We travel in and out of the big tent to stand near groupies and their babies. Scriptwriters explain their deepest desires. Our brief trip across the road confirms that Tom and Tammy Waites are big enough entities to fill a Boathouse without completely sinking it. No police officers patrol the bathrooms under the Blues-ignorant eyes of Queen Elizabeth who has ears made of stone.
Run to the Rumrunner for improved beer and food. Our hosts secure tables in a way that I shamefully sell short, for the first of many times that night. Ladies arrive and depart when the adulation of the fans is not enough for them.
The Mississippi Queen fries catfish and beans in a distinctive rooster-posture. Edgar Winter (back in the big tent) channels blues via classic rock, playing every instrument in turn, followed by extended scat. Jenny bangs the belly-drum slowly and, after fording the mass migration of Kitchener diasporacs, invests in a giant turkey leg.
More tables are pounced-upon and conglomerated. A radio receptionist is receptive to radio reception. The Mississippi Queen dances ballet to the blues. I leave the young lovers and grab a taxi just before the rain begins.
Showing posts with label Kitchener. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kitchener. Show all posts
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Greg Allman in Kitchener
I escorted my parents to see Greg Allman at the Kitchener Blues Festival on Thursday. I have almost no recollection of Allman from my youth (other than wondering why there was an enormous spherical blob of jello on the back of his fruit truck) but I'm always intrigued by ace musicianship. Also I figured I could keep my folks from whooping it up too much, which in fact wouldn't happen, so I was making a joke there.
My immediate perception: blues is a little boring in a large venue, especially when performed in a manner that our town paper called "workmanlike." It seemed like every single song followed the same exact formula: a vocal introduction, followed by a piano solo, then either a sax or a guitar solo, and then a refrain of the vocal for the big finish. The musicians were amazing, as expected, but if there is such a thing as "too many piano solos" then I witnessed it several times over.
There was little variation. There was precious little soul. Even Allman's Hammond B3 sounded "workmanlike," having been played with much more verve and style by opening band "Aphrodite's Bodice."
I'm not sure if anybody else felt this way. There was certainly a lot of whooping and cheering going on, though mostly by Kitchener's life-long all-day porch-party brigade. We sat behind the cutest middle-aged German couple you've ever seen: both of them portly and homely, and when Allman sang "Melissa," the woman put her head on her husband's hamhock shoulder and gently held his hand. So that was sweet.
Maybe it's just a "blues thing." I felt that the spectacle would have been much better in a more intimate venue. It was a rush to see such talented guys put on a show, even if I still don't understand why there was a blob of jello on that album cover way-back-when.
My immediate perception: blues is a little boring in a large venue, especially when performed in a manner that our town paper called "workmanlike." It seemed like every single song followed the same exact formula: a vocal introduction, followed by a piano solo, then either a sax or a guitar solo, and then a refrain of the vocal for the big finish. The musicians were amazing, as expected, but if there is such a thing as "too many piano solos" then I witnessed it several times over.
There was little variation. There was precious little soul. Even Allman's Hammond B3 sounded "workmanlike," having been played with much more verve and style by opening band "Aphrodite's Bodice."
I'm not sure if anybody else felt this way. There was certainly a lot of whooping and cheering going on, though mostly by Kitchener's life-long all-day porch-party brigade. We sat behind the cutest middle-aged German couple you've ever seen: both of them portly and homely, and when Allman sang "Melissa," the woman put her head on her husband's hamhock shoulder and gently held his hand. So that was sweet.
Maybe it's just a "blues thing." I felt that the spectacle would have been much better in a more intimate venue. It was a rush to see such talented guys put on a show, even if I still don't understand why there was a blob of jello on that album cover way-back-when.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Ouch, Both Shoulders!
Regular readers of my more whiny and self-indulgent posts will know that I tore the labrum in my right shoulder last year.
Physiotherapists and sports doctors have assumed that this happened entirely as a fluke, because I'm not exactly the most active person in the world. It's a condition normally seen in baseball pitchers, except that MY restrictions -- inability to touch my back or chest around the middle of my torso, among other places -- are the exact OPPOSITE of the usual "pitcher's shoulder."
