The Anvil Experience…

Back when my hometown was aptly described by the adjective “quaint” and I had acquired the responsibility of paperboy in a neighborhood of 23  customers, Anvil was the name of a band I had only seen in the BMG catalogue listed under heavy metal. Of course, next to their name were other bands like Accept and Asia. Because I could only choose eight albums for free, venturing out to new metal bands like Anvil or even Accept was a risk (Today, it comes as a surprise that Asia was listed under heavy metal, but sometimes BMG had this habit of lumping together the Hard Rock and Metal genres).

I couldn’t deny my hunger for Metallica or Anthrax. I loved the grandiosity of their early work, both lyrically and musically. And with the small community of headbangers in middle school that favored these two metal giants, I preferred to follow them instead of veering off to try out bands like Anvil or Accept.

Recently, as a free broadcast on VH1 Classic, I watched Anvil’s story, Anvil: The Story of Anvil. The documentary offered much more than Steve Kudlow, Robb Reiner, and Glenn’s (G5) struggle to become well known and financially stable musicians. Their story allowed me into their personal world past the garages and studios of three middle-aged men trying to put forth another album. I had a glimpse of their patient and supportive families, what their dedication to music truly looked like, and the near poverty they were willing to risk to make their dreams come true.

Somewhere in between this dedication, interviews with family members, and the musician’s apparent longing was the brimming emotion that snuck out of Lipps and Reiner every so often. It was this very emotion that spoke to why it was important to make their careers in music work for them (They’re all relatively in their fifties). I can still hear Steve yelling out and on the brink of tears, “We’re gonna do it; we’re gonna be rockstars!” It was a lifetime dream for them, whereas most people give up when they realize it may not bring them the kind of success they had anticipated.

Their emotion compounded with the unfolding of two ordinary guys’ (Reiner and Kudlow) being fueled by what they loved doing pushed me to do some thinking of my own. I had laughed with them; I had cried with them; I had traveled with them, fighting for a larger purpose. When the movie ended, I was left to feel as though I hadn’t persevered in my own art. But that is exactly what the movie is designed to do: give us (the audience) another peephole into hope and positive thinking.

Since seeing the documentary, I have looked for their albums in record stores, hoped that their previous albums would be re-released, and picked up my own copy of Anvil: The Story of Anvil. My need for going further into the band’s consciousness and purchasing their music is for two reasons: I wanted to know their music more, while also having a piece of what they put their heart and soul into. Like any fan of the metal genre, especially after listening to their music, I was confused as to why they weren’t gargantuan musicians. Their music was really good. I mean really good.

The other reason for following these guys is because they represent the thousands upon thousands of artists like me that never get a chance, no matter how much promotion we do. And like Kudlow and Reiner, who got the opportunity to be the kind of musicians that would rise, they made me believe that I could, too. Simply, they were an inspiration to me.

The other day I found that Anvil were coming to a town near me. I bought tickets. Regardless of how much Anvil make it, how many albums they sell, and what they go on to do, I will remain one of their fans.

Why?

Because they represent people like me. We are not the Metallica’s or Anthrax’s. Or in the case of me, the writer, we are not the Stephen King’s or the John Grisham’s. I mean no disrespect to the aforementioned artists, whether musically or literary inclined, but a documentary like Anvil and the story they tell allows people like me to keep doing what we love and wait for our chance. And if our chance never comes, then we’ll keep going because of what our art means to us.

And then there was Reading Rainbow…

I remember Reading Rainbow the same way I remember my first girlfriend:

In the beginning, it was great. I belonged to something. I was invited into other arenas of the human condition that I never experienced before. The interaction was fascinating and I was involved in something that was important. But with all experiences, it came to an end. I outgrew Reading Rainbow and I got bored of my first girlfriend. And, inevitably, I moved on.

But I still remembered.

If anyone were to ask me if I could recall my first kiss, I would immediately be transported to a time when my fertile mind began to attach meaning to the words in her love notes.  Her desire to make contact with my lips meant what the words could not. And I couldn’t pass that up.

Years before my first kiss, I watched Reading Rainbow, referring to the “nice black man” as the one person that made something that seemed at first to be so boring become so exciting: the words on the page. LaVar Burton, or the “nice black man,” was always so jovial. And his excitement served as the welcome sign that I wanted to be a part of. I  wanted to know what book he was so happy about. I wanted to vanish into the world where he was ever so ready to take me. It was the heightening anticipation of watching him that felt like boarding a roller coaster that may, perhaps, lift off and fly away to the hinter lands of worlds beyond.

Not long after I had watched a couple of half hour episodes, I began to hunger for it. I needed to know what was going to happen, what book he would introduce next. Never associating words with the images and places it could take me, I slowly learned that all the kids on the show were reading books for fun. I was not one of them. I didn’t read books for fun. I preferred to listen to him and follow along. And “the nice black man” was doing a great job of keeping my eyes glued to the screen.

I never ventured to the library all that much and I never thought about the titles he recommended at the end of the show, but the meaning was made. The problem was that I hadn’t realized it yet. I had not put one and one together.

As I nestled into a routine of watching LaVar, I thought that he liked me. He liked me as much as he liked all the kids sitting around him as he read another book. I wanted to be on his show. I wanted him to take me to these places that the books took him.

While I collected myself to watch Reading Rainbow, my parents had these long shelves directly above the television filled with books. The books were for adults only. And, for a kid, I believed my parents. How in the world was I going to understand the book appropriately titled “Infinite Space,” housing close to 4oo pages of words I would never comprehend. But I still wanted to try. My father realized the ambitiousness of my attempt, so he took a few books off the shelf. But the bland covers and titles that contained pages without pictures were of no interest to me. I looked at these titles blandly, then pointed to the “Infinite Space” title.

