Left Where It Fell

Newness

2006-12-18T07:13:00.000-08:00

In case anyone's still checking in, I'll be relaunching this blog in some new and exciting way yet to be determined in January. I might put some photos up in the meantime though, if you're good.

Bubble and Squeak

2006-11-14T12:29:00.000-08:00

On dubstep.

There's more...

2006-10-23T15:44:00.000-07:00

By popular demand, a few more pictures from Saturday's birthday throwdown.

Happy birthday, Amanda! (And, uh, me.)

2006-10-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all, especially Rafael, who made the joint birthday party that Amanda and I threw on Saturday night such an absolute blast. If you weren't there, well, you should've been. Look, we had amazing DJs, and a skifflecore band, and birthday cupcakes, and rooftop craziness, and, and, and...

Frieze-ing

2006-10-18T12:29:00.000-07:00

I went to the Frieze Art Fair in London the other day.

Here come the Dubsteppers

2006-10-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

A treat to finally catch some genuine dubstep in New York last night. The long, scantily-clad queue outside Crash Mansion, venue for Dub War's lastest outing featuring Youngsta and Hatcha (among homegrown others), turned out - much to my party's relief - to be for some mainstrem megaclub taking place in the same building, so we were in and bouncing up and down within minutes. The sound system was a bit underwhelming, but a good-natured atmosphere went a long way towards making up for the technical shortcoming. Hatcha in particular was a treat to watch, bopping and twitching and tweaking behind the decks with a deadpan expression that occasionallly, very occasionally, twisted into a smile. And we had a good laugh at the random and extensive onstage entourage. Some game was afoot that involved DJs rewinding or changing places whenever someone held up a bit of paper with the number 5 printed on it, which was funny for a while though it seriously interrupted the flow. But hey, at least these guys aren't precious. And when it was allowed to roll, the music was excellent. I've been writing about this stuff at much greater length for a piece you'll see in a different forum next month, so I'll refrain from further comment for now, except to recommend your attendance at any and all future visits by any or all of this crew.

Rollercoaster Rides

2006-09-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

Still backtracking—it’s been a busy few weeks what with one thing and another—so I’m just now getting around to reporting on The Boys, a play in which my Aussie mate Jeremy played a very substantial part. Many thanks are due to Amanda and Kelly for alerting me to this and accompanying me to see it at the Kraine Theater, the other evening. Performances were gutsy all ’round: The sheer physical energy the players put into their roles saw the set quaking and the front row ducking as bodies and beer cans went hurtling through space. I can forgive theatre a lot, probably too much, simply for generating that kind of visceral involvement.

My thanks too to Priya for forcing me to face my fears and ride the Cyclone rollercoaster and the Wonder Wheel ferris wheel on the last day of the Coney Island summer season. The former was the more intense, particularly during those sudden descents when I could feel myself starting to float out of my seat. Being ancient and made of wood, the Cyclone is also rickety as all hell, which of course adds to the terror. The Wheel is a more sedate experience, and the fact that a cucumber-cool small boy, riding on his own, accompanied us steadied my nerves substantially. Incidentally, Priya reports that the candyfloss (cotton candy to Americans) that she took home to freeze survived the process, though wasn’t exactly improved by it.

Herman Melville Would've Loved 'Em

2006-09-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

Backtracking a bit now as I've not been in a blogging mood of late, but the other evening I went to see the mighty Mastodon at Webster Hall (alone – I assumed that no one I knew, in New York at least, would have been willing to thus endanger their delicately-honed sensibilities). It was nice to see a crowd exhibit a bit of movement, even if the efforts of two or three flailing idiots made the mosh pit unapproachable (perhaps I’m too old for that sort of shenanigans by now anyway). The support band was an unremarkable metal-hardcore hybrid, but the headliners packed, as anticipated, an eminently satisfying crunch. It’s true that much of the intricacy of their recorded work got lost in the charging-rhino rush, but the decision to close the set with “Blood and Thunder” and encore with the truly epic “Hearts Alive” was an inspired one. It’s undeniable that the first thing that hits you when bands of this ilk take the stage is, even before a wall of sound, a wall of clichés, but negotiate/disregard those and you’ve got a grand night out.

We Will Be Your Editors

2006-09-08T08:55:00.000-07:00

Einstein on the Subway

2006-09-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Was on the V train from Broadway Lafayette to 34h Street the other lunchtime when who shold I clock sitting directly across from me in an almost-empty carriage but one Phillip Glass. Of course I wasn't sure at first - he looked a bit out of it, muttering to himself and looking like he was about to nod off from time to time - but when he looked directly at me I knew there was no mistake. Great eyes. He was also whistling softly, but I couldn't tell if it was minimalist whistling. He was carrying a knitted bag and a small bunch of flowers, and nearly missed his 23rd Street stop (possibly because I was staring at him so hard). I was tempted to get out and follow him at a discreet distance, but of course I didn't. I did look out his Solo Piano CD later though. He's a one-trick pony, yeah, but what a trick.

Shambling/Angular

2006-09-06T15:34:00.000-07:00

Selections from the past weekend’s culture:

On Friday night, I went with Priya to a screening (possibly the actual premiere, I’m not sure) of a new movie called Mutual Appreciation, at Cinema Village, that was also attended by the writer-director Andrew Bujalski and cast members Justin Rice and Seung-Min Lee. Determinedly lo-fi and unashamedly indie, the film is nonetheless quite charming and clocks up more moments of almost-unwatchable social and romantic awkwardness than any other recent drama I can think of. Best of all, the concluding Q & A revealed the director and lead performers to resemble the characters they portrayed hilariously closely. The slackerish young men in particular all share a shambling, lackadaisical non-stance that could be incredibly grating were it not so achingly familiar.

Saturday: The final Warm Up at PS1 was more of a Wash Out, as the rain started and never, ever stopped. I was looking forward to Berlin’s doubleplusgood Rhythm & Sound in particular, but didn’t make it that far. There must have been fifty diehards maximum outside at any one time, most of them huddled under the DJ tent or pretending that the by now thoroughly battered temporary architecture in the institution’s courtyard was actually weatherproof. It so wasn’t. The evening, which saw Bobby P. and I attend a rare gig by the mighty Shellac at Club Europa in Greenpoint, was altogether more satisfactory. This trio, which features the mighty Steve Albini on guitar and vocals, just exudes confidence: How could it not? It seems to be An Absolute Requirement to employ the word “angular” in describing Albini’s guitar sound (and the band’s general spikiness) but as an adjective it’s admittedly hard to better. Still, they do a lot more with a very simple set of parameters than that might imply. Sure, the mood is generally ill-tempered, but there’s a dose (gloriously politically incorrect) humor in there too. And just when you think you’ve got a handle on the music’s dynamic, it surprises. Angular and supple, I’d say.

That's Entertainment

2006-08-29T12:21:00.000-07:00

Also, from Tabitha Neal in London, a joke:

Two Oranges walk into a bar. One says to the other: "Your round."

Let You Entertain Me

2006-08-28T11:47:00.000-07:00

I was completely and utterly bored the other day, something that doesn’t actually happen too often (there’s usually something to worry about, at least), so sent out an e-mail to a couple of dozen friends demanding entertainment. In response, I received a very beautiful short film by Lizzie Hughes composed of still images of jet ’plane trails, the suggestion that I watch some videos on YouTube (something that’s always foxed me up to now, for technical reasons), from Kysa Johnson, and some news from Scotland from Dan Howard-Birt. "Big" Mike Patterson in Australia suggested that I follow a link to http://www.b3ta.com, and Jonathan Van Dyke sent me a connection to his own newly-minted site. Giles Round in London wrote: "When I’m bored I amuse myself with two things: architectural porn (introduced to me by Liam Gillick): and design porn, on a genius auction site stocked with endless staged photographs of twentieth-century design. The back catalogue seems endless." Priya Bhatnagar sent me some amazing photographs from her recent trip to Japan and Jo Sheffield e-mailed me two ultrasound images with the teasing caption "Figure this out. " Jo, I think I have. Finally (so far, at least), Rebecca Shatwell sent me an MP3 of a song by Jeffrey Lewis, “Don’t Let the Record Label Take You Out to Lunch, " from the recent Rough Trade Shops Singer Songwriter 1 compilation. And now I’m not bored any more, thanks.

Rosemary Goes to the Mall (so you don't have to)

2006-08-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

Everyone should visit rosemarygoestothemall.com and listen to Rosemary Williams's excellent and highly entertaining podcasts about her experiences shopping the Mall of America to death.

From the site:

"In the Spring of 2006, Rosemary had the brilliant idea of creating a giant sculpture made out of shopping bags from the Mall of America. Congratulating herself on her genius, she went to the Mall and started asking stores for bags, but the jerks wouldn’t give them to her without buying something. Thus began one of the most misguided adventures of her young life, as she slowly worked her way around the Mall, making purchases at every retail store but two (she lied to get the Eddie Bauer bag, and got weirded out at Daniel’s Leather). In the end, she made purchases at over 300 stores, returning (most of) those purchases bag-less on the following visit.

Among her favorite items were the $100 Stella McCartney yoga mat, the gold lamé Puma gym bag, a super cute pair of Mia sandals from Macy’s, and a $300 pair of Prada sunglasses – inspiring her alter ego, “the lady with the Prada sunglasses” to take over for a couple subsequent shopping trips. Other adventures included getting high at the oxygen bar and buying a $500 GPS system for her car at Radio Shack. She kept only the things she really needed, or were too cute to pass up, and she got stuck with a lot of dumb stuff from stores that didn’t accept returns.

In all, Rosemary spent $15,339.46 at the Mall, and she can’t quite bring herself to publicly state the dollar amount of the purchases she kept. Her husband stopped looking at the credit card bill about 5 shopping trips in, citing “increased anxiety and a tightness in his chest.” Rosemary, having grappled with the shopping-related demons of boredom, guilt, anger, and exhilaration, is just really glad it’s over."

It's fun stuff.

So Very

2006-08-25T09:41:00.000-07:00

Caught chunks of two old favorite black comedies on TV last night; Hal Hartley’s “Trust” (1990) and Michael Lehmann’s “Heathers” (1989) (the former trailed by the cable company or whoever writes those haikulike “guide” synopses as “Pregnant teen meets moody genius with hand grenade”—not strictly inaccurate, but…). “Trust” was Hartley’s second feature (after [and really very similar to] “The Unbelievable Truth”) but the things I love about his films are already well established, in particular the deadpan/shellshocked delivery of the always mordantly funny dialogue. I can quite understand how this extremely self-conscious artificiality could be being fantastically irritating to many viewers, then and now, but somehow it still works for me. In fact, the more deliberately robotic the performances become, the more emotionally weighted they seem—at moments to an almost unbearable degree (and no, I wasn’t watching this on a ’plane). I still love “Henry Fool” (1997) the most though:

Henry Fool: We gotta talk. What the hell were you trying to do when you wrote this thing?
Simon: Nothing.
Henry Fool: Well, you know, you wrote it in a kind of iambic pentameter.
Simon: Iambic what?
Henry Fool: Verse. Look. In my opinion, this is pretty powerful stuff. Though your spelling is Neanderthal and your reasoning a little naive, your instincts are profound. But the whole thing needs to be given a more cohesive shape. It can be expanded, followed through, unified. Do you see what I’m getting at? Are you willing to commit yourself to this? To really work on it? To give it it’s due in the face of adversity and discouragement? To rise to the challenge you yourself have set? And don’t give me that wonderstruck “I’m only a humble garbage man” bullshit, either.
Simon: It hurts to breathe.
Henry Fool: Of course it does.

A subversion of an existing genre, “Heathers” is a very different ball game but just as effective in its own way, Lehmann’s strategic artificiality coming in the form of a calculated over-the-topness rather, as in Hartley, a studied withdrawal. The emotional content is lessened correspondingly, but the filmmaker’s motivation seems so different that one doesn’t really miss it until the film’s almost over. Apparently the cop-out ending was a studio imposition—I’d love to see a director’s version. A lot of this makes me cringe in a way that “Trust” undoubtedly does to others, but it’s a pleasurable cringing. And is there an ’80s/’90s line to be traced here? “Heathers” seems absolutely of the earlier decade, “Trust” already pretty deep into the later.