I've been on the waiting list for surgery and it will presumably take two more years before I even SEE the specialist, but maybe I can jump the line now, because it's happened to the OTHER shoulder too. The LEFT one. Being unable to do so many things with EITHER of my arms might place me in a new medical category.
There's no way this is simply a "fluke." How did I manage to tear the labrum in both shoulders in exactly the same unusual way?
Over the last few weeks I've formed a hypothesis that I think is a damn good one:
This hypothesis occurred to me last week and I've thrown myself into corrective measures. I only carry small books to work, and always on my right shoulder (which is now, paradoxically, the STRONG one). Three times a day I take a break from whatever I'm doing, lie on my back, and do some arm-raising and shoulder-rotating exercises that were approved by my physiotherapist. Then, at my desk, I use six feet of rubber tubing to strengthen my shoulders: I lift, lift, lift, lift.
In addition I've found ways to minimize the little injuries that are caused each day by getting out of bed, putting on clothes, and lifting coffee mugs. On a good day my shoulders don't start aching until noon, and a simple exercise and an ice pack can get them soothed again.
This was going remarkably well until last night's "Pride Prom" show. Here I am just minutes before an endless evening of agony and fear.
Drag shows are not good for my shoulders because they involve quick-changes and lots of flailing around. Still, over the years, I've trained myself to use my left arm for broad gesticulations and to keep my right arm within the range of motion that it's capable.
But this was the first time I'd done a show with my damaged left arm. After packing myself into the dress in the above picture -- which is now uncomfortably tight because of all those exercises I mentioned -- I performed the extremely demonstrative "Love and Truth" by Mother Mother...and halfway through the number I felt my left shoulder actually TEAR.
I've described this sensation before, but it wasn't the PAIN that made me fearful, it was the realization that -- in a few brief seconds -- I'd potentially caused irreversible damage to my shoulder cartilage. I'd taken another step towards serious physical disability. I don't live with anybody, so there is nobody around to do the things that are difficult for me: what happens if I can no longer change a lightbulb? Sweep the stairs? Dress myself?
The beginning of a drag show is not the time to elicit sympathy and understanding from those around you (though I did try). And now I can tell that the damage wasn't as catastrophic as it seemed: ice packs and a good sleep have reduced the pain and I can still do everything I could do before* (except lower a dress zip, for which I now use a length of fishing line).
There is one thing I DO know: I can't perform in any more drag shows until this problem is fixed, which might be never. They have always taken their toll but this toll is excessive. This isn't much of an issue because I don't do them much these days anyway, but it still makes me sad because there are events I love performing at...the Pride Prom is one of them.
* EDIT: Unfortunately that isn't true...my left shoulder is just restricted in a different way, I think. My right shoulder can't twist inwards in a horizontal way, whereas I think my left won't twist upwards. So much for learning semaphore!
Physiotherapists and sports doctors have assumed that this happened entirely as a fluke, because I'm not exactly the most active person in the world. It's a condition normally seen in baseball pitchers, except that MY restrictions -- inability to touch my back or chest around the middle of my torso, among other places -- are the exact OPPOSITE of the usual "pitcher's shoulder."
I've been on the waiting list for surgery and it will presumably take two more years before I even SEE the specialist, but maybe I can jump the line now, because it's happened to the OTHER shoulder too. The LEFT one. Being unable to do so many things with EITHER of my arms might place me in a new medical category.
There's no way this is simply a "fluke." How did I manage to tear the labrum in both shoulders in exactly the same unusual way?
Over the last few weeks I've formed a hypothesis that I think is a damn good one:
- I have weak shoulders in general. Due to my instant ability to build up shoulder muscles, and my desire to look "less male" in slinky gowns, I deliberately AVOID doing anything that would build upper-body mass.
- I localize stress by clenching my shoulders. They are constantly rigid while I'm at work, reducing blood flow through my shoulders and arms.