“I want that one,” I told him.

He took the book off the shelf and gave it to me. I looked at the cover, and it did not seem all that unusual to me. The fading book jacket contained a picture of a black sky with stars scattered throughout. I had seen this before. But what was in the book, if there were no pictures?

Upon reading the first page, it seemed like a book for doctors. It read too technical for my young eyes. After a couple of sentences, I closed the book and put it aside.

It was not long after this that I came across a series of Hardy Boys books in the basement. They had once been owned by my uncle, but were left behind. I picked one up and looked at the cover. The title “The Secret of the Old Mill” seemed interesting. But what was so secret about it? What were the Hardy Boys trying to solve? I opened the book and scanned over the first page. Then I started to read it.  Not long after, my mind had split open with visuals that only Franklin Dixon would continue to plant in my mind.

Eventually, I had finished the book and wanted to read others, examining the cover art to determine what would be next. Although a subconscious discovery, my mind attached a visual with the words on the page.

The other day I was listening to NPR and LaVar Burton was a featured guest. He was expressing regret that the show had finally ended after 26 years. His comment had me slightly confused. Had the show lasted that long? I hadn’t paid attention once I embarked on the Hardy Boys’ 66 adventures. I was on to bigger and better things, and the show that once spurred my imagination was now dismissed as something only little kids watched.

Looking back on my first kiss, I had uncovered something that, up until that point, had only been spoken in words. The same kind of unearthing through visuals and LaVar’s excitement was the precursor to the books I would later come to read and understand.

And like the memory of my first kiss and its show of two people slowly expressing the substance in our words,  Reading Rainbow allowed me to take away the wonder in books that would eventually change my life.

Where is Chinese Democracy Taking Us?

Will Chinese Democracy ever be released? What has Axl Rose been doing since Use Your Illusion I and II or even The Spaghetti Incident? Why is he waiting so long to release an album he has been talking about for approximately 17 years?

It is the lore that builds from questions like these that made people believe Guns N’ Roses’ newest release Chinese Democracy was going to be more than what it was. But that is how myths become more important than the object itself. His seventeen year absence made it plausible to believe that whenever he released Chinese Democracy, it was going to be a double or triple album or a musical expedition that surpassed anything he has ever done; it was advertised as one of the most important releases of its time because of its absence. But these are built up expectations. Or just a hypothesis that went wrong. Or the worst joke ever.

What remains the essential question of a release like this is what Guns N’ Roses sounds like almost two decades following Use Your Illusion I and II. The album sets a new course for Axl and his Gn’R band mates. They surely evolve, modernizing their sound with industrial samples alongside the trademark Gn’R guitar solos, but the band’s release does not sound anything like what is expected of a Guns N’ Roses album. This is not a bad thing. It is comforting to know Axl is exploring different musical avenues. And that is what makes this album good.

What immediately comes to mind is Kip Winger’s 2008 solo album From the Moon to the Sun. Kip and Axl are two artists that go forward in their respective directions, exuding experimentation in their music. That much is clear. They certainly don’t stand still, hoping more material from 20 years ago will suffice. Whether people enjoy the music they’re putting out is not going to change what Winger or Rose explore in their art.

Chinese Democracy is not so much a comeback album or an attempt at classic status, but rather Axl’s vision for a different collection of songs, one that defines Guns N’ Roses in the 21st century. However, the aggressiveness of the band’s earlier work is not abandoned, but used differently to consistently produce good songs.

“Chinese Democracy” and “Shackler’s Revenge,” the first two tracks on the album, are both tightly knit, attacking the listener the same way “Welcome to the Jungle” did long ago (or still does, depending on how you view it). “Chinese Democracy” begins with a slow but eventual buildup, paced by strong guitar riffs, before Axl screams his way back into existence. “Shackler’s Revenge” comes with the same vengeance, leaving behind the classic hard rock of Appetite for Destruction and delving into a combination of heavy guitar riffs pieced together by industrial samples that result in a straight forward rock n’ roll update.

“Better” is similar to the previous two tracks. It holds the same power, but showcases the band’s pop appeal. It is this song that revisits the sound of the Use Your Illusion sessions.

“Street of Dreams” plays like a track that either picks up or connects to where “November Rain” left off. It proposes the idea that if there was a video to accompany it, its relationship to “November Rain” would be slightly identical. More importantly, the public is left to fend for themselves, as though Axl and his band mates agreed to let the public come to their own conclusions without a video.

Larger splashes of the Illusion records come into play on “There Was A Time.” It has pop appeal; it has a solid chorus. It offers a more melodic Axl. The guitar parts are certainly more epic in scope, and the chorus dispels nothing short of cohesive, explosive, and catchy.

“Catcher In The Rye” is a more memorable song. Who better than a music icon known for his absence, paralleling his lyrics to a book by the same title from a man that is viewed more as a mythic statue than an actual person. It is hard to deny the lyrical power of this song, especially since Axl portrays Holden Caulfield or the author’s actions and ideas as mirror reflections of himself.

Songs like “I.R.S.,” “Sorry,” “Madagascar,” and “This I Love” only add to an album that answers where Guns N’ Roses are going with their music. Although these songs are a mixture of quiet, confessional tunes, they still go beyond anything reminiscent of “My Michelle,” “Rocket Queen,” or “Think About You.”

“If The World” and “There Was A Time” feature more industrial samples in their music, helping to modernize the Guns N’ Roses experience.