Veronica Sawyer: [writing in diary] Betty Finn was a true friend and I sold her out for a bunch of Swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads.

Love the way Veronica writes, physically, that diary too: fortissimo. Anyone blog that HARD?

Henry Fool: I don’t discriminate between different ways of knowing.

Calling Lauren!

2006-08-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

How do I post comments to your blog now? It's all changed around!

[Insert joke here]

2006-08-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

I await your suggestions.

Our Brian

2006-08-16T13:13:00.000-07:00

Today's B.E.A.D. - Brian Eno Appreciation Day. You didn't know? Well, that's almost certainly because I made it up at work this morning after watching a preview DVD of his forthcoming visual project "77 Million Paintings." To be completely honest it's not cream-of-the-Eno-crop - it's a glorified screensaver, basically - but Our Brian's just such a likeable interviewee that I was prompted to re-re-revisit some of the music (hardly a nostalgic experience as he's on the stereo more than most anyone else), and pester co-workers with it to boot. Top choices remain "Ambient 1: Music for Airports" and "Another Green World," though I'm now really, really loving "Before and After Science" too. At the risk of appearing too much of a craven fanboy, the genius of the man is that his ideas - and there are many,many of them - are never divorced from emotion. It's almost as if he sets out to make something of an almost scientific functionality, as if it's the result of an experiment or the logical working-through of a theory, but can't help ending up infusing it with poetry and color.

Another Green World

2006-08-16T08:47:00.000-07:00

Do little kids belong in music?

2006-08-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

Well, you know, probably not, at least not publicly, but they’re just so cute, bless ’em. Seeing Throwing Muses at the Bowery Ballroom on Saturday night, Dan and I were “treated” to the sight of the headlining band’s nephews (well, there was definitely some sort of family connection) and a couple of their classmates performing under the name Bullseye. With no members older than twelve, they were predictably underpowered, and I was expecting the crowd to indulge their slightly out-of-tune shenanigans for only so long before turning nasty. But in the end they were remarkably charitable, and it was certainly hard not to side with the kids as they jumped into set-ending high-fives. Ones to watch in, oh, eight-to-ten years (and I prefer them already to the New York magazine-profiled care Bears on Fire [though Rachel Trachtenberg still has the edge—it’s the experience, you know])?

"Does Humor Belong in Music?"

2006-08-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

The question was originally posed some years ago by Frank Zappa, but having seen The Trachtenberg Family Slideshow Players (at the Mercury Lounge, last night), I’d refine his query to “Does McSweeney’s-esque ironic whimsy belong in music?” and answer “Yes, but probably only once in a while.” The Trachtenbergs are a collective that bases all its songs on old slides picked up at thrift stores, and is sufficiently self-reflexive that it even played one about the duds not featured. The frontman delivers an endless, stuttering stream of neurotic asides and wisecracks while his twelve-year old daughter (yeah, they’re a real family) plays the drums, looking alternately shyly amused and bored stiff. It’s the kind of thing that could be excruciating were it not done with such absolute attention to (meaningless, retro) detail, but these people are nothing if not committed to following their self-appointed task through to the end. And they don’t outstay their welcome. My advice? See ’em once and cherish the memory.

Ouch! and Aaargh!

2006-08-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

Uh, thanks Nikki.

Guiltier Pleasure, Deeper Embarrassment

2006-08-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

It seemed rather a shame that the more interesting stuff herein has been confined to the comments boxes of late, so, to sum up and respond to some recent to-and-fro:

Further to the "guilty pleasures," post, a.d. characterizes the notion as "merely Nick Hornby's confessional Asperger's style, approached from a different angle. Sometimes this criticality can be informative and fun. Usually it's mediocre and poorly argued." I'm one of the few who's resisted both book and movie, but I think I catch his drift: It's a species of argument that's so subjective and fan-to-fan as to be practically meaningless; competitive ranking and listmaking in lieu of actual commentary. Well, perhaps, though if total immersion in a given form, genre, or subgenre is balanced by sufficient self-awareness and an eye on the bigger picture then criticality can still thrive, no? Otherwise the argument threatens to become one against "expertism" altogether, which is another whole can o'worms. He goes on to defend the Stranglers on the basis of their sheer entertainment value, implying that they were perhaps never intended to be regarded as anything more than simple fun. I wonder if the band themselves would agree? Seems as though they produced, or at least attempted, as much "serious" work as many, many other bands with far greaqter reputations, even if it's not now considered formally or thematically innovative (and often the opposite). And of course, even that which was intended as pure entertainment, or purely "functional" (I'm thinking of dance music here) can almost immediately be read as something more (whether its makers go along with that reading or not).

Perhaps one of the reasons I considered the Stranglers an embarrassing choice was that they suffer greatly in (inevitable) comparisons with much more original, influential performers that were around when and where they got together (hence my "also-rans" put-down). That said, I wouldn't be all that surprised if someone tried to rescue them from the bargain bin in the spirit of anthropological contrarianism, as Scott King attempted to do with Dr. Feelgood in Crash! recently. (Notions of "cool" factor significantly here too, though perhaps that's really what we're talking about already?) And I still suspect that a good degree of my affection for the band is nostalgic: They'll forever feel more significant than they otherwise might because they just happen, arbitrarily, to have been a favourite band of the person who got me into music in the first place.

a.d. cites The Carpenters, Genesis before Peter Gabriel left, Serge Gainsbourg's "Lemon Incest," and Van Halen with Dave Le Roth as his guilty pleasures. I think there must be worse, or at least more embarrassing, in that cupboard. Perhaps it's just the time frame they represent. They may not all be widely critically rated as such, but they have all stood the test of time in one way or another. The true horrors are perhaps either forgotten, or still unfolding (shudder).

Fangirl worries that her "guilt thing" had been further misunderstood (though I don't thin it has, really), and offers a clarification: "The guilt does not occur in the listening. The listening is too much fun. The guilt occurs in not being able to articulate why that listening is fun or worthwhile, in the face of others saying 'well, X artist CANNOT be fun because of reason Y...' In that way maybe the guilt has more to do with feeling that one has failed the artist - that is, failed as a fan in not being able to rise to a defence?" I'd largely go along with that: The guilt or ambarrassment doesn't occur in isolation, only when one's choices are exposed in some way, when we're called upon to stand by them. "Despite all this," she continues, "I can think of at least one band that fits in more with your characterisation, M., that I like 'in spite of myself'. (Although, another thought that has just occurred - surely the idea that we like something 'in spite of ourselves' buys into the dodgy notion that we have a core identity which can be uncovered, and particular tastes that will conform to and bolster this identity? and everything else is a 'false' knowledge or identity?) I like Guns 'n' Roses - specifically, I like Appetite For Destruction very much. This despite my knowledge of their sexism and homophobia. This listening I feel guilty about, particularly when other people look at me incredulously and say 'Guns n' Roses?! How could you?!' But they were part of my childhood, and I can't outgrow my fondness for them."

Again, nostalgia enters the picture. Are we onto something here? What about some absolutely contemporary selections?

She continues: "Perhaps guilt also lies in one's liking for a particular artists falling across different self-identities that one has, so that part of you likes artist X, and part of you thinks that you could (and possibly should) hate them too? I feel this way about Belle & Sebastian. I LOVE Belle & Sebastian up to Fold Your Hands Child..., but part of me concurrently understands and sympathises with all the haters who've ever said that B&S are a bunch of substanceless, spineless indie cream puffs. But then, there's little half so fun (to me) as dancing to 'The Boy With the Arab Strap'. I agree with both sides of the B&S argument at once. But I still listen to them, and therefore feel confused sometimes."

Exactly. And of course the music itself may be divided along not entirely dissimilar lines: You like B&S's danceability, hate the culture to which they seem to subscribe or define.

Prog Rak

2006-08-05T18:08:00.000-07:00

Read me on Rirkrit Tiravanija's recent, rather unfortunate, venture into rock opera (sort of) here.

RIP Jason Rhoades

2006-08-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

I've never had a less than difficult time writing about Rhoades's work, but it's never been less than fun to try. Sorry to see him go so young. Illustrated, his Untitled (Chandelier) from 2004, courtesy of David Zwirner's website.

The Embarrassing Cupboard (a.k.a. Guilty Pleasures)

2006-08-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

Further to an earlier discussion of “guilty pleasures” in music, meaning those musicvians, band, records (and, I suppose, performances) that we appreciate in spite of ourselves, which we listen to despite their apparent critical indefensibility (or at least obvious shortcomings), I’ll shortly (once I’ve swallowed some pride) admit to one or two in the hopes that either I can find (with your assistance, dear reader) a logical justification for enjoying them, or that others will be tempted to own up to a few amusing selections from their own “embarrassing cupboards” (my old friend Nij actually used to have one of these, which I greatly regret never having been allowed to see inside). Along similar lines, what about those records that one’s supposed to like but can never quite get with? For example, audiorange recently owned up, in a comment appended to my “earlier “Critics and Fans” entry, to not being as in awe of Sonic Youth as we’re all expected to be:

“I’ve always experienced something like this with . . . eh, don’t know how to say this delicately . . . Sonic Youth. Yes, heresy I know – especially for a downtown-dwelling artist who loves good music. And I did try, even got in there relatively early—bought Sister when it came out in ’86 or whenever. I remember being really impressed with the sound of that record but just never growing to love it. It was the first and last Sonic Youth album I bought (though I have to admit that during their ‘peak’ years in the late eighties/early nineties, I was listening to more Radio 3 than anything else and sort of missed a lot of what was going on). I do have copies of Daydream Nation, Dirty, Goo, etc. on my iPod but rarely trouble them with a listen. Have puzzled over this somewhat, given their huge influence and heroic status, especially in New York. And it is interesting that you mention Simon Reynolds, as he makes that interesting point about post-punk’s intellectualism and the absence of a libidinal edge to the music. I think this is what is missing from Sonic Youth, for me anyway. There is something that reminds me of the way Pete Townsend, say ‘narrates’ his lyrics that already has him sounding, on some of the Who’s Next songs, like an old man singing about the ‘youth experience’. Also David Bowie of the early ’70s too. This is music I can admire a lot but never love.”

And to a large extent I share his misgivings. I own a few of the same records but also rarely play them. Ditto that new Scott Walker record (though I genuinely do enjoy, and actually play, the others).

OK, to kick things off, what about The Stranglers? Politically incorrect, musically conservative, Punk Rock also-rans, could be removed from pop history without their erasure having any discernable repercussions. And yet, uh, catchy? No?

Saturdayism

2006-07-31T13:12:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, after a surprisingly bustling opening at d.u.m.b.o. arts center (it is summer after all), I went to see Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-La-La Band at the Bowery Ballroom. I didn’t (and still don’t) know very much about this crew, other than the fact that they share some personnel with Godspeed! You Black Emperor, whose first album I liked a whole lot. So I had few expectations one way or the other, though Brian did warn me to “bring a book” since their songs tend to kick in only after “about fifteen minutes.” But I was in the mood for something rich and strange and, for the most part, I got it. I was also attending alone, so anything less than gripping and, well, I might not have stuck around to the bitter end. Happily, right ahead of me in the queue was one Sara Edward-Corbett, who I hadn’t seen for ages and was also there on her tod. We connected in a much more relaxed manner than perhaps we sometimes have in the past, and had a good chat—over Black Russians and beer—about magazine work, other creative and not-so-creative projects, and life on Earth in general. Turns out Sara, a fine cartoonist and co-founder of the admirable Partyka, has also just started a blog, partly in the service of a new book in which female friends recount entertainingly embarrassing moments. Disappointingly, I can’t seem to make it work, but supposedly it’s called Dark Fatty. Try clicking and see what you get.

So, the band. Well, for a start, any act with a cello is automatically ahead of the pack as far as I’m concerned. But beyond that, this was a pretty amazing display of, yes, playing fifteen-minute songs in a live setting but somehow pulling it off with grace and even humour. And these weren’t (if there is such a thing, other than perhaps “I Feel Love”) fifteen-minute party anthems (they signed off with something called “One Million Died to Make This Sound,” fer chrissakes), but slow-burning cinematic epics. Lengthy quiet sections gave way to gradually building climaxes and relatively conventional rock instrumentation was blended with (I suppose) folksier sounds without either seeming forced or superfluous. The atmosphere tended toward the dark and brooding, but the sheer musicality of the performance pulled it and the crowd up and out of the city’s humid murk, so that I left feeling a certain lightness, refreshed.

