53 AM | Comments (0)

 

Joseph Arthur at the Fine Line 10/7

Photos by Allyssa Greening here.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 7, 2006 8:41 PM | Comments (2)

 

Song du Jour

Neil Young, "Harvest Moon."

My daughter and I were walking the dog last night on Bryant Ave., when a fisherman stopped us.

"Do you want to see something beautiful?" he said.

Yes. Always. Yes.

"Go over there, and look in the sky between those two garages. Sweetie, people wait 75 years to see this. You might never see it again."

He was so excited, he said he was going fishing. That's how we knew he was a fisherman. I asked him about all the birds on the lake, the seagulls that fly in from every point of the city at dusk every night at this time of year to congregate in the middle of Lake Harriet. He said they feed on milfoil before they fly south, but I like to think they meet there to talk about us all.

We did as we'd been told. We went up the block and saw a luscious soothing magnificent white orange harvest moon hanging in the sky. My daughter ran and got a camera and took pictures.

Then she gave my wife and I a "Roboto" show that starred a couple of cardboard robots, and I went to pick up my friend Jeaneen to go see Joseph Arthur. Her apartment buzzer's broken, so when I got there, I yelled up to her to let me in.

As I stood waiting on the step of her apartment on Nicollet Ave., I turned to see a crazy clear horizon of downtown Minneapolis, and the FOSHAY lights beaming at me with the same glow the moon had harnessed earlier; it was almost like they'd kissed from afar, and the moon had CPR-ed the skyscraper her love.

In that moment there was something tangible rising from the city; a collective energy that made me mutter to my internal notebook, "City Of Songs."

Jeaneen came down, we walked up to her apartment, and per my request she promptly played me three of the best songs I've heard in ages. I took no notes, but they're still ringing in my head this morning: "Black Noise," about all the bullshit that gets you down and how to avoid it; "Sweetheart," a timeless country love song for every lover who has ever loved another(s) in his/her head/heart but never 'fessed up in real life; and "Lucky Little Star," about how I feel most of the time these days: glad to be alive, tired of being sad.

I played her a couple of my new songs, looked at a book of watercolors and nudes, which reminded me of St. Francis of Assisi in Ecstacy that Mary Abbe wrote about in the morning paper and the nude Angelina Jolie my boy James has on his myspace page, while Jeaneen found her shoes. Then we were off.

We parked at my uncle's warehouse and walked through warm and windy downtown Minneapolis, which was overrun by eerie late-night underground construction and working men in miner hats, and a million drunk freaky freedom-seeking creatures of the night.

Joseph Arthur was amazing. "You Are Free." "Honey and the Moon." "In The Sun." New songs that, much like so much these days, say everything about everything that can't be said via conventional means of communication, which is to say the conventional means have become obsolete, which explains why so many people are writing songs and making music these days.

We sat up at a table for a while, tried to wave down my boy Jim Meyer, and I ended up down in front with writer/singer Laura Brandenburg. It makes sense that other writers, songwriters, and artists are drawn to Arthur -- he's tough and tender and trying to get a handle on big things (he uses the words "pain," "love," and "god" like they're going out of style), and he's fearless about it.

He played guitar, piano, harmonica, and drums, and sang in something like four octaves. At times his eyes scanned the audience, not with rock-star neediness, but with the grace of an autumn leaf searching for a place to land. For the last half of the set, the guitar player and bassist were dressed like ��" what else? ��" another girls, another planets angels. Complete with Sufjan Stevens-worthy wings.

Kraig Johnson was on guitar and keyboards. Gary Louris was on guest guitar and back-up vocals for "Jesus Loves You," which Joseph introduced by calling it a singalong ("Jesus loves you more than you know") and saying, "I don't care if you're Muslim or Christian or whatever, Jesus was a prophet, so fuck it."

Takes one to know one.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 7, 2006 9:43 AM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows youve been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
Thats how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
Thats how it goes
Everybody knows

And everybody knows that it's now or never
Everybody knows that it's me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when you've done a line or two
Everybody knows the deal is rotten
Old Black Joe's still pickin' cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

And everybody knows that the plague is coming
Everybody knows that it's moving fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there's gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows

And everybody knows that your'e in trouble
Everybody knows what you've been through
From the bloody cross on top of calvary
To the beach of malibu
Everybody knows it's coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Oh everybody knows, everybody knows
Thats how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 6, 2006 4:30 PM | Comments (0)

 

Kasabian at the Fine Line 10/5/06

Thank you, Steve

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 6, 2006 1:05 PM | Comments (1)

 

Letter at 3 a.m.

Maybe we're all the same person.

Maybe I'm my mother-in-law, crumpled in her hospital gown, "living one hour at a time," and wanting only for a Coke and some chocolate.

Maybe I'm my wife, crying about all this.

Maybe I'm my son, puckering up his lips to practice his coronet, the instrument of Benny Goodman, my dad's hero.

Maybe I'm my daughter, learning how to read and write and glow all over.

Maybe we're not in high school anymore.

Maybe we're holy war soldiers.

Maybe I'm the singer from Kasabian, who repeatedly told the crowd at the Fine Line last night, "God bless you all."