Chinese Democracy throws its audience off because it does not pick up where Illusions left off. But how is this any different in the Beatles’ transition from Revolver to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band? There was an apparent expectancy from the public to see a Use Your Illusion III unveiled before them at Best Buy. Evidence of this becomes apparent when almost a year after its release, almost no one talks about it. No one seems moved by Chinese Democracy. At the same time, it is not surprising to hear an album that is exactly what it stands for: an collection of songs that destroy the myth.

It is surprising Best Buy marketed this album because they didn’t need to. Axl did it without doing anything. He announced that 1.) the album was actually going to be released after close to two decades of talking about it, and 2.) that there were no videos, plans to tour in support of the album, and rarely any interviews that answered the larger question of how Chinese Democracy was supposed to represent his absence. This is all he did, or didn’t do, that garnered enough media exposure that journalists and Best Buy alike did all of the work for him. But Axl let the album stand on its own. His previous albums stood on their own as well, following extensive touring that brought in new legions of fans.

But not Chinese Democracy, a title that acts upon its own oxymoron.

It almost makes sense that there was no forthcoming tour after its release. Guns N’ Roses did not form yesterday. They are a legendary rock band. They have a fan base that has followed them since 1988. What do they have left to prove?

Chinese Democracy is an album people speak to only when they think about the music, not the man or the band behind the songs. But they want more. They want him, and they wait for anything he has to say via the internet. Since the album’s release, he has talked, but only to explain the truth behind the absence and the fateful reality of teaming up with ex-members of Guns N’ Roses circa 1988. But people still want him to come raging from behind the curtain to sing alongside a new hopeful on the season finale of American Idol. They want him to come back into the spotlight. But all this produces is the construction of a large scale myth that builds into an implausible reality.

Initially, there was question as to when the first single was going to air. But when nothing came of it, people turned their head, awaiting the arrival of a new video. Nothing came of that either. Where were the trademark outfits? Why doesn’t Axl come raging out from the presumed isolation and obscurity that he was labeled with? These are questions that are not so much a result of a highly anticipated album, but rather call concern to whether people are paying more attention to what Axl represented a long time ago versus the new chapter of his music.

There has to be a point when an artist moves past what they once stood for, evolving from the persona or image that once defined them. And that is why Chinese Democracy exists. It lets all expectations fall by the wayside, allowing people another glimpse into what Guns N’ Roses stand for: an uncompromising rock n’ roll band. Whether or not this album is the first in a series of future albums or the last in a two decade journey, Chinese Democracy takes its fans in the direction of where they are, not where they were.

Leftovers from The Descent of a Man (Part IV)

I don’t know for sure if this was an extension of chapter three or the beginning of chapter four of my previous draft The Descent of a Man. It does not have any separation except for the five or six times I hit the return key. I seemed, at the time, to be a little happier with the name Simon than Joe (Joe is the character that appears in chapter three.) They are the same person, so if there is any confusion, what is important to know is that I changed the name of the character. What is different is how chapter three and chapter four begin to diverge and tell a different story. I can’t recall what was happening when I did this.

Here is what follows after chapter three:

Must be in a really wooded area, you think, as a radio station begins to crackle and snap through your radio speakers. You turn it off. You have always enjoyed the majesty of a silent spring morning. There is a certain peace present unlike any other season. Your JEEP Cherokee, loaded with everything you own, has been holding its own. It has quite a bit of mileage on it since the day you first threw yourself in and hit the gas pedal. Your parents helped you look for a car that, they thought, would be reliable and dependable. Keeping costs low, they insisted better deals were found in private sales. They were easier to negotiate. Car dealerships would only rip you off. Nonetheless, it was the one financial responsibility that launched you into the early stages of adulthood. And that made you proud.

Make it was time to consider another car. What if you broke down somewhere? No one would be there to help. If it were the middle of winter, it might send you into a fit, leading to gradual hypothermia, but the weather isn’t working against you this time.

You wonder if Simon will ever call you again. With people packed shoulder to shoulder on the college’s football field, it was impossible to find him. He never stopped by your room to say goodbye or wish you good luck. He probably ended up sleeping at one of his friend’s apartments. Maybe he met up with a woman and slept with her. Simon always had that adventurous side to him. The night would start with a known destination in mind, and by early morning, he was doing something totally unexpected from the origin of our best laid plans. He was not the type of guy eager to start a fight or climbing up the walls of some storefront for a quick laugh. He was just a guy that took center stage in the midst of a good time.

This has become a long drive, especially now that your thinking too much too quickly. You got about five hours worth of sleep last night. And even that wasn’t a peaceful one. The night was interspersed and interrupted and broken up by doors slamming, voices yelling and screaming and laughing, forcing you out of something you were trying to settle in. You want to send all of this first class to Antarctica, but then you realize it is a lot to ship: the little man, how it all started, the tranquility of a spring morning, your car, and Simon. You inhale the the last of your cigarette and throw it out the window.

“Out you go,” you say. “All you things, get out!” You turn on the radio and static rips through your speakers. “Oh, my!”

You close your eyes and think of that white space, a place you have retreated to for years. It is a safe place far away from the little man where you can extinguish thought, where you throw it all away. This is a place where you sit and reside for as long as you have to. “Don’t let anything get in there. With as big a white space as this is, it would never be overpopulated or saturated with leftovers. No butterflies, no insects, not even penguins.”

Your radio gives voice to a radio talk show host, as you whip by a cheap motel. You pull into the breakdown lane, do a quick three-point turn, and head back in the direction of the motel.

All you need is sleep. More sleep. Less thought. Your interview isn’t until tomorrow anyway. It would be nice to relax, be comforted on a bed, smoke cigarettes, and enjoy the last of these work-free, halcyon days. You have no idea where the little man is right now and this puts your mind at rest. You pull into the parking lot, turn the car off, and lay your head on the the head rest. The interlude is a clearing zone for your mind. Opening your eyes, you quickly grab your duffel  bag on the floor of the passenger seat and sleeping bag and walk to the entrance. The man behind the counter stares you down. Dismissing that he is the boogeyman under his rough skin, you look past his weary eyes and focus on completing this transaction as quickly as possible.