Best...press release...ever.

2006-07-27T15:34:00.000-07:00

I adore this one. Favorite lines include "Humor still exists, though in a form that is not funny." and "There was a show by the same title in the UK, but that stuff was old product." Genius. I love the art world in high summer.

"55 Mercer Gallery | New York

"DARK MATTER USA"

Curated By Peter Gregorio and Mike Egan

Exhibition Dates: September 5 - 30, 2006
Opening Party: Tuesday, September 5, 2006, 6 - 9:00pm

Creativity is not limited to optimism, quality, or any other positive value. But exploring shadowy areas is extremely treacherous. There is less light to see by, less guidance, less clarity. There is a certain difficulty in avoiding definitions in the good books, the ones that seek a balance, and prevent an explicit ownership of pain. Humor still exists, though in a form that is not funny. This feeling is also different from seriousness, sobriety, discipline, and power. Dark matter is antimatter, and may or may not exist in almost infinite quantities within the cosmopsychotic landscape. This is a show of art made by people with a sense of themselves and you that is different from happy and fun. There was a show by the same title in the UK, but that stuff was old product. This is new. It must be admitted that for the present moment, there is no more appropriate setting for dark feelings than America."

There are some very odd things going on.

2006-07-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

And here, in two shots taken by my friend Lizzie disturbingly close to her home in London, is a building in the process of melting. Also real.

They did a bad, bad thing.

2006-07-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

Kacy, my pal down South, writes: "Look at this police report. It's from an obscure town in Washington state that my boss hails from. It's real."

"On South Third Avenue, a teenage girl reported being pulled over by a vehicle flashing its lights. The motorist claimed to be a police officer and said he had to search her for drugs. The man fondled the girl, who then pushed him in to a ditch and managed to drive away.

A man on North Seventh Avenue was arrested for being an intoxicated pedestrian.

An intoxicated man on North Rouse Avenue was attempting to ride his bike. He fell down.

A house on Goose Creek Road had been burglarized. Several pieces of art, decorative lamps and televisions were stolen.

A woman at a dining hall was choking.

A man camped overnight in Wilson Hall. He was told not to camp on campus.

A man was warned for standing in traffic on East Main Street. He was attempting to pick a fight with a passing driver.

An officer spoke with a man on West Main Street. The man was interested in being in law enforcement.

A man was arrested for biting a nude dancer on the neck.

Twenty bottles of liquor were stolen from a bar on West Main Street while the business was closed.

A peacock was standing in traffic along North 19th Avenue. An officer removed the bird.

A man riding his bike on Haggerty Lane told police a young woman passed him in a car and slapped his butt. He wanted the woman charged with assault.

A Montana State University student wanted a photo of someone pointing a gun at an officer. He was told that was a bad idea. An officer suggested the student rent a police uniform for his photograph.

Officers spoke with a man on South Seventh Avenue about yelling obscenities in public.

While walking home along North Montana Avenue, a man was tackled by another man. The assailant punched the man and split his lip.

Officers surrounded a bank on West Main Street in response to a burglar alarm. An employee emerged from the bank, having forgotten how to properly set the alarm.

A man exposed himself while shopping at an East Main Street store. The store reported this is a recurring problem.

A man was yelling because he got kicked out of a downtown bar. He was told to stop screaming.

An officer noticed a group of people carrying an intoxicated man in Christie Park. The man was taken to Bozeman Deaconess Hospital.

An intoxicated man was asleep in his vehicle at Lindley Park. He was disoriented. He was taken to the hospital.

A woman on West Lamme Street was receiving disturbing text messages.

A horse and donkey were running down North 19th Avenue. The animals were obstructing traffic.

Kids in a store on West Main Street were looking at porn

A young girl on West Beall Street set a pair of shoes on fire.

A driver on Hunters Way struck a trailer when her dog vomited on her."

I love how deadpan this all is. And the lack of names and dates somehow makes it seem like a set of weird parables, or the first lines of a series of jokes.

Isamu and Buck

2006-07-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to Miriam for dragging me out of my melancholic stupor yersterday afternoon and over to the Museum of Television and Radio for “Up Close and Personal: Buckminster Fuller and Isamu Noguchi,” a screening of two vintage documentaries introduced by director Michael Blackwood. As the press release explains, “Buckminster Fuller—creator of the geodeisic dome, among many other things—and Isamu Noguchi—the artist who created the sunken urban garden for Chase Manhattan Plaza and the gardens at IBM, Armonk—were two of the great visionary artists of the twentieth century who were also friends. MTR presents two rare profiles of these fellow travelers. In the 1971 Buckminster Fuller on Spaceship Earth, the architect comments upon many of his most groundbreaking creations, including his early Dymaxion tower house and the U.S. Pavilion Dome at Expo’67. In the 1973 documentary on Isamu Noguchi, the sculptor discusses his work and career, as well as friendships with Martha Graham, Constantin Brancusi, and Fuller."

Weirdly, Noguchi comes across as something of a pub bore, talking endlessly about himself and his vision without really saying all that much of interest. The bizarre highlight of the film, made for American television wehen American televsion had cultural programming, is unquestionably him talking at Fuller across an ancient, slightly smiling, and completely silent Ezra Pound. Fuller, though also a wind-him-up-and-watch-him-go non-stop pontificator, at least gives the impression of being more interested in ideas than in contributing to his own myth (though he's often shown surrounded by adoring students). In fact, he reels off so many theories and plans for world improvement in the course of an hour or so, with the aid of whatever props come to hand and he rows and rambles about, that it’s hard to believe they all come from one mind. A big, big thinker, making Noguchi look rather conservative and self-regarding.

Fans and Critics, Critics and Fans

2006-07-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

I’ve been enjoying Fangirl’s blog, one I came to through Simon Reynolds’s blissblog, quite a bit lately—one of too-few glimmers of uncomplicated/intellectual (now there’s a pairing, but you know what I mean, perhaps?) enjoyment in an otherwise frankly depressing month. Recently she’s been discussing the role of the critic, something that’s obviously close to my professional heart (though I’ve rarely tried to write about music in that way, as she aspires to do). Should one try to distinguish between the positions of critic and fan, she wondered recently?

Well, as I responded in a recent comment, I think she acknowledges, really, that fandom does carry a suggestion of a lack of critical "distance" (though I think a genuine critical stance should imply closeness to the subject [even an "opposed" subject] rather than distance from it, but perhaps that's just a semantic distinction), hence the worry about "falling back" into it when defensive words seem to fail. Perhaps a defence of "guilty pleasures" (Radiohead or Sufjan Stevens in her case; I'll get to mine later) simply requires a shift in thinking yet to be made, maybe because the possible critical objections to said musics are so much easier to locate and express than the good (and therefore interesting) things about them.

I think this might be my block with the much-discussed-recently Scritti Politti; that they still seem SO "pop" (meaning—in this context—mainstream, bland, ordinary), that despite a knowledge of Green Gartside's good-blokeishness (and I’m not being sarcastic there at all; he really sound seem sound), the cleverness of his lyrics, even the actual likeability of some of the music, that I can't see past that shortcoming and into what makes them, in fact, good (...and therefore interesting). It could still happen though, and when it does, I'm sure that Reynolds and company’s veneration won't seem arbitrary (as I dismissed it before) in the slightest.

Something else, a possibility that I don't really believe applies here but feel the need to raise anyway, is that Scritti's cleverness—like, say, Matmos's too-perfect references—makes them a critic's band, rather than a fan's band; something like a painter's painter. It's not practically true, of course, as both bands demonstrably have more fans than, well, most painters, but the suspicion hovers nonetheless.

Good luck, Joy!

2006-07-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

Last night was Joy Glidden's leaving party at d.u.m.b.o. arts center (dac) in Brooklyn. Joy was the gallery's Founding Director, my employer for a couple of years, and my first US visa sponsor. She's been fantastically important in motivating artists and other creative people in the area (as well as from much further afield) to take part in exhibitions, events, and projects of all stripes, and is an extraordinarily spirited personality who will be much missed. I, and some great friends who I made while working for her, wish her all the best in her new life (pictured below at DUMBO bar Superfine, from left: Amanda, Dan, Kysa, and Katy). Cheers, Joy!

I'm a grumpy old man

2006-07-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to bobbins mobile ’phone company Cingular (hate that “clever” name, even) for making their shops resemble dole offices so incredibly closely. I was forced into one today in an attempt (failed, naturally) to get my brand-new-but-already-broken unit fixed after a couple of weeks of procrastination. The familiar anxiety pounced immediately as I signed in (signed on) and joined the queue of hopeless-looking customers (jobseekers). Every single “agent” in the place seemed to be either arguing with a client (“Don’t give me attitude. If you give me attitude, I’m not gonna help you.”) or moving with the urgency of frozen treacle. They’ve even cribbed the acid orange color scheme of the old Job Centres. Oh, and the ranting mentalist turned up too. You know the guy; talks very loudly to himself or anyone who will listen, incapable of understanding any system more complicated than “sit down and shut up," eventually leaves in a huff having sucked the scant remaining life force from the room? Yeah, him. Anyway, don’t call me, I’ll call you. From a ‘phone box.

Rollin,' rollin' rollin.'

2006-07-19T10:29:00.000-07:00

I spent last night resurrecting my rollerskating skills at P. S. 1's 30th Anniversary benefit at the Roxy in Chelsea. Once past the club's ludicrously disorganized raft of check-ins, Karen and I had the rink to ourselves for a few minutes, but even once the short-shorted clubbers had descended en masse (the art world seemed largely to have stayed away, though I now live in terror of ending up on artnet after being snapped innnumerable times by the good Paul Laster) it was possible to build up a good head of steam. OK, I did fall over once, but I didn't hurt myself all that badly (I had so many of the pictured glowing things on that I think they actually cushioned my fall). Change up the music (rollerdubstep, anyone?), and this could become a regular thing...

Manhattan Skyline

2006-07-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

The Empire State Building's on the extreme left:

The Manhattan Stonehenge thing got me thinking...

2006-07-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

...this time in Williamsburg.

Now the party's over...

2006-07-17T12:14:00.000-07:00

What, if anything, does it mean that I've found myself able to get into Roxy Music's "Avalon" recently much more easily than their on-paper-much-more-"me" earlier efforts like "For Your Pleasure"? "Avalon" is surely Patrick-Bateman bland, what with all the sax and the backing singers and the crooning and the all-round smoothness. But there's something about it, something simmering under the slick surface sheen, that works. It strikes me like The Pet Shop Boys' "Actually" in that way; outwardly easy (for an indie kid, much too easy) on the ear, but augmented by a melancholic undertow. If I knew anything about the actual structure of music, or the way melody works, I'd probably be able to assign this functionality to a preponderance of minor chords or some such. In fact, I remember the classical boffin at a record shop I used to work at in London telling me that the Boys made the only pop he could listen to, and that this had a lot to do witht the fact that all their songs were written in the key of C. I t was a comment from outer space to me at the time, and isn't all that much more helpful now, but the idea that "frivolous" music might exploit a semi-covert structural route to something more "seriously" affecting (even if that only amonuts to a fairly simplistic happy/sad back-and-forth) is still interesting.

"No, we're not gonna fucking do 'Stonehenge'!"

2006-07-16T12:22:00.000-07:00

On Friday evening, having missed my windows on Wednesday and Thursday, I finally got around to taking my photographs for Smudge Studios' collaborative project '"Manhattan Stonehenge: The Grid becomes Else." The idea, as previously posted, was to document the (strictly speaking) biannual phenomenon of the sun's setting along the exact center line of every street in the New York City grid. I'd decided on a suitably primal, numerologically suggestive spot at 1st and 1st, the Nexus of the Universe. I arrived at 7.55, with the sunset scheduled for 8.27.

As usual there was plenty going on - reeling barflies, drag queens, funeral processions - but the light was only so-so; pleasant but hardly extraordinary. After snapping a couple of decent shots on Houston, and one on, I think, 3rd Street, that may or may not look convincing at a larger scale than I've had a chance to review so far, I realized my obvious mistake: The grid isn't regular below 14th Street, so the effect of the last rays streaming uninterrupted down the middle of the road isn't fully registered. With less than ten minutes before dark I started to hoof it uptown and just reached 14th in time to record a couple of mediocre views East.