- The most important part: for twenty years I have carried heavy things around in shoulder bags. For the past TEN years I have walked to and from work every single day, usually with a thick and heavy book in my bag. To keep the strap on my shoulder I unconsciously tense it. Day after day after day.
This hypothesis occurred to me last week and I've thrown myself into corrective measures. I only carry small books to work, and always on my right shoulder (which is now, paradoxically, the STRONG one). Three times a day I take a break from whatever I'm doing, lie on my back, and do some arm-raising and shoulder-rotating exercises that were approved by my physiotherapist. Then, at my desk, I use six feet of rubber tubing to strengthen my shoulders: I lift, lift, lift, lift.
In addition I've found ways to minimize the little injuries that are caused each day by getting out of bed, putting on clothes, and lifting coffee mugs. On a good day my shoulders don't start aching until noon, and a simple exercise and an ice pack can get them soothed again.
This was going remarkably well until last night's "Pride Prom" show. Here I am just minutes before an endless evening of agony and fear.
Drag shows are not good for my shoulders because they involve quick-changes and lots of flailing around. Still, over the years, I've trained myself to use my left arm for broad gesticulations and to keep my right arm within the range of motion that it's capable.
But this was the first time I'd done a show with my damaged left arm. After packing myself into the dress in the above picture -- which is now uncomfortably tight because of all those exercises I mentioned -- I performed the extremely demonstrative "Love and Truth" by Mother Mother...and halfway through the number I felt my left shoulder actually TEAR.
I've described this sensation before, but it wasn't the PAIN that made me fearful, it was the realization that -- in a few brief seconds -- I'd potentially caused irreversible damage to my shoulder cartilage. I'd taken another step towards serious physical disability. I don't live with anybody, so there is nobody around to do the things that are difficult for me: what happens if I can no longer change a lightbulb? Sweep the stairs? Dress myself?
The beginning of a drag show is not the time to elicit sympathy and understanding from those around you (though I did try). And now I can tell that the damage wasn't as catastrophic as it seemed: ice packs and a good sleep have reduced the pain and I can still do everything I could do before* (except lower a dress zip, for which I now use a length of fishing line).
There is one thing I DO know: I can't perform in any more drag shows until this problem is fixed, which might be never. They have always taken their toll but this toll is excessive. This isn't much of an issue because I don't do them much these days anyway, but it still makes me sad because there are events I love performing at...the Pride Prom is one of them.
* EDIT: Unfortunately that isn't true...my left shoulder is just restricted in a different way, I think. My right shoulder can't twist inwards in a horizontal way, whereas I think my left won't twist upwards. So much for learning semaphore!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
1968 Emmanuel Bible College Yearbook
I was thrilled with the idea of posting choice moments from the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks, but after the 1966 expose things became pretty crazy over here. I'd even gone through the 1968 edition and I had some big plans for it, but I'm afraid I've forgotten my "angles" and all I have on record are the pictures I chose.
So this one will be a quickie without any deep insight. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 1968 Emmanuel Bible College yearbook.
Students! The people in this yearbook are my mother's contemporaries, and she has confirmed that the EBC students were wearing appropriate, up-to-date clothing. It's interesting to note that she found the clothes in the 1966 yearbook to be stodgy and geriatric...what a difference a few years in the '60s made!
Another interesting thing to note is that the woman in the picture -- Donna Barnell of Indiana -- is my nomination for "Queen of Prom!" This is partly because she's got wicked style, but also because she was on every brainy committee that year: Publications (which kept churches in the area notified about the latest EBC events), literary president, student's council (secretary AND treasurer), and school secretary in general. Donna from Indiana, you've earned this honour!
As for KING of the Prom...well, you remember Harry Habel from 1966? He graduated in '68 with a degree in "Special," which I assume meant that they were anxious to just get rid of him. It pleases me to pair a youthful over-achiever with an annoying old farmer. What must it have been like to be Jewish in an evangelical bible college during the '60s? I don't know, but maybe we can glean something from his graduation picture.
Poor Harry. A little older, a little wiser, entirely special.