Maybe we're Joseph Arthur, playing the Fine Line tonight, singing, "May God's love be with you."

Maybe I'm the United States Congressman who didn't know what to do with all his doomsday lust and rage, and maybe I'm the kid he messed up, sitting off in a corner by himself somewhere.

Maybe we're all loners.

Maybe we're all shamans.

Maybe I'm Jesus -- an African.

Maybe I'm waiting for the great leap forward.

Maybe we're all God.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 6, 2006 2:40 AM | Comments (5)

 

Song du Jour

The Killers, "This River Is Wild" (from the new CD Sam's Town). All great music is about desire. Lust, sure. But also a deep desire for transcendence. More often than not, books, art, and people sate it; sometimes the only thing you can do is get out of Dodge.

Or rock-out vicariously to libertines like The Hold Steady and The Killers, both of whose new records are drawing Springsteen comparisons for their wide-open stabs at freedom. This, um, killer anthem finds the Kerouac-like singer trapped in his hometown, trying to decide between roots or rapture, the known versus the un, and bringing to mind a haiku my friend Jeaneen wrote and sent me today:

it's not the itching
(although that's a huge bummer)
it's the burning, man.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 5, 2006 12:14 AM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour

Ramones, "Rockaway Beach." Just because.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 3, 2006 9:34 PM | Comments (1)

 

Song du Jour

Martin Devaney, "Almost Alone" (from the new CD Martin Devaney). Biking through the Lewis Carroll city of hazel and sun yesterday, I couldn't shake the news of the school kids who were murdered in the peaceful little county in which I was born, Lancaster, Pa. I almost asked a couple folks at the dog park if the news had crossed their minds, but in the end I kept my company-seeking misery to myself.

As I did with my personal shit; the weight of aging and dying in-laws, uncles, and other relatives on one shoulder, the responsibility/worry of kids on the other, and THE whole goddamn WORLD in the middle, sitting on my sternum. All the while, the sun was shining, the hometown team was winning, people were kicked back and enjoyng the day. Me, included.

Songwriters get to this duality of the human condition better than any other artists. Even when they may not know it. Martin Devaney, on his sadly beautiful new one, sings, "I'm in love, but I'm almost alone." He's backed by a lonesome snare and brushes, a couple sleepy guitars, and Joanna James's similarly if-only-I-wasn't-lonely vocals, and the crux of the song is, specifically, about waiting for a lost love to call him, to validate him, to love him back, to save him, to make her memory into flesh.

But beyond the specific yearn for a soulmate or a first date or a one-night stand, he gives voice to the universal feeling of how utterly hollowed out a soul can feel, no matter how much it has going for it, no matter how much love it claims. Or maybe that's just me.

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 3, 2006 8:45 AM | Comments (2)

 

Song du Jour

Boomtown Rats, "I Don't Like Mondays." In 1979, Brenda Spencer opened fire on her California high school, killing two adults and injuring eight students. Head Rat Bob Geldof heard the news on the radio while on tour in America and wrote this, the band's biggest hit.

That was 27 years ago, and at the time it was weird/rare enough news that a singer was inspired to write a tune about it. Another Monday school slaying -- this one in Amish country -- happened today. Or was is it yesterday? Last week? Colorado? Wisconsin? Florida? Minnesota? Pennsylvania? Hard to keep all the American school shooting victims straight without a scorecard, but here's a few suggestions for topic-desperate songwriters in search of a muse, and gun-happy kid-killers in search of a motive:

"I Don't Like You"

"I Don't Like Dew"

"I Don't Like What You Do"

"I Don't Like The New Fall TV Line-Up"

"I Don't Like Principals"

"I Don't Like God"

"I Don't Like Anybody"

"I Don't Like Hot Lunch"

"I Don't Like Homework"

"I Don't Like The President"

"I Don't Like Bullies"

"I Don't Like Anything"

"I Don't Like Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, or Sundays. Saturdays are just OK."

"I Don't Like How You Look"

"I Don't Like How You Look At Me"

"I Don't Like Your Top Eight Friends"

"I Don't Like Your Music"

"I Don't Like That You Don't Like My Music"

"I Don't Like Your Mom"

Posted by Jim Walsh at October 2, 2006 4:49 PM | Comments (0)

 

Song du Jour

The Golden Palominos, "Alive and Living Now." Anyway, what was I talking about? The richness of life? Blessings? Count 'em:

1. The Minnesota Twins. Four Central Division titles in five years, but how emotionally attached was anyone to those previous teams? No matter what happens from here on out, this year feels different. The chemistry/camaraderie of this team sets them apart, certainly from any other team in the playoffs, and possibly from any other in Twins history -- as the assignment of a nickname (pirhanas) and a VFW softball squad-worthy slogan("smell 'em") attests, and as my boy Mike Rand gets to here.

2. 804 61 Walsh, Jay, 51, Minneapolis 3:35:21 (qualifies for Boston)

3. 316 53 Osterbauer, Joseph, 41, Burnsville 3:14:09 (qualifies for Boston)

4. (28) Cover/Tribute Band
(a)Bad Animals
(b)Belfast Cowboys
(c)E.L.No
(d)Hookers and Blow
(e)The New Standards

5. Paul Westerberg, "Love You In The Fall."