Forty-five minutes later I was at Bar Six, awaiting other participants for a concluding rendezvous. Most seemed to have considered their positioning a lot more sensibly (or at least with a more visual emphasis) than I had, to the extent that some had encountered others (official project participants or not we weren't sure) vying for prime sightlines. Tudor City and the Catherdral of St. John the Divine both seemed to be popular choices. Those really in the know had gone view-hunting on more than one occasion, though Wednesday was too rainy to be able to see much.

The experience of having to take a useable photo under such pressure of time was a novel one, especially for someone who takes months to get through a single roll of film or a single memory card. It was also unusual to be focssing on the big picture, so to speak, when I'm normally drawn to small details, especially in urban environments. There's a risk of course than anything involving sunsets might appear too pretty-pretty for any implied discourse on topography, psychogeography, or symbolism to survive, but we'll see.

I've heard that "War and Peace" is a decent read, yeah.

2006-07-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

A blindingly obvious truism, perhaps, but there really are very few things better than dinner with a good friend, especially one as capable of as many conversational twists and turns as her paintings (illustrated, a detail from blow up 35: subatomic decay patterns, 2003) suggest she should be.

Noise Annoys

2006-07-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

Went to see The Buzzcocks at Warsaw in Greenpoint last night. Expected a crowd of cartoon punks but the reality was surprisingly diverse. The band looked pretty much as expcted however: Pete Shelley portly and deadpan (though making with the campy eye-rolling quite a bit), Steve Diggle gangly but clearly overjoyed to be there (a stark contrast to when I last saw him, fronting some unsuccessful band of his own, acting distinctly grumpy), bassist and drummer faceless rentapunks. First half of the (non-stop) set was alright (poor sound though), the second half had more old favorites and was thus more appreciated by people like me who haven't listened to 'em in years and only ever owned one record ("Singles Going Steady," inevitably) anyway. Next gig I attend has to be non guitar-bass-drums-vocals though; it just does (though the next I've actually got a ticket for is Shellac, at Northsix).

A recent shot, from something called http://blog.osakazine.net. Shelley looks like a provincial art school department head or something, no?

Also, my companion for the evening and began a great and potentially endless conversation about the best gigs we'd ever been to. I remembered that I used to keep a list, awarding percentage points to each, and held on to all the tickets for a while too. Please rest assured that I don't do that anymore, though in retrospect you can see the critic already taking shape, right? It all makes for a good memory dredge project now though. I only thought of the tip of the iceberg; Nirvana and Mudhoney at University of London Union, Public Enemy at the Reading Festival (or was it Glastonbury?). Napalm Death, also at ULU, ummm, uuuh...

Skate Bored

2006-07-05T19:29:00.001-07:00

Oh yeah, it was July 4th yesterday wasn't it? Some folks here like to make a big deal about such very special days, but as an alien-of-extraordinary-ability (ask your nearest immigration lawyer), I sometimes forget about them altogether until suddenly, hey, did you say "day off"? Bargain! This year it was more about Italy (versus Germany) than the Good Ol', but fun nonetheless. That semi-mythical "Unicorn," her human cousin Sara, and I hung out on/near The Frying Pan courtesy of the good people at Elizabeth Dee Gallery, got ourselves some food courtesy of our dinky orage writstbands, chatted with the likes of fine painter Richard Aldrich and sharp-as-a-tack BANK alum Simon Bedwell, and pretended we could see the fireworks behind some of the world's tallest buildings. (Well, we could hear them, a little bit. And our counterparts in Jersey looked like they were enjoying a classy show too.) Richard and I had a good discussion about the dull sameness of contemporary skateboards: Whatever happened, we wondered, to pointless pointy noses, punk-as-fuck serrated edges and the like? (Or, from the other end of the equation, why did it take so very, very long to figure out that the simplest shape was the best?)

Bonus round: Name, without looking it up, the long-gone band that performed the song for which I've titled this entry.

I just can't live without my radio

2006-07-02T20:47:00.000-07:00

Except I'm ashamed to admit that I have for quite some time now, occasional bursts of web radio nothwithstanding. So I just ordered one of these:

in a bid to ween myself away from other distractions and find something as close to my old daytime Radio 4/nighttime Radio 1/assorted London pirates mix as possible. I suppose that means NPR and not much else, though if anyone has any recommendations, the comments link is in the usual place. Oddly, digital radio doesn't seem to exist in the US in the way it does back home, so this is a good ol' fashioned AM/FM deal, and I intend on using it to listen to speech rather than music (again, that's what the web's for, right?).

Rubber Apples

2006-07-02T18:10:00.000-07:00

After two or three lazy hours of the kind of top-drawer people-watching that only Central Park on a summer afternoon can afford (oh, I was playing Scrabble too, and listening to the Summer Stage gig with half of half an ear), I was treated to another backstage look at the New York City Ballet (the presmises, not the performers) at Lincoln Center this afternoon, courtesy of a friend who works there (and who should probably remain nameless just in case; security waved the four of us in, all smiles, but you never know these days). The stage itself was the most fun part, replete as it is with all the best kinds of props (plastic axes, rubber apples, a giant golden dragon's head), and plenty of room to ape about in (I watched from a safe distance, I should add, as my companions launched experimented with some comedy pirouettes). The auditorium is an extraordinary space sans audience; supremely quiet (especially striking given the building's central Manhattan location) and plush under hundreds of low lights. Apparently there are vast tracts of the building that are rarely used, and no single employee has a handle on the whole thing. I'd love me a piece of this place, or at least a key.

Heroic Defeat

2006-07-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

I won't lie to you, I cried a little bit on Saturday. It's strange watching the World Cup in a country that's not your own, and that by and large doesn't really give a hoot about it. Accustomed to the focus being on the motherland, one instead receives oddly even-handed treatment, as just another nation amongst many others (and not an especially significant one at that, in this context at least). The focus on Saturday was, as I suppose by rights it should be, very much on the victors. But it still felt like insult added to injury to be denied full wallowing rights.

K-Punk pretty much nails the essence of England drive to failure in his July 2 post. A snippet (I heartily recommend reading the rest, if you can stand the "hurt"):

"England's repeated failure in penalty shoot-outs is not down to bad fortune, as the English media, with its empiricist presuppositions, insists. To lose once might be an accident, but to lose five times demands a psychoanalytic explanation. Some clues as to the nature of the libidinal disorder which afflicts the England side were provided when Rooney was sent off yesterday. From being disjointed and tentative, England suddenly looked purposive and effective. That was because Rooney's dismissal gave England the opportunity to achieve what it is most comfortable and familiar with, a heroic defeat. England players are so accustomed to failure that they would find success traumatic and unimaginable, so it is as if, time after time, the team contrives to lose one of its key players - Rooney yesterday, Beckham in 1998 - in order to set up the desired 'heroic defeat'."

Last Sunday

2006-06-30T15:27:00.000-07:00

Read me on last Sunday's events at and around P.S. 1 Contemporary Art Center here.

Now that's what I call a decent breakfast

2006-06-28T15:33:00.001-07:00

Thanks, mum! I also like the fact that both of these are miniatures, but the lack of context means that you can't be immediately sure of the fact.

The First of Many

2006-06-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

A test transmission: the first of my own photos to make it (hopefully) to the blog. Fingers crossed...

This was taken in Glasgow, incidentally. And no, I don't know who these people are.

“Of course he’ll blog it, he blogs everything.”

2006-06-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, Karen and I ventured out to darkest Greenpoint to meet “next big thing” Priya for a performance by rabble rousers Erase Errata at a local Polish joint, Club Exit. We dined first (and mosquitoes dined on us, then headed over around tennish. The club turned out to be much larger than we’d expected and thoroughly unpunk (or at least a very different strain of punk than the usual). A posse of teenage girls appeared to be having a birthday party (like, with cake and everything) at a table near the bar as we arrived, and there were only a scattering of folks obviously there for the band. We’d allowed two hours after the supposed start of the show before we got there, but it didn’t look like anyone had played yet: The stage was virtually empty of equipment and there just wasn’t a mid-concert feeling abroad. In the end, Karen and I stayed for just Die! Die! Die!, a tortuous electronics-and-ranting double-act, and a song and a half of the second, a more conventional guitar-bass-drums-vocals collective whose name I don’t remember. Priya, you did well to brave it out to the very end, I believe you that Erase Etcetera were excellent, and I apologize again (in public this time!) for not keeping you company.

Actually, now I think about it again, it does look sort of punk, doesn't it?

Good luck, TG!

2006-06-26T12:28:00.000-07:00

The Curating Contemporary Art MA course at the Royal College of Art in London, from which I graduated in 1999, recently said goodbye to its pioneering original leader, Teresa Gleadowe, at a party hosted by Victoria Miro Gallery. I was sad not to be able to make it (I was back at work in New York), but a friend and fellow alum sent me a fine account of goings-on that I thought I’d post here: My own very small tribute to an congenial, talented, and very, very helpful individual. Good luck TG, and thanks!

“The party was really good actually. I think our year had the best turn out. No Ste, Andrea, Joselina, Simone, Rebecca, or Louise H., but everyone else was there. David B., Andrew Brighton, Iwona, and Sally Tallant made speeches, all of which were witty and entertaining. Then TG was presented with a Francis Alys drawing, which almost brought her to tears, but she fought them off and spoke about the future of the course and welcomed Mark Nash, the new course leader. She also thanked many of the people who had contributed to the success of the course in the past such as Sara Maynard and Matthew Higgs, but notably forgot Isabel Vasseur who was standing no more than ten feet from her at the time! Ouch. After that there was sushi, beer, and cocktails outside on that platform that’s a bit like a jetty, followed by Martin Creed’s band givin’ it dixie. All in all it was a lot of fun. Other people I noticed at the party included Ralph Rugoff, Nick Serota, Jenny Lomax, Jeremy Deller, Ann Gallagher, Victoria Miro, Nils Norman, Darren Flook, Ben Craze, Peter Wilburg, Clare, Louise, Scott, Rob and Christabel.”

Two Cities

2006-06-22T11:14:00.002-07:00

Two projects that came to my attention on the same day recently that seem to go together rather well. I'm going to participate in the first for sure (the other one's happened already, but I'm posting details here anyway out of interest, and in case there are future editions).

First, in New York, Manhattan Stonehenge: The Grid Becomes Else

Manhattan Stonehenge: The Grid Becomes Else needs your participation anywhere throughout the five boroughs of New York on any or all of the evenings of July 12, 13, and 14, 2006. On those days between 8:15 and 8:30 PM, the sun fully illuminates cross streets on Manhattan's street grid (except the curved or angled ones) as it sets on each street's centerline. The phenomenon has been called Manhattan's Stonehenge, or Manhattanhenge. Find out more on NPR: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5435113.

We invite our collaborators to observe the sunset on any of these three days, take a digital photo that responds to your experience of the sun's flow of light as it interacts with the city's built environment, email your photo to us for display in an exhibition, and release the city's street grid to be experienced as else. We will include your work in an exhibition in a Lower Manhattan Cultural Council Work Space, and give you full credit as an artist collaborator on all promotional materials.

To take part, please RSVP to gridbecomeselse@gmail.com with the date or dates you will participate and the location you intend to photograph. To learn more, email smudgestudio@gmail.com and visit www.smudgestudio.org.
This project is supported by the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council. When submitting you photographs, please send HIGH resolution images minimally sized to 300 DPI at 5x7 for quality reproduction. Send submissions to gridbecomeselse@gmail.com no later than July 15, 2006.

Secondly, in London, Nightwalk 4, Midsummer:

We invite you to come and join us on the shortest night of the year for Nightwalk 4, Midsummer. The walk will return to the railway footbridge, flying hut and makeshift buildings; through arches, alleys and dark parks; past architectural incongruities and oddities. You will be led past sites of things that have gone and things that are new to the walk. Whether the places are familiar or unfamiliar the night walk will allow you to experience the city in a new way - eyes focused on the overlooked, no destination, walking for its own sake.