Anyway, one thing that set EBC apart from other schools was its emphasis on "Practical Work." This usually meant "perfecting the skills which send non-believers screaming in the other direction."
You in West Rouge and Elmira may have kicked Wayne and Tim off your porch.
These last two pictures are my favourites, and they show the "wacky side" of EBC campus life. First, here's Dixie Dean presenting "music from the four corners of the world" at the Christmas Banquet.
Who's "Dixie Dean," you ask? For shame! He started the "Canadian Accordion Club," and was a bright light in Canadian music during the first half of the century. His star appears to have fallen during the '60s but he worked for the Ontario Conservatory of Music here in good old Waterloo, so his appearance at the banquet must have been a real coup. For those who liked accordions.
Finally, here's one of those yearbook pictures that only makes sense to those who were there. EBC students from '68 are invited to explain not only how good Dixie Dean's performance was, but also why a man in rubber SCUBA gear is molesting this woman in her bed.
So this one will be a quickie without any deep insight. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 1968 Emmanuel Bible College yearbook.
Students! The people in this yearbook are my mother's contemporaries, and she has confirmed that the EBC students were wearing appropriate, up-to-date clothing. It's interesting to note that she found the clothes in the 1966 yearbook to be stodgy and geriatric...what a difference a few years in the '60s made!
Another interesting thing to note is that the woman in the picture -- Donna Barnell of Indiana -- is my nomination for "Queen of Prom!" This is partly because she's got wicked style, but also because she was on every brainy committee that year: Publications (which kept churches in the area notified about the latest EBC events), literary president, student's council (secretary AND treasurer), and school secretary in general. Donna from Indiana, you've earned this honour!
As for KING of the Prom...well, you remember Harry Habel from 1966? He graduated in '68 with a degree in "Special," which I assume meant that they were anxious to just get rid of him. It pleases me to pair a youthful over-achiever with an annoying old farmer. What must it have been like to be Jewish in an evangelical bible college during the '60s? I don't know, but maybe we can glean something from his graduation picture.
Poor Harry. A little older, a little wiser, entirely special.Anyway, one thing that set EBC apart from other schools was its emphasis on "Practical Work." This usually meant "perfecting the skills which send non-believers screaming in the other direction."
You in West Rouge and Elmira may have kicked Wayne and Tim off your porch.
These last two pictures are my favourites, and they show the "wacky side" of EBC campus life. First, here's Dixie Dean presenting "music from the four corners of the world" at the Christmas Banquet.
Who's "Dixie Dean," you ask? For shame! He started the "Canadian Accordion Club," and was a bright light in Canadian music during the first half of the century. His star appears to have fallen during the '60s but he worked for the Ontario Conservatory of Music here in good old Waterloo, so his appearance at the banquet must have been a real coup. For those who liked accordions.
Finally, here's one of those yearbook pictures that only makes sense to those who were there. EBC students from '68 are invited to explain not only how good Dixie Dean's performance was, but also why a man in rubber SCUBA gear is molesting this woman in her bed.
Monday, May 03, 2010
1966 Emmanuel Bible College Yearbook
"You" said you wanted more pictures from the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks...who am I to refuse! I just wish I had a working scanner, instead of a small Hewlett-Packard device that makes a terrible grinding noise and whispers "Need more ink cartridges" when I turn it on.
As I've said previously, yearbooks are fascinating and funny things in so many ways. The EBC yearbooks, however, have an additional interest for the secular reader because they're so totally focused on God, but without the "Christianity is COOL!" element that would no doubt be there if they were external, proselytizing documents.
Ready to see the bible students in their natural habitat, like rabbits in a glass-walled hutch? Without further ado, here are some choice moments from the 1966 edition of the EBC yearbook, "The Pilot."
First off, the prayer/bomb drill/corporal punishment picture that will soon be the subject of its own fetish.
Now that we've got that over with, a few words about the degrees. It seems like the ultimate goal at EBC was to be a "Bachelor of Theology," but I find it interesting that the only B.Th graduates were males, at least for the first several yearbooks that I have. The "Missionary Course" and "Christian Education" degrees, however, were granted to both sexes.