“Hi! May I have a room for one?” you ask politely. He continues to stare, unimpressed by your kind request. It almost seems as though in the next second, he will refuse you service, but instead, he sits up in his seat and begins moving his hands around, shuffling for papers. You suspect he is moving slower than usual. He glares at his outdated computer and lightly taps on the keyboard.

“Just one night,” he says, fiddling with some papers.

“Yes, that’ll be all.”

He continues to lay on the stare.

“You mind if I say something,” he says.

You are partly convinced what he will say will not be anything relatively positive, so you wonder if you should even give him the opportunity.

“I suppose not,” you say.

“You look like shit,” he says finally.

You want to reciprocate with something hurtful, but what difference would it make? You start to tremble. Maybe he is the boogeyman. Maybe he will rip his human skin off and lurch over the counter and swallow you up. Maybe you are drawing this out a bit.

“I don’t mean to let down a young person like yourself or nothing, but every time one comes by here, you always see that look on their face. It’s a face that’s been ripped of something,” he says.

“I appreciate the compliment, sir, but can I just get the room key, please? you ask, retaining your kind demeanor.

This is his territory. You have no place here. You are aware of this, but you don’t want to make trouble.

“I don’t mean to stomp on your parade or nothing,” he says and pauses. “I’ve been managing this place for some time now. The faces never change. Always some college boy, face bright, head filled with lust, barreling in here with some woman he’s gonna lay. Or, occassionally, there is someone like yourself who’s just taking one last break before he begins that drive… you know that drive of his life.”

He chuckles and lights up a pipe.

“Yup, I’ve seen it all,” he continues.

You strongly consider just picking up your things and leaving, but you feel your eyelids falling before you like a curtain at the end of a show. If you get back on the road, it is debatable whether you would make it to your destination.

“But you don’t think you’ll ever wear those words, do you? Nope, not you,” he says, sits back and puffs on his pipe. “You think you’ll be one of those real successful ones, an overnight success, like those tramps, dancing around on some stage that Hollywood built on one of their backlots. Or maybe you’re one of those Young and the Restless kinds …”

The self indulgence spits in your face. You feel hot suddenly, as he takes another puff from his pipe, staring straight into your eyes, and twirling some string. A cloud of cherry flavored tobacco lingers underneath the yellow stained hung ceiling. This sounds like something he rehearsed after watching some re-run that has come and gone. Motionless, you watch as he slowly stretches his arm over the counter and dangles the keys.

“Have a nice stay, sonny,” he says finally.

Talented Artist Releases First Book

I am pleased to mention that Cassie Austin has released her first children’s book entitled The Fisherman’s Cat. This new arrival is currently available on amazon.

Cassie contributed her talented hand to the illustrations and cover art to my 2006 collection Passing Through the Clubhouse.

Although she is currently working on other book ideas and various projects, her artwork is some of the most detailed and jaw dropping material I have seen from a local artist. About a year or so ago,  she released a collection of cartoons entitled The Little Book of Postal Humor.

The Resurgence of ABBA

I watched an ABBA documentary on the biography channel last night. I didn’t know if I was viewing this particular program because Chuck Klosterman made mention of the quartet in his upcoming book Eating the Dinosaur or if I was bored or if I wanted to understand why my mother likes them so much. Maybe it was a combination of all three. When it comes down to it, I wanted to know their story for myself.

There were particular aspects of this one-time sizzling foursome that struck me. It was not that Waterloo made them huge stars or that they had won the Eurovision contest because of it. That sounded like another version of how every other musician made it big. What was more striking was the group’s focus on crafting the kind of music they wanted as independent Swedish musicians, without the claw of the American music industry to snatch them up – even though Atlantic did anyway. All four were already established in Sweden, so creating music their way was at least in part, if not entirely, the reason for why it has lasted. There was no rush, no quick hit single to release. This is where if a work of art has all the rights pieces, then it will get people’s attention.

From what I gathered, or the way the documentary seemed to show, is that no member of the quartet was interested in becoming famous on an international scale. What solidified this is the newly acquired knowledge that they toured North America only once.

Another thing I found interesting was how their music had an overwhelming impact on the people in the 70’s, with its simple delivery, poppy and hooky feel, and honest approach. There was no androgyny of David Bowie or vaudeville of Alice Cooper or KISS alter ego carried over. It had an unmatched musical quality unlike anything from Bette Midler or Barbara Streisand or any other singer/songwriter or musical outfit of that time.  I figured other Swedish acts would at least attempt to emulate the ABBA trademark sound.

What was interesting, but not uncommon, to know about the quartet was that both Benny and Bjorn met, fell in love, and married Agnetha and Anni-Frid. I do not recall if these two couples felt it would be a good idea to become a group or if it was upon the insistence of Benny and Bjorn’s manager Stig Anderson, but they eventually came together as two couples with musical talent and formed ABBA, creating the name by taking the first letter of the bandmates’ first names. How wonderful it must have been that their then wives would contribute another lyrical dimension to the group’s music, and it would go on to be some of the most memorable in music history. How could the alignment be any better?

I kept thinking how easy the quartet made the music industry seem. The four of them created simple, but memorable pop songs and everything fell into place: recording contracts, fame, classic records. There was no true Hollywood story where drugs and debauchery fell into the mix. They let the music speak for them. And fans came running from all sides of the globe.