Please come and meet us at 9pm on Wednesday 21st June, outside Raj News on the corner of Russia Lane and Bishop's Way, E2 where the walk begins. Nearest tube to the start is Bethnal Green, or Buses 254, 106, 55, 26, 48, D6 and D3, or Cambridge Heath overground. A map is attached and will also be available on the night. Seasonal refreshments will be provided along the way. The walk is circular and takes about an hour, plus short break halfway. For further information on the walk, including downloadable versions of previous maps, please take a look at our website, www.walkwalkwalk.org.uk, or e-mail Gail Burton, Serena Korda, and Clare Qualmann at info@walkwalkwalk.org.uk.

Don't Fly with Me

2006-06-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or does long-haul 'plane travel turn everyne into an emotional mess? OK, so such journeys do tend to entail a bittersweet mix of feelings at the best of times, but even when it's business as (relatively) usual I get unaccountably weepy (though not always melancholic; just as often it's almost the direct opposite). If any of the writers I work with have a pitch for me, they could do worse than transmit it to me in the air since almost anything I read, watch, or listen to mid-Atlantic somehow seems like the greatest thing ever. And even if it doesn't, it somehow manages to touch me in away that it surely never would on land. This trip, The Squid and the Whale was the movie (admittedly a weepie of sorts anyway, though last time it was "The School of Rock" that did it, fer chrissakes), and everything from, uh, Pink Floyd to, uh, Depeche Mode was the music (Mr. Richard Branson's selections, not mine, though, for a few hours at least, I was ready to believe that Virgin had acquired good taste [and I will 'fess up to owning records by both]). I mean, is it something to do with the air pressure? The little bottles of Chardonnay? What?

Everyone Should Move to Scotland Immediately

2006-06-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

New York may be the bomb, but Scotland's bonny - or something like that. Anyway. I recently returned from a trip up North, staying first of all with old friend Dan Howard-Birt and his partner (also a painter) Jacqui in their beautiful apartment in Dundee, and making trips with them to Edinburgh, Stirling, and Glasgow (thanks again for all the driving, you two), then moving on to the latter city for a couple of nights on my own and in the company of another friend, Nicola Atkinson.Davidson (pictured below in her fly-eye shades).

After a relaxing Thursday night in Dundee that included a peek into Jacqui's studio, a.k.a. The Ham Room (there are meat hooks projecting from the ceiling, relics of a previous useage), Dan, Jacqui, and I fled World Cup Fever (actually locally non-existent: Scotland's sulking over their team's non-inclusion) on Friday morning to do the rounds of Edinburgh's museums and galleries. These included The Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art (very enjoyable, apart from a slightly suspect and way too large show of National Geographic-style photography by Felicitas Volger, Ben Nicholson's widow), Stills Gallery (a smallish photography gallery hosting a fine, if predictable, selection of recent shots by Hellen van Meene), The Collective Gallery (who were nice enough to let us in for a sneak pre-preview of their Seamus Harahan and Bedwyr Williams double-header), and The Fruitmarket Gallery (boasting a trying-a-bit-too-hard essay/show on knockabout maculinity in Dada and its contemporary derivations). Buzzing back to Dundee after an injection of coffee and cakes, we attended a lively opening at the very local (I could literally monitor goings-on there from my bedroom window) Dundee Contemporary Arts, where an extremely friendly crowd including the current crew from the city's artist-run Generator Gallery made me feel immediately at home.

The next day, Dan (a little the worse for wear after the previous evening's festivities) and I set out for Glasgow, stopping in Sterling en route to visit The Changing Room (where we both particularly appreciated the work of Jane Topping), and zipping past Stirling Castle on our way out of town. Once in Glasgow, we joined forces with Nicola to catch up with galleries there, taking in Sorcha Dallas, The Modern Institute, and our mate Becky Beasley's excellent "Decors du Silence!" at Ubu, a new gallery in a tenement flat in the city's east end. (Pictured is her photograph, Stud, 2006, from that show.) Transmission, scheduled to be open, was locked and dark.

We also stopped by storied indie record shop, Monorail (Dan, Nicola, I'm looking forward to those compilation CDs), and, much later, an excellent bar, The Variety, where Nicola and I were inspired by the head-nodding resident to continue our ongoing deconstruction of the art and science of DJing. Oh, and I had vegetarian haggis for dinner, which was surprisingly palatable, though obviously nothing to do with real haggis (like I'd know). On Sunday I drifted around the city on my own for a bit, dropping in to a severely dumbed-down GoMA, then hopped the absurdly diminutive Glasgow subway (a.k.a. The Clockwork Orange) - the carriages of which are so low that I battered my head on the ceiling every single time I used it - to meet Nicola in the west end for a stroll and some pre-dinner party shopping. A couple of hours later, we were eating a very fine meal in the company of some utterly charming musician folk including Bill Wells, Daniel Padden and members of Nalle including Chris Hladowski, Hanna Tuulikki and Aby Vuillamy. (Good luck with the lecturing, Aby, I've a feeling you'll breeze through it.) Pictured below, from left to right, up to down, are Chris, Aby, Hanna, and Daniel.

After dinner, Daniel followed up vinyl selections by Faust and Joseph Spence (a new one on me, Spence, but great), and music from The Wicker Man (a disc that includes a version of what was apparently the first song ever recorded in England [Sumer Is A Cumen-In, if memory serves]) by rendering Gary Numan/Tubeway Army's "Are 'Friends' Electric?" on the ukulele. There were also some surprisingly successful (as well as very many unsuccessful) attempts to suspend chocolate-stripped Maltesers (which are apparently called Whoppers in the US, for some reason) in mid air above eaters' mouths. When the time came, I left with Nicola and Bill, happily clutching CDs by The One Ensemble and Nalle (their By Chance upon Waking album), as well as Nicola's "Flight/Vuelo" disc. I've only had time to sample bits and pieces of these so far, but all sound intriguing (and a healthy contrast to all that dubstep stuff I've been obsessed with this summer).

On Monday, Nicola and I took in a few final architectural sights, including the opulent City Chambers and The Hunterian Museum, before I boarded the airport bus and she finalised her own trvel plans (towards a residency in a Nuremburg castle, equipped with a piano that she's now after someone to play).

A memorable trip: All y'all should go, I mean it.

I Want More

2006-06-07T18:30:00.000-07:00

I want more... Buzzing off four glasses of champagne, two glasses of wine, and one bottle of beer might not be the most advantageous state in which to record the evening's proceedings, but whaddya want, I'm on a slow train (again) with nothing better to do (again) and feeling slightly cheated out of a complete night out by the unforgiving strictures of the King's Cross-to-Cambridge timetable. So, in reverse order: The frieze 100th issue celebration at the Cafe de Paris off Wardour Street (a "mid-nineties supermodel hangout, very bling," according to face-around-town Chloe Briggs). Sure enough, the place is cheesy as all hell, a throwback (for me at least) to late-'80s sixth-form-college dos at Hammersmith Palais et. al. But with Dan "The Fox" Fox on the decks and Can's "I Want More" blasting, I wasn't comlaining about anything except the pressure of time. First faces clocked belonged to the always well turned out Marisa Futernick (a.k.a. Marisa Starwell) and beau. Second, the always wide-eyed (in a good way) Polly Staple. After having a decent conversation with Ms. Editor-at-Large the other evening post-Sunn O))) (see earlier entry), and again tonight, I wonder if she remembers or was even ever fully aware that I was in a huff with her over her unaccountable reluctance to write me a reference for my US visa all those years ago? Pol, if you're reading, a) I certainly was, but b) I'm not any more: Life's too short. Third encounter: the always amiable Darren Flook, understandably pleased as punch that Matthew Higgs had lately tapped three artists from his gallery HOTEL for inclusion in the summer show he's curating for Gladstone Gallery in New York. Fourth: Mark Beasley and Andy Hunt, diamond geezers both. Final: Christabel Stewart, Flook's fellow Hotelier (wish I'd had time to take on some more Scottish knowledge in advance of taking off for Dundee and Glasgow tomorrow). And prior to all of that, dinner at Aurora, my second favourite restaurant on Lexington Street and literally next door to my last London address, with the afforementioned Ms.Briggs along with Becky Beasley and stunningly well-informed hubby Chris. A great table, excellent food, and the best company, even if I came away feeling as though I hadn't seen nearly enough weekend-long avant-garde French films. I want more...

Stands the church clock at ten-to-three/And is there honey still for tea?

2006-06-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

Hard to argue with a tea garden that's counted Wittgenstein, Bertrand Russell, Virginia Woolf, EM Forster, Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Peter Cooke, and "Young Apollo" Rupert Brooke among its customers over the past hundred or so years. Such is The Orchard, Grantchester, where I spent a few hours this afternoon getting mildly sunburned and sucking down cakes with my folks. If you're in the area and get the chance, I'd recommend turning up around three, staying untill you have to leave, then stopping at Jeffrey Archer's house round the corner to bawl a few obscenities on your way home.

The Sunn has got his hat on...

2006-06-04T16:11:00.000-07:00

In London again on Friday and yesterday to catch up with friends and events there, arranged around LA doom/art metal band Sunn O)))'s performance in conjunction with Banks Violette's show at Maureen Paley, about which I've written more elsewhere. Some great conversations there (all-consuming roar notwithstanding), among the most enjoyable of which were with a guy who provides the metal piping Violette uses in many of his sculptures and whose partner is a psychiatrist specializing in depression ("I plumb the house, he plumbs the mind"), and my gracious host, artist and curator (and, soon, New York resident), Mark Beasley - one of three Beasleys I hung out with in two days. But I think I annoyed a good pub tableful of people by defending Sunn O)))'s decision to perform behind closed doors. And it was bizarre to bump into a very old friend, Tony Sylvester, for the first time in years, and to discover that he not only works for the band on the promotional side of things, but also played harmonium and, uh, sruti box on their Candlewolf of the Golden Chalice EP.

More on Tea

2006-06-01T16:41:00.000-07:00

Further to my teamaking posts of a while ago, I NEED one of these: a Teasmaid! This is actually a TeasMADE, a new version (though hardly a stylistic update - check the built-in photo frame) that seems to still be available, in England at least (America is frankly way behind the curve in such matters, also as discussed previously). If you're unfamiliar with these gizmos, the idea is that it's an alarm clock that wakes you up by making a cup of tea (I think it buzzzes as well, actually, in case that's not enough). Genius.

"Don't Edit" says editor

2006-06-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

Three books unearthed from boxes in my folks' garage yesterday that might make for a useful compare-and-contrast: Andy Warhol's 24-hours-worth-of-transcribed -speed-babble-as-novel, a (1968), Sean Landers's handwritten direct-from-the-depths (and appropriately misspelled) rant [sic] (1993), and Harmony Korine's "ultimate post-postmodern novel" (it says on the back - uh, thanks, Faber & Faber [?!]) A Crack-Up at the Race Riots (1998). Incidentally, whatever happened to Korine post Julien Donkey-Boy, I wonder?

"I wanted to do a 'bad book' just the way I'd done 'bad movies' and 'bad art,' because when you do something exactly wrong, you always turn up something." - Andy Warhol

"....Sean Landers' [sic] is the best book I've ever read!" - Sean Landers

"....We love him, we hate him, we want to punch him in the mouth. He's you, he's me, he is us all." - Sean Landers

"I have a novel coming out called A Crackup at the Race Riots. It's about a race war, and it happens in Florida, and the Jewish people sit in trees, and the black people -- the blacks are run by M.C. Hammer and the whites are run by Vanilla Ice. It takes place in Florida. I wanted to write the great American choose-your-own-adventure novel." - Harmony Korine

From Crack-Up:

Free for All

2006-05-26T11:50:00.000-07:00

The trouble with this World Wide Web thing is that it’s simply too effective. A couple of friends and I tried to go to a free show by The Books on Wednesday afternoon only to find that, arriving fifteen minutes after tickets were first made available, that all 250 had already gone. The trouble with this New York City thing is that while there’s a ton of interesting stuff happening at any given time, everything halfway decent is oversubscribed tenfold, killing any possibility of anything resembling spontaneity. So, instead of an account of the show, all y’all get is this bellyaching. Sorry. At least we got to enjoy brown baggin' it on the banks of the Hudson, following up with a celebratory (Happy Birthday, Jill!) trip to the reliable Beauty Bar.