Here's the president of the college at the time, Reverend H. B. Wideman, on a day that I charitably assume was windy.
Some sleuthing has revealed that the other man is Reverend Kenneth Geiger, and the book he's presenting -- "The Word and the Doctrine" -- is a collection of papers from a conference about Wesleyanism. What's Wesleyanism? Damned if I can figure it out! That's why Wideman was the president of EBC and the Bachelor of Divinity, not me.
A few thoughts about the teachers that year: none of the women were pretty and most of the men were schlubs, except for Mr. Wilson T. Wiley (English & Guidance Instructor), who wore a small fedora and looked like he wrapped his secret gat in a copy of "Catcher in the Rye." You'll be comforted to know that the "Social Dean of Women" and the "Social Dean of Men" were a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Warner Spyker.
Here's some insight into student demographics:
My favourite 1966 EBC students -- my votes for "king and queen of the prom," so to speak -- are paino-playing Fern Densmore and plump squirrel David Hills. The latter's graduation poem is a good example of the beloved artform of BAD YEARBOOK POETRY:
Here's another good poem, for Mervin ("Merv") Richardson, notable for its vague attempt at being personal:
To wrap up the 1966 year, here's my favourite picture of them all. I'm not sure if it's supposed to mean what I think it means but I sure hope so!
As I've said previously, yearbooks are fascinating and funny things in so many ways. The EBC yearbooks, however, have an additional interest for the secular reader because they're so totally focused on God, but without the "Christianity is COOL!" element that would no doubt be there if they were external, proselytizing documents.
Ready to see the bible students in their natural habitat, like rabbits in a glass-walled hutch? Without further ado, here are some choice moments from the 1966 edition of the EBC yearbook, "The Pilot."
First off, the prayer/bomb drill/corporal punishment picture that will soon be the subject of its own fetish.
Now that we've got that over with, a few words about the degrees. It seems like the ultimate goal at EBC was to be a "Bachelor of Theology," but I find it interesting that the only B.Th graduates were males, at least for the first several yearbooks that I have. The "Missionary Course" and "Christian Education" degrees, however, were granted to both sexes.
Here's the president of the college at the time, Reverend H. B. Wideman, on a day that I charitably assume was windy.
Some sleuthing has revealed that the other man is Reverend Kenneth Geiger, and the book he's presenting -- "The Word and the Doctrine" -- is a collection of papers from a conference about Wesleyanism. What's Wesleyanism? Damned if I can figure it out! That's why Wideman was the president of EBC and the Bachelor of Divinity, not me.
A few thoughts about the teachers that year: none of the women were pretty and most of the men were schlubs, except for Mr. Wilson T. Wiley (English & Guidance Instructor), who wore a small fedora and looked like he wrapped his secret gat in a copy of "Catcher in the Rye." You'll be comforted to know that the "Social Dean of Women" and the "Social Dean of Men" were a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Warner Spyker.
Here's some insight into student demographics:
The afternoons are times of service, study, and wage earning.Here are some girls harassing an old lady to score Bible Points.
Many students work with Child Evangelism, teaching Bible Clubs for boys and girls. Other students find opportunities to witness while working at a part-time job. At Emmanuel, we have a barber, an auctioneer, carry-out boys, salesmen, office workers, nurses, teachers, farmers, waitresses, and construction labourers.
My favourite 1966 EBC students -- my votes for "king and queen of the prom," so to speak -- are paino-playing Fern Densmore and plump squirrel David Hills. The latter's graduation poem is a good example of the beloved artform of BAD YEARBOOK POETRY:From working in a paint factory he came,What makes this a bad poem? The ungainly swapping of sentence fragments, sacrificing style (and clarity) to the altar of Thee Almighty Rhyme.
So that he might better uphold God's name
By studying the Word with hope that he
One day, in the service of the Lord may be.
Here's another good poem, for Mervin ("Merv") Richardson, notable for its vague attempt at being personal:
A goal, a goal in hockeyI think the yearbook staff got that one in just before the deadline.