I suddenly felt enabled to become a recording artist myself. I could meet a woman that sings really well, marry her, became a musician, crafting great music, then let my wife write the lyrics. We could put out albums and never tour, but just live off the royalties, while continuing to write music on our own time. Maybe we could throw a kid into the equation and tour just so the child can see the world, while we played our songs in front of thousands of people. I don’t really believe this, but the documentary certainly made it seem that the band had it that easy. Whether or not they did is a another story. And it could have also been the case that I only heard what I wanted and came away with my own thoughts.

Interestingly enough, the only other couples that exploded with international success included Paul and Linda McCartney, John and Yoko (although this doesn’t really qualify, but is still debatable), Peter, Paul, and Mary, but I’m not sure that Mary was married to either Peter or Paul. The Mamas and the Pappas? I know this is going back a little further, but were they ever couples? Then there’s Fleetwood Mac, which was the closest comparison to the latter day ABBA. John and Christine McVie were married, then they parted ways while still making music together. Lindsey and Stevie were a couple, but never married. And out of those fiery relationships came Rumours, one of the best selling albums ever. Why didn’t Joan Baez or Judy Collins ever go beyond being solo artists and collaborate with male singer/songwriters and produce great albums? Where was Neil Diamond when all of this was happening? And what does this suggest about male and female musicians when they come together? Is a classic album in the making? Is it some of the most sincere lyrical songwriting ever released?

ABBA is a remarkable entity outside of the simple, but lasting quality of their music. They made something that seemed unable to last (two married couples coming together and putting out their own brand of pop music) into a larger than life reality for many years. Paradoxically, both couples got divorced and ABBA soon dissolved after that.

I was not really paying attention to their music, but rather their band makeup. While suddenly admiring the ABBA resurgence that came out of a Broadway musical (Mama Mia) and the film by the same name in America, I wondered if they even needed to make another album or stage a reunion that would be advertised as a mythical staging of gargantuan proportions. They had their time, happily and with the man and woman they loved. Things didn’t work out and they went their separate ways. But the music has stood the test of time because of how well the quartet worked to express not only the love they once had for each other, but also the music they helped to create. And that is a great piece of music history, whether you’re a fan of their music or not.

Can We Talk About MJ?

It has already become cliche to talk about one’s earliest impression or experiences of Michael Jackson – the figure and his music. While visiting my brother this past weekend, I watched the unending VH1 Classic tribute to MJ, with posted comments from fans and their outpouring of love.

And I was once one of them. My very first cassette was Michael Jackson’s Thriller. For a seven year old, it was a big deal. I had to shovel a pile of stones bigger than me to get it. And I wanted it so bad that any kind of manual labor was small in comparison to the monumental and life like impressions I had of owning this tape. I had seen the “Beat It” and “Billie Jean” videos. I had been slightly frightened by the “Thriller” video, as much as I had been frightened by the cover art of early KISS albums.

But once I had that cassette, I had something far greater than film and plastic that cost my father $8.99. I had something that would forever alter my vision of how I listened to music.

And, yes, I went off the deep end back then. I tried to cut my hair, so I would have the MJ curl that hung down the front of his forehead. I perfected MJ moves for hours in my bedroom. (I wonder where my brother had been all those hours, especially since we shared a room.) I managed to pick up a giant MJ poster. This particular poster saw a posing Michael in white and yellow attire. And, at the apex of MJ fascination, I asked for the Michael Jackson doll. I did not know, at the time, which one was better: the Thriller Michael, the Beat It Michael, or the Billie Jean Michael. I ended up getting the Thriller Michael.

I knew all the lyrics, every musical path and note of the Thriller album, owned books about MJ, and wondered if it was possible that I would ever meet a man, so large in cultural scope that the possibility was less than winning the lottery. But I hoped and listened and danced and continued to enjoy the cassette in its entirety. Once Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson teamed up for the catchy music and video “Say, Say, Say,” I wanted that. I was immersed completely and utterly in Michael Jackson mania.

Family members knew about my love for Thriller, so a relative surprised me with MJ’s previous album Off the Wall. I hated it. It sounded old to me. It did not share the beats, swings, and melody of Thriller. The cover art for Off the Wall was terrible and not even close to the undeniable coolness of Thriller. MJ had an afro and dressed up in a tuxedo against a brick wall. The music was more disco than anything else. Back then, I could not stand disco. It was too funky and weird for me to understand. Of course, my mother would always have the radio on in the living room, where hits from Barry Manilow, Bee Gees, and Gloria Gaynor would sear out of the boxy speakers. I wanted to get as far from burning this disco out as I could.

I thanked the relative and put Off the Wall away.

A few years after my hallucinatory obsession with MJ, my mother bought me Bad for Christmas. At that time, MJ had become a bit of a joke amongst the general population of kids I went to school with. His image was changing and his music wasn’t anything like Thriller. I have to say here that I was also changing and veering away from the genre of pop music. I almost expected a part two of Thriller to truly validate that pinnacle of admiration I once had. Looking at the artwork for Bad, it just did not make sense. Why was MJ trying to be bad? Why was he decked out in what looked like a metal outfit? I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know why the album needed to be so rebellious in presentation. Being “bad” just did not seem like the quality and presentation of his two previous albums. Why now? Lionel Richie did not do this. Billy Ocean also did not do this. They both had solid albums in the 80’s.

Was Bad a good album? Sure. It was as good as any followup to a previous album that had done very well. I certainly did not listen to it the same way I did Thriller, but I do not think anyone could have. Sometimes, bands or solo artists put out a fantastic album and follow it up with a part two or deconstruct it entirely. The two bands that come to mind are Def Leppard and Radiohead.