Spies

2006-05-23T11:05:00.002-07:00

Finding myself with some time to kill on Williamsburg’s Bedford Avenue before meeting friends for dinner last night, I do what I always do there and drop into the excellent Spoonbill & Sugartown bookshop for a browse. Top discovery on this occasion, for a mere three bucks, was a battered but quite readable copy of something called The New London Spy (“an intimate guide to the city’s pleasures”), a 1966 guidebook to the capital edited by Hunter Davies. The detailed sections on pubs (divided into "Rough Pubs," "Posh Pubs," "Arty Pubs," "Pubs for Unaccompanied Men (Not Queers—but Hearties)," "Pubs for Unaccompanied Women," and "Pubs Associated with Crime"), and clubs (sorted into numerous categories, including the “Let’s Go and See My Old Regiment Chums, Darling-Type Club”) set the (picturesquely dated, entertainingly cynical, slightly seedy) tone and should make a great ’plane read en route to Heathrow next Monday. The book’s title has its origins in another intriguing-sounding publication, pub landlord Ned Ward’s freeweeling periodical of the same name, which was first published in 1703 and describes its author’s diverse metropolitan explorations. "[Ward] started and finshed in a tavern,” writes Davies. “In between, he visited harlots and astrologers, parties and gaming houses, bated the lunatics at bedlam with silly questions and watched a woman being whipped at Bridewell.”

From another accont of mid-'60s London, Michaelangelo Antonioni's Blow Up, David Hemmings as photographer, Thomas:

"Nicely Understated"

2006-05-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

This is just so unbelievably cool I have very little to add, other than that I wish I could have heard Wogan being sarcastic about these guys (in general I've always despised him, but his Eurovision broadcasts are works of snarky genius). Cheered me up no end this morning. Lordi seem to be a tenth-generation, TV-friendly reworking of Gwar, and are no doubt the object of countless "real" metals bands' ridicule, but guys, come on, this is plainly way too silly to be in any way serious about. Shame they didn't go the whole hog and claim full devil-worshipping status, but this'll certainly do for now.

Qui, parmi vous, merite la vie eternelle ?

2006-05-19T12:56:00.001-07:00

Became excited yesterday at the prospect of a new book by Michel Houellebecq, only to discover that it was merely the American edition of "The Possibility of an Island," which I read, like, almost a year ago.

"Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a little fed up with the world." - Houellebecq, from "H. P. Lovecraft; Against the World, Against Life"

Discuss.

Dizzy Dizzy

2006-05-17T17:40:00.001-07:00

Is it wrong that I still consider My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" - "To Here Knows When" in particular - pretty much unsurpassed in terms of sheer immersive beauty? And Eileen, I'm not just saying that for your benefit: I'm listening to it now, chilled glass of wine in hand, and appreciating it as much as I ever have. I remember heating the single for the first time on the John Peel Show (where else?) when it came out in - when, 1990? - and just marvelling at the daring of building a pop song around that woozily intoxicating half-speed drone.

Go Mark!

2006-05-17T10:45:00.000-07:00

Woo-hoo! Congratulations to all-round good guy Mark Titchner for being shortlisted for the 2006 Turner Prize yesterday, along with Phil Collins, Tomma Abts, and Rebecca Warren. It's pretty amazing to see my own generation now in a position to jockey for this kind of major award.

Real World/Art World

2006-05-10T14:06:00.000-07:00

Yet more art world/real world crossover antics recently in the form of Art Star, a yet-to-air reality TV show based on (you guessed it) eager “hopefuls” suffering the slings and barbs of professional curators, critics, and gallerists out to make or fake at least one big name from a mob of wannabes, and Seven Days in the Art World, a book-to-be about the nature of a contemporary scene in which such things are possible.

The first of these landed on my desk yesterday in the form of a DVD of the show’s trailer and pilot episode. Surprisingly, they aren’t all that horrible, considering the customarily repellant format. “Art impresario” Jeffrey Deitch is the MC, aided and abetted in his quest for “art that’s more fun, more real” (whatever that might mean) by the likes of Debra Singer, RoseLee Goldberg, Carlo McCormick, and David Rimanelli (though of these only the guys get significant time on screen, and RoseLee doesn’t get a single word in). The eight finalists that the panel selects are predictably photogenic, and all in their twenties or very early thirties apart from a token retiree. In some ways it’s more Art School Confidential than Art School Confidential, with every kind of cringe-making cliché present and correct. The difference here is that these kids, sincere or not, talented or not, intelligent or not, are at least treated with a little bit of seriousness some of the time. Deitch himself is blandly easy-going to the point of inscrutability while Rimanelli’s campy eye-rolling and world-weary wisecracks keeps things from getting too touchy-feely. Many will find the premise antithetical nonetheless, but this could have been a lot worse. And since it’ll be buried on an obscure HD cable channel, no one much is likely to catch it anyway. Just ask yourself: What would Andy do?

Seven Days is a project of London-based writer Sarah Thompson. This is very much a work-in-progress, but concerns me right now largely because the author will be spending one of the titular days (each will eventually become a chapter) in the office, and has arranged to interview me there this weekend. What would Andy say? Uh, yes. Uh, no. Uh, yes...

Get Real

2006-05-08T11:32:00.000-07:00

Had I not been still sunk in my annual pre-summer "I Hate New York" phase, yesterday would have been just about the perfect city day. After a midday walk across the Brooklyn Bridge (always tough to beat despite, on this occasion, the profusion of bicycle maniacs out for a five-boroughs pedal [I must confess to not fully understanding the appeal of these events; Critical Mass-organized or not, aren't they just the same as any other trek but much slower and more irritatingly "guided"?]), I met up with Amanda Reed at DUMBO General Store for lunch and a round of Scrabble before checking out the Columbia University MFA Thesis Exhibition at the warehouse formally known as ABC Carpet and Home on Jay Street, near the river. Giving the nod to head honcho Gareth James on the way in, I immediately bumped into a crew of workmates and was introduced to the curator, Jenny Moore. (Do all MFA shows come with curators now? And can they really act with anything like the freedom their title implies, given that every graduating student must be angling for advantageous, or at least equal space?) But, truth be told, the work wasn't up to much. Tamy Ben-Tor's wicked assault on celebrity chef Rirkrit Tiravanija and other instantly recognizable art-world figures, types, and tropes in her video, The End of Art, was entertaining, as was Ronnie Bass's curious deadpan narrative in his own short, Our Land, but the preponderance of "will-this-do?" painting and perfectly marketable suburban gothic photography was more than a little disheartening.

From DUMBO we went, fuelled by cool cream puffs from Broadway's excellent Beard Papa, to the Angelika Film Center, meeting Katy Hamer for a screening of Art School Confidential, Terry Zwigoff's new cinematic take on a subject close to all our hearts, and the second half of a perfect reality-fiction double-header. Unfortunately, after a fairly promising start, the most potentially amusing characters and situations therein were neglected in favor of a ludicrous serial-killer plot (lifted, according to Katy, straight from Hustle & Flow) and the principal character's unconvincingly rapid degeneration from absurdly fresh-faced naif to embittered suicidal alcoholic. The first of many shockers was that this was supposed to be set in New York, when all initial signs pointed to a struggling provincial school. Someone really skimped on the research there. Only John Malcovich's aging painting professor and Jeremy Guskin's blowhard proto-conceptualist were really close enough to home. A wasted opportunity, all in all (though the mentions of Artforum were appreciated, naturally).

After a pint at Tom and Jerry's, Katy and I somehow got the idea to go a see David Blaine floating in his bubble of water/hype at Lincoln Center. Even past eleven at night there were hundreds of people waiting for a chance to press their palms against the glass and give a manic thumbs-up for the camera. The sight was admittedly an eerie one, but mainly for the contrast between the silence of the act itself and the hubbub surrounding it. The stunt is so simple (one might even say stupid) that it allowed for endless riffing on possibilities for replication, variation, sabotage . . . It also attracted some odd sorts: A particular favorite of ours was the old geezer observing the "action" (such as it was) through an antique brass telescope, then directing a security guard to film his commentary on local architecture. Having recently read a biography of Houdini, Blaine's "trick" seemed oddly without actual trickery: The wow-factor (and as this hasn't been framed as art, can we really talk about meaning as an intention of the maker/performer?) seems to be derived from the sheer endurance required, rather than from any "how-did-he-do-that?" mystery. Perhaps he ought to have done a lot more, or a lot less, than simply bobbing about waving and smiling (I'm thinking total meditative stasis, or a series of additional tasks)?

Groucho Marxism

2006-05-03T13:46:00.000-07:00

Further to my early post about Beano cartoonist Leo Baxendale, while trawling at semi-random this afternoon I came across this extraordinary piece on The Bash Street Kids' punk roots. Militant Esthetix in general looks like a barrel o' (theory-related) laughs.

On a similarly smart-ass (Groucho) Marxist tip, I've been meaning to check out November magazine, a parody of bathroom staple, October. Last time I was in Printed Matter, I overheard the staff discussing it's current hot-cake sales status, so any remaining copies might not stick around for long. Artnet has the details.

Saturday and Sunday

2006-05-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, Katy Hamer and I attended the last evening of "It's Never too Late to Have a Happy Childhood," part one of this year's Moving Patterns festival of electronic music at the Austrian Cultural Forum. This was a Klein Records night with performances by Dienz/Maimone and Albin Janoska. The former were really extraordinarily good: Christof Dienz played an Alpine zither and looped, live, the instrument's surprisingly extensive range of sounds to the accompaniment of Tony Maimone's rhythmic bass patterns. Perusing the new issue of The Wire later on, I came across a passage in Sam Davies's review of Battles at the Luminaire in London that might also apply here: Of musicians use of sampling pedals to "blur the lines between live spontaneity and the closed sound loop," Davies writes that "This whole trend seems like one response to the problem of music in the age of digital reproduction, to adopt Walter Benjamin. While the mainstream agonizes over the politics of digital dissemination, others adopt the technology as a method of performance itself." Albin Janoska were, by comparison, a disappointment; a conventional jazz-funk jam band that seemed way out of place here. The drummer, headphoned and expressionless behind a Plexiglas screen, seemed blandly flawless, more like a session musician than anything genuinely creative.

On Sunday, I made a long-promised visit to the Williamsburg studio of my friend Vargas-Suarez Universal, on whom I'll be writing for a forthcoming monograph. As ever, he was working on some stimulating stuff, drawing inspiration in particular from the emergent science around cellular automata, and from photographs of Martian landscapes. To judge from images like the one below, his current show at Karpio + Facchini Gallery in Miami seems to have marked another step forward for his practice. After Rafael revealed his intention to make a wall drawing around the inside of a small skylight in his kitchen, we swapped some stories about other diminutive "gallery" spaces including a project space that once existed inside an antique silver cigarette case and another that made its home the inside a freezer. (The latter's curator greeted guests at openings with the satisfying inversion "show's in the 'fridge, beer's out back.")

While in the neighborhood, I visited the recently relocated City Reliquary, a curious and beautifully arranged and highly idiosyncratic wunderkammer of New York-related ephemera and kitsch. In a single small room stand an array of old vitrines and cabinets containing an eccentric selection of Gothamite bits 'n' pieces ranging from chunks of various landmark buildings including the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel and Grand Central Station to a shelf of "Seltzer Bottles of Brooklyn." Like The Museum of Jurassic Technology in LA (top of my must-list list if I ever get there) and Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford (still my favorite museum in the world), the Reliquary deviates from the standard model of a museum as an authoritative, or even reliable, source of historical or other information, frequently branching out into various degrees of embroidery and fabrication. It's definitely whimsical (have the McSweeney's crew discovered this place yet?) in a way that could be grating, but it's done with such care and attention that I couldn't help but admire it (especially for just fifty cents). And even though the "History of Burlesque in New York" exhibit, apparently housed inside an old gym locker, wasn't functioning on my visit, I even enjoyed listening in on the attempts being made to fix it: "No, no, no, the colour's wrong . . . too red . . . a little better . . . maybe, maybe."

RIP David Gorman

2006-04-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

Some very sad news from my friend and former WordsWorth Books boss Mike Patterson courtesy of another friend and co-worker, Tobias Hickey: David Gorman, an old friend and colleague of ours from WordsWorth Books in London, died recently. David was a genuine book lover (he turned my on to the novels of Patrick Hamilton, among others), a great storyteller, and a true gentleman. I feel lucky to have known him and will always think of him with great affection. Here’s to you, David.