(Even when the road is rocky)
Leading music at Lincoln Heights
Keeps him busy various nights.
To wrap up the 1966 year, here's my favourite picture of them all. I'm not sure if it's supposed to mean what I think it means but I sure hope so!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Hallowed Halls Emmanuel
I love reading yearbooks. They're curious anthropological documents that capture certain elements of a subculture, allowing some degree of "backstage" information to seep through, while simultaneously being constrained by the idea of what a "yearbook" should be: that is, a collection of memories that everybody can supposedly relate to, giving tribute to the institution and its people, and also usually some really terrible poetry.
Imagine my joy when I discovered a heap of yearbooks that a nearby church was throwing out! But these weren't just run-of-the-mill highschool yearbooks...these were for the Emmanuel Bible College.
Oh bliss.
I had no idea that our twin cities contain a thriving, long-standing bible college, and I'm anxious to take a bus out there just to look at it. Other than looking at the slick website and fantasizing about what the dorms must be like, how could us secular folk ever know what a bible college is really like?
By reading the yearbooks, spanning the years 1966 to 1991, and finding all the little gems of culture: the things that you'd find in ANY yearbook, and the things you'd ONLY find in the yearbook from a bible college.
First off, the similarities. The usual tributes to the institution's president, the pictures of the students with special attention given to the graduates, the pages given over to clubs and teams (and the egotistical editorial by the yearbook editor), the myopic cafeteria ladies, followed by a dry list of advertisers. And don't forget the candid pictures of goofy campus life! Yes, even in the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks you will find men in drag with balloon breasts.
But what's different? First, lots of pictures like this.
That's not a bomb drill, it's a time to make personal contact with your multi-denominational saviour. Myself, already breaking the commandments, I covet that girl's leopard jacket.
Next, many of the students are quite old. Ex-farmers from a myriad of itty-bitty Ontario towns seem to come to Emmanuel when they get the calling. Here's Harry Habel from the graduating class of '66, and one of the little poems that the yearbook staff banged out for the graduates that year.
As somebody who was once a member of my highschool's yearbook staff, I vividly remember the torture of having to write upbeat and personal blurbs about people I disliked and barely knew. I'm pretty sure that Mr. Habel -- in between doing a spot-on Jimmy Durante impersonation -- got on everybody's nerves in the cafeteria. Inka dinka doo!
What's disappointing about the books is the constant focus on God's authority. It's to be expected, obviously, but simply EVERY piece of text must lead into a parable or a scriptual quote of some kind, which reduces all of the activities -- even badminton -- into a Thin Tasteless Gruel of God. I can't help wondering if these students -- who so happily write "God is GREAT!" on their dorm murals -- secretly wish the message was toned down a little bit. It's not like everybody who goes to bible college is exactly the same as everybody else.
But besides the emphasis on two aspects of evangelicalism that I find particularly horrible -- missionary work and the Crisis pregnancy center -- there's very little in these books to offend or to cast the college in a bad light. These folks seem intelligent, diverse, passionate, and fun. Granted I'm getting that impression through the rosy-coloured yearbook lens, but even so I find myself wishing I could spend a day or two there, just to experience the comfort and solidarity of a bunch of people who believe very strongly in what each other are doing.
Hey, is there any chance I can get a scholarship? And if so do I REALLY have to learn Greek, and why?
Imagine my joy when I discovered a heap of yearbooks that a nearby church was throwing out! But these weren't just run-of-the-mill highschool yearbooks...these were for the Emmanuel Bible College.
Oh bliss.
I had no idea that our twin cities contain a thriving, long-standing bible college, and I'm anxious to take a bus out there just to look at it. Other than looking at the slick website and fantasizing about what the dorms must be like, how could us secular folk ever know what a bible college is really like?
By reading the yearbooks, spanning the years 1966 to 1991, and finding all the little gems of culture: the things that you'd find in ANY yearbook, and the things you'd ONLY find in the yearbook from a bible college.