But Michael Jackson’s Bad album did neither of those things. It was just another face of music. And a lot had changed since 1982. Maybe that is what MJ realized that I had not.

Of course, I left his music behind, venturing out to other genres, other musicians, and looking at music with varied perspective. In 1991, MJ released Dangerous, an album I remember friends of mine during my years in high school talk about. They would ask if I had heard it. At this point, it was not cool to have a reverence for MJ. But I think friends were asking more about the music than about him. And, it was good, but not enough to go out and purchase, they claimed. At least, not then. So, I ignored the release and carried on.

Around 2005, and a little more than a decade later, I returned to Thriller like two friends that have been kept apart for years. I returned to those heightened visions of excitement and hope that I had as a young boy. I wanted to be a part of that magic again, the way I once had. As a man, I respected the music and repurchased Off the Wall, Thriller, Bad, and Dangerous, finding songs on the latter of the four albums to be current and catchy and musically textured.

But the thing I always appreciated was how good the music was. I was not involved or cared much about the life or the man Michael was. It was about the music to me. It was about how the music had me up and dancing. Of course, like any fan, I was taken, as a kid, by the idea of the person Michael was only through the music he created. That was all.

This past weekend, I was in a variety of music stores and found all the Michael Jackson albums pulled. It seemed that most of the patrons were concerned with getting copies of MJ’s releases. I was saddened that it took his death to suddenly reinvigorate people to want his music again. I was not interested in Invincible or Blood on the Tracks, so it was of no interest for me to purchase his work last weekend, since I had the ones I wanted.

Since his death, there have been a lot of comparisons. He is the most recent addition to an expanding collection of great musical artists, which includes Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. I think anyone that paid any serious attention to MJ, and was looking at his work in a retrospective sense, could easily discern him as a great musician that came after Elvis and Frank. Lets not forget to add John Lennon and Bob Dylan to this catalogue.

There is also the rumor that he has 400 unreleased songs. Well, won’t this drive the MJ fascination and capitalist ventures even more. It is interesting to know that his album sales are soaring at the very moment I write this.

But the thing that baffles me more is the puritanical nature of the American people. Because of the changing physicality and nature of MJ’s life, he was treated like an outcast, unlike a human being, like something alien. And as soon as he passed away, he was embraced and welcomed back as the centerpiece of attention, much like when he first released Thriller. It is just another example of history repeating itself.

How bizarre are the actions of everyone suddenly coming out and embracing him any different from the bizarre stories we created about him. He was bullied out of existence and only now that he is gone, we pull him back and revere him as a king.

I think I’ll just keep listening to the music.

Resurfacing of “The Descent of a Man”

When I thought my old, working draft was gone for good, I end up finding it deep in the dusty file cabinets of abandoned writing. Here are the only workable chapters I came up with before I turned away from it entirely. I have at least two more chapters that follow the third, but they don’t make much sense and are really too haphazard for any eyes to see. I told a friend if I had it, then I would post it. And here it is: the working draft I had and was working on, but finally decided to let it go and start again. Enjoy!

Chapter One

When you were a kid, you had a ritual of placing a little red stool underneath your window right after the sun set. You used to look outside as far as your eyes would take you, searching for something beyond the street lights, the cars passing by.  You wondered what was out there for you. What you could experience during those halcyon hours presented something magical, something mysterious, something fantastical. But it always seemed so far away. Typically, you would gaze out at life before mom or dad came upstairs to make sure you were asleep. But those street lights, where could they take you? Could you really fly away into the abyss of the night? You screamed release then; you hollered escapes, voyages, journeys, but they were all things that you imagined doing later when fun and games and the wonder of childhood were beyond you.

Now your childhood is a dated picture you keep in your jacket pocket. Although there is a part of you that wishes childhood never went away, the role of adult seems just as enchanting. As you traipse around in the 3 a.m. night, passing by closed coffee shops, restaurants, and municipal buildings, you press your hand against the picture stuck deep in your pocket, attempting to put a permanent fingerprint on it. The cool September air is refreshing as it gently brushes your face. The enormity of the moon forces a smile on your face. The street lights now guide you wherever you want to go. Time is all yours.

You find that your mind falls back to those fantasies of your past, thinking about things that have gone by. You certainly can’t think about your future. There is no such thing. It is merely a word that you rest hope on, like all those religious maniacs out there who think one day they will be given something better, something eternally pleasant when they die. Before, your future was everything. You planned for it. You timed it all out. There were certainties. Now, it seems as though your future is just a word. Nothing else.

And then there was college … College was merely an example of how you could execute your independence, a preparation for your future. Now that is over and behind you. What you do from here will shape how your life turns out. Joe would disagree with you. He would say that college shaped everything. He would make some trite statement like “college is that exact point at which we transition from kids to adults,” although you are not so sure he is right; the transition must take much longer than that.

You are at a crossroads. You don’t know where your decisions will take you, so you look back at yourself like some retrospective film, making sure you have taken all the right steps so you will not fall through any hidden cracks. You want to make sure that everything you’ve done has made some sense, has had some purpose, and counts as one more step to the zigzag trail of your life.

Because you know if you can’t make sense of your past, if there are no answers, no logic, then it will take you to a place in your head that you don’t want to be.

You haven’t seen much of Joe these days. About a week has passed since your conversation that ended with the two of you agreeing to disagree.

* * *

“But what’s the big deal, Joe?” you ask. “I want to do something with my life. I want to travel! I want to see new places! I want to push beyond what I’m capable!”

Joe pauses, rolls his eyes, and takes a drag from his cigarette.

“All I’m saying is I don’t understand you, Hayden” he said. “We got this apartment, things were going well, and now you want to get up and go.”