Racing Green

2006-04-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

Attention Americans: Despite poor taste in teapot (it shouldn't be a "novelty" shape) and mug (should be a cup and saucer instead, ideally), this guy (though apparently American himself) has the basics of tea-making just about right (though I would add "one for the pot"). Here's a more comprehensive account that includes some variations. I particularly appreciate the requirement for a British Racing Green teapot.

The sun has got his hat on...

2006-04-26T10:51:00.000-07:00

Two moans. Firstly, it’s a shame that ArtsJournal.com’s Tyler Green often makes such poor, petty use of his platform. It’s tedious in particular that he continues to miss the clear point of Artforum.com’s Scene and Herd column, despite appearing to be amongst its most assiduous, or at least regular, readers. By reporting on parties and openings, the column nowhere implies that, as the self-righteous Green would have it, art “doesn’t matter.” It simply reflects, usually in an appropriately lighthearted manner, on the social situations that happen around it. Very obviously, parties are not replacements for, or more important than, art, but they can be fun to write and read about. If, contrary to all appearances, Green’s really not interested, why doesn’t he simply skip the offending column and proceed directly to the rest of the website, to the magazine itself, or simply elsewhere?

Yesterday, the nitpicky Green called me on my supposed misuse of the words “bustling land” (already sounds like a matter of great import, right?). Of course, he took the phrase too literally: As I employed it, “the land” clearly referred to the crowded scene at the event I was describing, not to the ground under my feet (as much fun as an earthquake might have been). So to describe it as “bustling”—meaning, as defined by Webster’s, “to be busily astir” (in the sense of “teeming”)—was, by common consent of some of the best editors in the world, neither incorrect nor misleading.

Secondly, I’ve finally had it once and for all with 71 Irving, my local coffee place and one of the least relaxing “relaxing” places I’ve ever frequented. They have nice things to eat and drink (though they share with most New York caffs the total and inexplicable inability to make a decent cup of tea: Don’t put the milk in first if you’re using an already-feeble teabag!) but they play bad radio all the time, the staff shout at each other constantly and unnecessarily, and, worst of all, the place is rammed with babies 'n' yuppies day and night, none of whom seem to be able to CONTROL THE VOLUME OF THEIR VOICES.

Booked

2006-04-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

Having worked in London bookshops (WordsWorth in Camberwell and the now sadly-defunct Zwemmer Art and Architecture off Charing Cross Road) for some years, I feel a special bond with booksellers worldwide. Dodging the rain (en route to an auction at White Columns) in Bleecker Street's The Biography Bookshop yesterday afternoon I felt immediately at home, recognizing straight away the free-floating state of mind that had led two employees into a conversation about how Earth Day had somehow morphed, 'round their way at least, into Free Vodka Day. Some of the best/silliest conversations I've ever had have been conducted behind the counter in a bookshop while vaguely aware of customers snickering, or just waiting patiently, in the background.

The End of April

2006-04-21T13:33:00.000-07:00

Inspired and assisted by Priya and Leslie, I've curated a music compilation, titled "The End of April," that's available, for a limited time only, for free dowload via SendSpace here. (Once you've acquired it, you should be able to just drag it into iTunes, though since it's a compressed file, you may need to, uh, uncompress it first.) I await your comments and questions. I think it sounds a tiny little bit like this photograph - Thomas Struth's "Crosby Street / Spring Street, New York, 1978" - looks. You may well disagree and I reserve the right to change my mind.

Cindy, Cindy

2006-04-17T10:19:00.000-07:00

OK, so BOMB magazine's annniversary party/auction at The Park was scandal-free, but hey, Cindy Sherman was there.

I know, I should've asked her to take my picture. With a cameraphone.

Not Art but Could Be/Not Art but Became So

2006-04-16T08:57:00.000-07:00

A friend recently described to me something that she's started doing, for an entirely practical reason, which nonetheless looks very much like an art project: Having left her grandmother's necklance (an item of consideable sentimental and perhaps also financial value) in a New York taxi a few months ago and done, to no avail, everything possible to track it down, she now takes a cameraphone photograph of the ID number of every cab she gets into just in case she happens to misplace something else in similar circumstances. The results, a surprisingly varied sequence of shadowy, snatched-looking shots that so far exist only only said 'phone, have an enigmatic resonance that's a hair's breadth away from making an exhibitable series. And the backstory, unfortunate though it may be, only helps.

The project also reminds me of another non-artwork that I ushered into fully-fledged commodity status by including it in an exhibtion (albeit one seen by very few people). I refer to Christian Rutherford's tiny, exquistite drawings of tsunamis (this was long before the term achieved the common currency it has now) made on the ends of small matchboxes and originally "displayed" in the space between the top of his 'fridge and the underside of a tabletop in his miniscule Knightsbridge "living pod." I remember agonizing for some time over whether the project's original context was the only one in which it should ever be seen. Probably it was the best.

"I gave at the office"

2006-04-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

Beset by clipboard-wielding drones on Seventh Avenue this afternoon (they cluster outside the Chelsea Whole Foods), I was reminded of Ed Wenn's excellent, nothing-more-need-be-said response: "I gave at the office." (It's funnier if you know the source; Ed's hardly your typical cubicle inhabitant.) Of course, that got me wondering what happened to the guy, who I knew slightly from his days in London as a musician in various late-'80s hardcore/post-hardcore acts including Bad Dress Sense, The Stupids (a green vinyl edition of their "Peruvian Vacation" album is among my scant remaining twelve-inch plastic), and Sink. He was also, as Ed Shred, a charismatic presence on the skate scene of the time. I interviewed him and a bandmade once for punk magazine MAXIMUMROCKNROLL and even lettered the lyrics for one of Sink's album inserts. I googled the name and the first couple of sites on the list were bullseyes. Located with vertiginous seed were a rather touching (to me, at least) biography, and a wrap-up of the afforementioned bands (as well as some others I was unaware of).

I remember Ed as a smart and funny individual who I always wished I'd known better. I think he's a couple of years older than me, which miught have made a slight difference then, but certainly shouldn't now. I wouldn't mind getting in touch, though I wonder if he'd even remember me?

Freighted

2006-04-12T12:11:00.003-07:00

I picked up a copy of a new book, Freight Train Graffiti, from the Bookforum overflow shelves yesterday. Most of the work therein follows the standard styles, but a section on "Monikers" caught my eye. These are essentially tags, though without the connection to hip-hop culture and largely made, in oilstick or chalk, by railroad workers or hobos (and that's another American culture - the hobo sign cypher in particular - that I could get seriously interested in). Most include a name, the date, and a cartoonlike sketch. The book's authors trace the practice to its origins in the late nineteenth century, through the work and (often mysterious) lives of early-to-mid twentieth-century pioneers like JB King Esquire and Bozo Texino, to a now apparently booming "third shift" that kicked off in the early '90s. Particularly intriguing is the story of The Solo Artist, a new-school New York graffiti writer who became fascinated by boxcar culture and decided to also pursue a revivalist freight practice with his own moniker. Expect the "M." thing to change as soon as I think up, or steal, a decent moniker.

"Next Blog"

2006-04-11T18:26:00.000-07:00

I expect everyone does the same when they initially sign up with Blogger, but I couldn't let a recent tour of random blogs via the "Next Blog" button pass without comment. I seem to have joined a "community" that consists primarily of new parents and recent divorcees, very average teenagers and terrifying religious fruitcakes. The level of icky sentimentality floating around the ether is disheartening, though the number of people using the medium to weather serious illnesses at least suggests a genuine theraputic usefulness. But the fundamental question remains: Why on earth would anyone else want to read this stuff - especially as the quality of the writing, however one defines or assesses it, seems, more often than not, beside the point. The paradox is the same as that of the fanzine: It's a means for non-experts (or at least, non-experts in publishing) to get their particular word out, which is all well and good for them, and potentially exciting for their readers in that it allows for a circumvention of editorial strictures (not that I'm wholly against such strictures, you understand) but, more often than, the results generally 'ain't that great. No surprise. Conclusion: Blogger should probably be edited just a little bit. By - heh, heh, heh - me.

Happening

2006-04-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

RIP Allen Kaprow.

"The young artist . . . will discover out of ordinary things the meaning of ordinariness. He will not try to make them extraordinary. Only their real meaning will be stated."

Our Hank

2006-04-06T20:42:00.000-07:00

Just been watching The Henry Rollins Show on IFC. Somehow, I still retain an irrational affection for the guy despite the cultural contradictions he continues, blatently, to embody, and the predictably simplistic political conclusions he reaches. Alright, the books were unforgivable, but the bands (Black Flag; The Henry Rollins Band) were responsible for enough top nights out to earn him the beneifit of the doubt for at least a little while longer. As to the show, well, his chat with Oliver Stone was disappointingly brief and way too cosy, and the comedic-critical shorts were frankly embarrassing, but an appearance by Sleater-Kinney was surprisingly convincing (new guitar-bass-drums-vocals has to be pretty special to impress me these days), and I appreciated Our Hank’s closing tribute to Rainer Fassbinder (for his iconoclatic spirit) and Keanu Reeves (for his part in Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho), along with his accompanying reminder that Brokeback Mountain was hardly the first gay-themed drama. Thomas Frank may have lambasted him, in Commodify Your Dissent, as just Details magazine's favorite manifestation of the capitalist work ethic and "no more a threat to established power in America than was Dale Carnegie," but I'm still going to be watching him talk to Chuck D next episode.

Screwed Down

2006-04-05T11:41:00.001-07:00

I received, via completely unnecessary FedEx rather than standard mail, my first purchase from Houston, Texas's Screwed Up Records and Tapes yesterday. It's a double CD mix by DJ Screw (1971-2000) titled Chapter 48 - Gallon 1 (don't ask me why, I just picked the first on one the shop's [extensive] online list) and features seventeen of the late DJ's decelerated ("screwed") versions of various then-current hip-hop tracks. Apparently, Screw initially selected tracks he didn't like, manipulating their tempi until they resonated with his cough-syrup-warped sensibility (codeine, along with pop and Jolly Ranchers, was the scene's drug of choice). Martin Turenne writes that "Screw’s turntable remixes lent a melancholy air to even the glossiest of tracks, turning braggart MCs’ declarations into pained expressions of fear and loathing." My favourite so far is probably the eerily glutinous half-speed remix of Spice 1's "I Got Five On It." I love the photo of the shop on the back cover too: It looks about as inviting as a Belfast RUC station. Thanks to Houston resident Domenick Ammirati for reminding me about this particular local phenomenon.

Disseminated Primatemaia

2006-04-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

I've recently been enjoying, courtesy of Christian Rutherford's last bookshelf purge, John Gray's book Straw Dogs, a slim but enjoyably bad-tempered, we're-all-doomed-anyway volume of eccentric pop philosophy that picks apart the idea that humans are different from other animals, or can ever be masters of their fate. Quotable quotes abound, and one does feel rather bullied at times as the author blasts through a raft of complex issues in order to hit, pinball-like, one punchline after another. But the book does call some lazy thinking to task in a bracingly gutsy fashion. I love this blackly Ballardian take on the auomobile, from 'Why Humanity Will Never Master Technology':

"Once technology enters human life - whether it be fire, the wheel, the automobile, radio, television or the internet - it changes it in ways we can never fully understand. Care may have been invented to make moving about easier; but they soon came to be embodiments of forbidden desires. According to Illich, 'The model American puts in 1,600 hours to get 7,500 miles: less than five miles an hour' - not much more than he could travel on his own feet. Which is more important today: the use of cars as means of transportation, or their use as expressions of our unconscious yearnings for personal freedom, sexual release and the final liberation of sudden death."

See what I mean? Also, from near the end:

"Those who struggle to change the world see themselves as noble, even tragic figures. Yet most of those who work for world betterment are not rebels against the scheme of things. They seek consolation for a truth they are too wek to bear. At bottom, their faith that the world can be transformed by human will is a denial of their own mortality."

Prospects: Good

2006-04-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

Prospect Park in Brooklyn is so much more my speed than Central Park: Somehow it feels a lot closer in spirit to some of my London favorites, like Holland Park, than the Big C (do people call it that? I hope not, actually) ever will. A tranquil half-hour walk there with friends on Sunday reminded me of how superior green space can feel to grey space (and this coming from a committed urbanite/urbanophile). If I didn't do what I do do, I think I might like to have a go at designing a park.

"Flensing Lesson"?