Your pursuits lie further north where the wilderness of Maine will set you free and allow you to put your creativity to work. The more time spent here only makes you question whether you are living a life that floats without purpose. The apartment shared with Joe always seemed temporary to you. It served its purpose in the aftermath of your college graduation. But that was three years ago. These days Joe accepts his current state in life as plausible. Your friendship with Joe is slowly coming to a close … and you are well aware of it.

* * *

You continue walking downtown away from your temporary home. A nice, deserted city all for you. Your friendship with Joe continues to stick in your head. You wish that decisions like these didn’t always feel somewhat isolating. Joe was a great friend and now he is becoming a part of your past, a past that will wake you during some odd hour of the night because it was not done yet. This thought scares you, so you think of better times:

The pinnacle of college graduation fell to a quick resolution. You left campus waving goodbye to a compilation of greatest hits: memorable experiences and keepsakes. Family, friends, loved ones, and neighbors all welcomed you back at the home where you grew up. Everyone at the party was curious as to what your plans were now that you’ve graduated. You told them a long awaited rest was first; then you were out to conquer the world with your words. They seemed unsure of what you were trying to say.

“I just want to be the Jake Barnes in The Sun Also Rises,” you told them.

“Oh, so you want to be a writer?” an audience of smiling faces questioned.

“Yes, I think I could be a good one …”

Your audience knew you would succeed, no matter what occupation you chose, but they offered you no reassuring words. How could they? You were basing a career on the emulation of a character’s life. They knew that a character’s life began on page one and ended after so many pages. Your vision of Jake Barnes’ life was much larger than a collection of pages. He was a concept that was brilliant. What you loved so much about Jake was his ability to carry on during a time when the human race faced great uncertainty. None of them – Robert, Brett – were sure of where they were headed, but Jake found a life by living his. He didn’t prescribe to any expectations or grand illusion. You knew he would get where he was going without planning it all out. He would just get there . . .

You assumed an eventual description of a character that was already described; a character that had already lived. Now was your time to live. You and Joe had kept in touch over the summer and he persuaded you to get out of your parent’s house, to get beyond that part of your life.

By the beginning of August, you were moving in with your college roommate. The irony of this situation, and Joe’s inability to recognize this, seemed baffling to you.

Stop!

There you go again. Thinking about the past, assembling something else to make sense of. What about now? Is there anything right now that you can assemble? The beautiful colors of the night…

Stop. You are making this up. The sky is black despite the little specks of light in the night that throw down more memories, more things that you are better off leaving behind. There really is no pretty picture. You are alone out in the middle of the night, some place far from the home that saw your early years. Further down the street, dimly lit and lined with birch trees, you see a figure coming in your direction.

You squint and see a head poking out from behind a corner building. The outline of a skull looks in your direction before darting closer to you.  You want to think it is an animal, hiding from its predator, but you find that it is larger than a normal sized creature of the wilderness. It gets closer to you. You start walking in the opposite direction, trying not to look back.

You hear the figure’s footsteps growing near, tapping against the aged sidewalk. The figure, whatever it is, is probably hiding from the devils in its head or trying to climb out of the quagmire that just keeps sucking it in. Or maybe the figure is making its quiet killing.  It isn’t overtly odd to think that you are one the figure is after, ready to take your life. You always thought there was someone out there that had your name on their hit list.

Things are starting to happen very fast.

You look over at the center of town and see Gene Kelly swinging around a lamppost. You can hear heavy breathing behind you. Back at the lamppost, Gene has fallen to the ground. Pieces of his black suit peel off him as though he is being drenched in acid; his flesh bubbles and disintegrates, his face wrinkling and then slipping from his skull like a leaf dropping from a tree. The formlessness of a cinematic icon is sucked into the metal lamppost. Your heart is beating rapidly. Your brain is trying to find its way out of your skull. You start hurrying in the direction of your apartment, thinking that you have brought too much on yourself.

You need to calm down now! Please, stop! Please!

Just sleep. Without the madman. Without the thought of being killed. Without the thought that someone is coming to get you. Without the illusions.

A fluffy pillow awaits.

Chapter Two: “The Little Man”

 

You concluded long ago that your brain is too powerful for you to handle. At first, you thought it was a phenomenon, the idea that your mind was almost a separate entity, like a little person sitting up there, secretive and brilliant, mysterious and powerful. You once pictured this little person to be a horrible and ugly little thing, but then maybe he looks like Ken from Barbie, a handsome, sweet, little man with beautiful blond hair and a striking complexion. A man that is tall and thinly dressed in a short-sleeve button down shirt and nice docker slacks. You once tried to imagine what the ugly little thing looked like, but its fleshy black and red skin and bulging bright eyes drove you to that place you hate to be. 

 

It is no use battling it. You will lose. You send the thought to Antarctica and turn over. You recall when the little man first appeared. Although it is difficult to make out some of the fuzzier details, it started right as your uncle was dying. You remember snapshots of your uncle in a hospital bed, face red and blotchy. He looked extremely tired and words barely slipped from his mouth. He talked very slowly and that seemed strange to you, but it wasn’t frightening. After that, you never saw him again. All you recall is the moment, later that same month, when your mother peered into the doorway of your bedroom, crying and barely able to inform you that “… he died.” No tears suddenly started streaming down your face. It just shocked you.  You threw down your toys and ran to hug your mother. It was all you knew how to do. The funeral was in a small town upstate whose name is lost to you. The church was filled with sadness and you looked on, smiling and unsure as to why. This was a happy time to remember him, you thought. After the burial, there was a gathering at someone’s house. The house was old, but comforting. Again, the details are fuzzy. Strangely, though, what you do recall is that every room you walked into had a dish of food: peanuts, chocolate, potato salad, egg salad, kielbasa, shelled nuts, diced pieces of ham, vegetables, yogurt, and cranberry sauce. And everyone was eating. Hands grabbed, spoons dipped, forks jabbed, and knives sliced. This is why the contours of the home seem quick to fade. It struck you as strange that anyone could suck in spoonfuls of potato salad when the man they just said goodbye to not only looked like a blob of powder white in a coffin, but that he was starting to decompose.