2006-03-31T15:19:00.001-08:00

Here's my assessment of that Matthew Barney shindig I referred to in my last post. To sum up, in fewer words, the essential (about the event, if not the work): Dude, Bjork was there. She's one of precious few "celebrities" who I'm in genuine awe of (Barney's just another artist).

I Am Trying to Waste Your Time

2006-03-27T13:54:00.000-08:00

It doesn't really make much sense to "review" a house party - especially a birthday party, since who really cares apart from the Birthday Boy/Girl? - but I'd rather do that then discuss, say, the thirty or so Chelsea gallery shows I dragged myself around on Saturday. So, I arrived - alone, at midnight - at an apartment in my old Brooklyn neighborhood of Carroll Gardens for a friend's boyfriend's celebration. That I'd got the right place was confirmed by the presence of a knot of smokers outside (everyone's so polite these days - I hate that), and the muffled thumps emanating from within. I opened the door to a packed, pitch-dark suite of apparently unfurnished rooms, deposited my six-pack in the kitchen, and hunted for a familiar face (two or three eventually emerged from the gloom). This was a real party: real DJ (own [obscure, dissonant] music; no requests); real dancing (well, real frenetic jumping up-and-down), and real disorientating, even without the booze. At one point the beat ceased abruptly (due to the cops [reportedly - I didn't even see 'em come in] and an overheated amp), and at about 1.30 (it was a good forty-five minutes late) in flounced the singing telegram, dressed as a rather limp-looking hotdog and making, by request, with the Jewish "jokes." It (OK, she) stayed all of five minutes (though it felt like significantly longer) and, as the hostess commented immediately afterwards, it was kind of a relief to see the back of her. Happy birthday, Sami. Tomorrow night: Matthew Barney's film screening afterparty at the Japan Society. How will he compete?

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Meaning

2006-03-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

I finally got around to seeing Michael Haneke’s Caché last night, at the Sunshine, with my friend Priya. Haneke’s admirably relentless Funny Games has long been a favorite of mine, and the ludicrous but enjoyable The Piano Teacher impressed me enough that I rented all the other movies of his that I could find. Caché is as effective as any of these, perhaps more so in that it paints a more readily “believable” picture. But man, that ending! We were confused enough that we almost got into an argument with an old couple leaving the auditorium, then stood around in the lobby for another twenty minutes or so debating what might have happened, then continued the discussion over blintzes and beer. Of course, while Haneke leads us to expect a straightforward, if unsettling, psychological thriller, it soon becomes clear that he has something more complex in mind, and that a search for “the perpetrator” of “the crime” is hardly the point. But we couldn’t help wondering, especially after advance notices had left us hypersensitive to the supposedly revelatory significance of the final scene (though I was so scared of missing something, I ended up missing the most obvious part of all). Predictably, there were only half a dozen people in the audience, and just as predictably, they all laughed like drains during the film’s only really violent/visceral moment. Fine to express shock with a guffaw of disbelief, but to giggle for a further five minutes? Doh!

Priya writes: In googling around to see if we were right about the ending, I came across one review that talked about how the "the audience feels nerve-janglingly uncomfortable for having already made its emotional investment in the white characters,'" which struck me as-spot on (and worse for me since I'm not even white!). And Anthony Lane, writing in The New Yorker, totally missed how the final scene on the school steps complicates things: he thinks it could be "a vision of modern France at peace with itself"! By the way, the lady who plays Daniel Auteuil’s mom was also the mom in 'The Piano Teacher,' which is why she seemed so familiar. And did you know Haneke is in his sixties? For some reason I've always imagined him as much younger.

Two Times Three

2006-03-18T09:15:00.001-08:00

I spent Thursday and Friday in Washington DC, my first visit there for, uh, nineteen years (I’m very, very old). Three things I think I saw there, all from maniacally-piloted taxis: 1) a van belonging to Muzak LLC, an unexpected reminder of the first piece of writing that I ever published in a magazine (other than one of my own embarrassing photocopied efforts): “Muzak and Background Art,” in Brian Duguid’s now long-defunct EST; 2) a man writhing on the ground apparently on fire, or at least with smoke or steam either pouring off his body or from the pavement beneath him; and 3) a woman eating coins, plucked one by one from a large plastic cup. Three things I know I saw there (Leslie Miller, who did all the planning, can corroborate these at least): 1) a trio of invigorating museum exhibitions (Robert Bechtle at the Corcoran Gallery of Art, “Dada” at the National Gallery of Art, and [self-important quotations from the artist notwithstanding] Hiroshi Sugimoto at the Hisrchorn Museum and Sculpture Garden); 2) a revelatory performance by one Ris Paul Ric at tiny The Warehouse Next Door (an edgy Prince-obsessed singer-songwriter standing on a milk crate and fussing about the colour of the lighting was the last thing I expected after the two-bit emocore support); and 3) possibly the nicest “guest bedroom” ever, which I fully intend to inhabit next time around.

The Select Few

2006-03-18T08:31:00.000-08:00

After a slew of discussions on the subject, it’s become clear that turning Left Where It Fell into a “real” “personal” diary wouldn’t be the best use of the blog’s unique attributes. Ideally, diaries should be written by hand in small leather-bound books and are functional only for their owners and the select individuals that might be “accidentally” allowed to “find” them. Confessing all to whoever might care to read requires a very special kind of chutzpah that I don’t even want to have. I refer readers back to the first word in the subtitle: Most interactions won’t make it this far. I’m also uninterested in trying to make this site more “popular” by referring to “popular” people, places, activities, or objects; there are, by definition, plenty of other fora for that. That first subtitular word applies here too.

Pattern Recognition

2006-03-13T11:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking (since before I even started it, really) about ways of, and reasons for, making this blog a little more personal without either a) allowing it to become completely uninteresting to anyone but me and the people I see every day, and/or b) making public things that shouldn’t or needn’t be. Australian curator Amanda Love, who I was seated next to at Artforum’s dinner at The Kitchen Club last night, had some interesting things to say on the subject, specifically its relationship to making and exhibiting art, with particular reference to the ouevre of her best mate Tracey Emin. I don’t think I’ll be getting quite as confessional as Our Trace any time soon, but the construction of private versus public personae is unarguably pertinent here. The hypertext link as literary palimpsest and/or tool for avoiding ever expressing an opinion of one’s own also provided food for thought. Amanda (who exhibited a dry wit that felt more English than Australian) also recommended William Gibson’s novel “Pattern Recognition” as a related read—I’ll be picking it up as soon as I’ve finished Noman Mailer’s “The Fight” (I’m still on a New Journalism kick after reading Marc Weingarten’s critically panned but still useful “The Gang That Wouldn’t Write Straight”).

Also well met last night, at an after-dinner gathering at Botanica (where the loved-to-death sofas of yore seem to have finally given way to some new, or at least new-to-the-bar, seating): effusive curator-artist-alternative energy campaigner Eleanor Harwood of Adobe Books backroom gallery in San Francisco (which looks like a great hangout; I love the style of Chris Cobb's color-coded reorganization of the shop's stock, pictured below). I may grumble about the art fairs, but they do attract some personalities.

Armed and Dangerous

2006-03-10T13:20:00.000-08:00

The fundamental problem with The Armory Show, as with most other contemporary art fairs, is that it offers one of the worst environments imaginable for actually experiencing most contemporary art. Even the more “curated” booths are still, well, booths, and those dealers or institutions who adopt a more pranksterish or purportedly “critical” approach risk seeming like a novelty sideshow to the Main Event (Jack Bankowsky’s theorization of an emergent “art fair art” subgenre [“Tent Community: Art Fair Art” in Artforum, Vol. XLIV, No. 2, October 2005] notwithstanding). Of course, these events exist primarily for the purposes of wheeling and dealing, but it’s hard to abandon aesthetic sensibilities when these are, ultimately, what’s being bought and sold. Brian Sholis does a bang-up job of summarizing the comings and goings at this year’s (rather restrained) opening bash, but the Armory remains an instance of the art world at, for better or worse (and I have nothing against galleries selling art—that would be churlish), its most hardheaded.

Our Domain

2006-03-10T13:18:00.000-08:00

I’m grateful to the folks at Pro Arts in Oakland, California, for inviting me to select work for their Juried Annual Exhibition a short while back. I wish I could have been there and meddled with the installation design but, from a just-received disc of images, it look like they did just fine on their own. You can read a press release about the show, and download my e-mail discussion with then-Director of Exhibitions and Programming Christian L. Frock, here.

The Darkside

2006-03-10T13:16:00.000-08:00

The sleevenotes begin “This is the sound of dark, decaying London.” How could I not love the record? Dubstep Allstars Vol. 2 (Tempa cd004) showcases a metropolitan dance subgenre that targets my soft spots with uncanny accuracy. Simon Reynolds is right, as ever, in characterizing this particular development as a consolidation of existing styles but it’s still fierce, functional music. “Dubstep producers,” Reynolds writes, “reshuffle elements of bleep, bass, mentasm, breaks, leavened with hints of acid and electro and digidub; the resulting composites working both through their intrinsic and abiding sonic effects but also as signifiers, tokenings-back that address themselves to “those who know.”

Totally Glam

2006-03-09T07:43:00.000-08:00

In response to a not-so-subtle prompt, Philip Auslander has been kind enough to agree to flow me a free copy of his new book, "Performing Glam Rock: Gender and Theatricality in Popular Music." Phil knows the territory inside-out, so this promises to be an excellent read (even if it is going to take some fiendishly clever argument to persuade me of the aesthetic validity of Suzi Quatro).

Live Long and Prosper

2006-03-08T10:14:00.000-08:00

A friend and I were required to show up to an event at Soho House last night, held in what's laughably referred to as "The Library" (a bar with a picture of some books on the wall, which should, ideally, have swung aside to reveal the real thing but, naturally, didn't). ARTnews executive editor Robin Cembalest was also in attendance, and we got talking about her "Jewish art blog," Painting the Town. I love this line from her most recent post, inspired by an encounter with Leonard Nimoy:

"You could argue that Leonard's most resounding Jewish artwork was appropriating the Jewish priestly blessing for the wide-fingered Vulcan salutation, making for the greatest crypto-Jewish in-joke in TV history."

I'm still grateful to Robin for collaring, and introducing me to, New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly at the opening of Robert Rauschenberg's "Combines" survey at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last December. She's got guts.

Squeals, Rumbles, and Thumps

2006-03-06T09:27:00.000-08:00

"On Friday night, I went to see Whitehouse at Northsix." Such an unlikely statement that it's hard to know where to begin pulling it apart. What was a London band that I had assumed gave up the ghost sometime in the late '80s doing in Williamsburg in 2006, and on the same bill as Wolf Eyes and, uh, Pig Destroyer? Many other attendess seemed similarly puzzled. I'd only ever known the act via scandalized rumor, most of it connected with their early album "Great White Death," so this was a belated initiation to their sound and (rather unfortunate) look. Progenitors of the never-popular "power electronics" "scene," Whitehouse trade in furious ranting over a looping barrage of squeals, rumbles, and thumps. But, as so often with live performance, if one isn't already au fait with the thematic agenda (here, purportedly, "confrontational" takes on sex and death), it's virtually impossible to comprehend what the blokes onstage are getting so riled up about, and on this occasion the music just didn't hold sufficient interest to justify the benfit of the doubt. So while the intended result was obviously some sort of catharsis, the actual effect was unintentionally comic.

Return to Bash Street

2006-03-03T11:38:00.001-08:00

I’m not at all sure what led me, over lunch, to Google one Leo Baxendale, but I’m glad I did: Turns out that this figure from my childhood is far more complex and eccentric than I’d ever have guessed. Baxendale was the creator of a number of classic children’s comic strips including, for The Beano, Minnie the Minx and The Bash Street Kids and, much later, the frankly bizarre Willy the Kid and Baby Basil. Amongst the things about that I didn’t know about him until just now were that, in the mid-’60s, he co-published a radical political journal called Strategic Commentary, and that currently lives with his wife Peggy in the Cotswolds, where they maintain an idyllic garden.

Gas and Sleet

2006-03-02T11:52:00.001-08:00

Today, I've been appreciating the confluence of Gas's ethereal "Pop" and the snap-crackle-pop of sleet against my office window.

One Way to Begin

2006-03-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

"For a long time, I used to go to bed early."