 

Relative One: “This cranberry sauce is the best I’ve ever had.”

Nephew One: “Really! You should try the kielbasa. The texture is perfect. I think it’s a smoked kielbasa. The honey basted gives me gas, though.”’

Relative 21 walks up to the Relative One and Nephew One. 

Relative 21: “This potato salad is homemade, I think.”

 

And his death had suddenly become a thing of the past. The ceremony was over, the sight of mortality slowly wearing off, and the memory of his life summed up in a scrapbook. Nobody talked about him at the gathering. As you weaved in and out of people, you grabbed snippets and tail-ends of conversations about business trips and somebody’s sister’s boyfriend. The nonsense of it all forced you to drift into that other place in your head that left the commonplace, the formality, and the doing-what-you-had-to-do-stuff behind. You have since called it the white space. The men smoking cigarettes outside made more sense somehow. How you wished you could have joined the small half-circle of men shivering out on the patio.

 

* * *

 

You reach for your pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, slowly roll out of bed, and head to your indoor deck, the smoking column, Joe and you call it. The feeling of smoke in your lungs is the best satisfaction you’ve had since your realization to move on with your life. 

 

The death of your uncle follows you. Maybe it’s the man in your head setting all this up. Not long after your uncle’s death, you spent the weekend at your friend’s house because your parents were having some special meeting with Santa – or something bizarre yet magical like that. Teddy planned to rent a Christmas movie, but you requested something scarier, something that would knock your socks off. When you went to the video store, you ran right to the horror section and grabbed the first movie that looked slightly frightening: Creepshow. His face turned from happy and joyous to concerned and speculative. You insisted. Moments later, you were in the backseat, cradling the VHS in your hands. 

 

Later that night, right as the opening credits came on, fright overcame you. It was an undefined impending force surfacing from within. You were quick to recognize it: death. It was your turn. You got up and screamed out. The movie was abandoned. There was no Creepshow except the one in your head, cutting off the air you were desperately trying to inhale. You were on the brink of hyperventilating, but the soothing words of your friend destroyed the little man.

 

Christmas and the New Year swept away the horror of that night. The little man soon returned like a vengeful army, ready to bury you. You clearly recall the early signs of panic; it was the end of the world, your world. 

 

At school, the little man knew when you were at your most vulnerable. Every other class, at his mercy, he would wiggle his tiny fingers and, bit by bit, little by little, second by second, you would grow weak and helpless. You got up and left the class without the approval of the teacher. But at the climax of your episode, the teacher’s talk was muted. Eyes wide open, hands shaking, the echo of his laughter spitting out of your eardrums, you hurried to the counselor’s office.    

 

The school guidance counselor was a plump, amiable, middle-aged woman. Every other day, she welcomed you at the door of her office, cutting through the madness in your head with simple conversations concerning pleasant things. This was your temporary fix until it happened again. But it got worse. But you were young then, so was the little man. Now that you are older someone in your brain reminds you that you have not experienced what real horror is. Not yet, at least. 

Chapter Three: “The Last True Friendship”

“Change your mind yet,” Joe says, securing his glasses on his face with the simple push of his index finger as he steps into the “smoking column.”

“This really is a smoking column,” you say. “Look at all of these ashtrays, never mind the butts everywhere.”

“Cigarettes are a nutritious breakfast,” Joe says and sips from an overwhelmingly large cup filled with creamy looking coffee. “Don’t forget the coffee.” Joe takes out his pack of Marlboro reds and draws one from his pack with his teeth.

“I’m really not hungry although the coffee sounds good. Got some things on my mind.”

Joe sighs. “I hope it’s not about leaving.” He reaches for a fold out chair and sits. “Why don’t we do it together? We can travel and find work wherever we end up.”

“Don’t you want to stay here?” you ask not really sure what he would say. “What would you do?”

“I can do anything. I like the idea of writing, maybe I’ll try my hand at journalism.”

“Come on, Joe. You majored in philosophy. Journalism is not something you could possibly take seriously. I think I gotta take this ride alone. There are some things I am trying to work through.”

“Journalism or not, I’m a fast learner. You know, Hayden, there was never a man out there who wasn’t scared, at least in part, by something that he could possibly fail at.”

Joe pauses.

“Think of the young fathers out there who are laid off and have to start over. They don’t just give up. They have a wife and kids to support. They pick up their pride and move on.”

Joe’s talk reminds you of Jake Barnes. He seemed to pick up his pride and just do whatever he wanted. And then there was Brett Ashley, his love-in, the friend who always knew just how to get his attention.

“I can only imagine how difficult that can be,” you say.

“But that is life, Hayden. It’s never the destination we subconsciously think about; the interims, the stops, the alternate routes, those are the times we live. No person ever considers that all they experience is really their alternate routes, the pieces that make up the culmination of who they are.

“You make a lot of sense, Joe, but I feel that this time now has expired. I’ve outgrown it.”

“Okay, okay. Joe motions as he punches out his first cigarette. “I’ve heard this before. Let me just ask you one question and you can get back to me on this. What happens when you reach your destination? Because even when you get to where you’re going, there still more life? Let me pose this to you theoretically. There is always that question we face in our live that constantly surfaces. When you reach the end of that black line, what do you do in the white space?

Hmmm… that white space.