First off, the similarities. The usual tributes to the institution's president, the pictures of the students with special attention given to the graduates, the pages given over to clubs and teams (and the egotistical editorial by the yearbook editor), the myopic cafeteria ladies, followed by a dry list of advertisers. And don't forget the candid pictures of goofy campus life! Yes, even in the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks you will find men in drag with balloon breasts.
But what's different? First, lots of pictures like this.
That's not a bomb drill, it's a time to make personal contact with your multi-denominational saviour. Myself, already breaking the commandments, I covet that girl's leopard jacket.
Next, many of the students are quite old. Ex-farmers from a myriad of itty-bitty Ontario towns seem to come to Emmanuel when they get the calling. Here's Harry Habel from the graduating class of '66, and one of the little poems that the yearbook staff banged out for the graduates that year.
As somebody who was once a member of my highschool's yearbook staff, I vividly remember the torture of having to write upbeat and personal blurbs about people I disliked and barely knew. I'm pretty sure that Mr. Habel -- in between doing a spot-on Jimmy Durante impersonation -- got on everybody's nerves in the cafeteria. Inka dinka doo!
What's disappointing about the books is the constant focus on God's authority. It's to be expected, obviously, but simply EVERY piece of text must lead into a parable or a scriptual quote of some kind, which reduces all of the activities -- even badminton -- into a Thin Tasteless Gruel of God. I can't help wondering if these students -- who so happily write "God is GREAT!" on their dorm murals -- secretly wish the message was toned down a little bit. It's not like everybody who goes to bible college is exactly the same as everybody else.
But besides the emphasis on two aspects of evangelicalism that I find particularly horrible -- missionary work and the Crisis pregnancy center -- there's very little in these books to offend or to cast the college in a bad light. These folks seem intelligent, diverse, passionate, and fun. Granted I'm getting that impression through the rosy-coloured yearbook lens, but even so I find myself wishing I could spend a day or two there, just to experience the comfort and solidarity of a bunch of people who believe very strongly in what each other are doing.
Hey, is there any chance I can get a scholarship? And if so do I REALLY have to learn Greek, and why?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
"Homophobia"
Last week a Grade 12 student asked me to write a mini-essay about "homophobia," so she could read it to her class as part of a project. Here's what I came up with:
I'm wary about telling homophobia-related anecdotes because I don't want to become negative and sensationalistic; my days of sulky victimization are over! We all know that terrible things can happen, but over the years I've become more interested in solutions than retelling my rare moments of drag-related misery.
But even though I feel more at peace with the world than I used to, I don't think it's easy for other people to understand WHY I feel that way. And you can't tackle the roots of homophobia -- let alone discover the ways of combating it -- without looking at specific incidents and coming to some basic conclusions.
So I'll tell you two of my more interesting horror stories, and then I'll share the lessons that those situations taught me.
One way that homophobia manifests itself is a simple "group versus outsider" dynamic. There is something about humanity that feels most confident and secure when it's part of a group, and the simplest way to assert "groupness" is to exclude everybody else. This doesn't always come down to violence -- you can see it happen everywhere, in workplaces or book clubs or patriotic speeches -- but when it involves violence it becomes much more noticeable.
Usually I only have "outsider" dealings with three or four drunk men at a time, but in 2003 I actually faced a mob. It was during the midnight show of the Waterloo Busker Festival. I was wearing a flashy showgirl outfit and watching the buskers with some friends, and about fifteen people in the crowd started to toss pennies at us. When they realized that nobody was going to defend us they got increasingly bold, throwing the coins with full force and finally starting to chant: "Get the fag!" No kidding.
This happened at the edge of a huge crowd of able-bodied, reasonable, and intelligent people. It should never have reached the level that it did, but the reason that we had to run away from a handful of chanting, violent strangers in uptown Waterloo was because NOBODY IN THE CROWD HELPED US. They SAW us and they understood what was happening, but they all looked away, probably frightened.
Here's the first lesson I've learned about homophobia: it only happens if bystanders allow it to. I have been in many other situations where a small group of people have started to get violent with me, but it always stops when a single stranger steps up to defend me. This reverses the "us versus them" belief that is the root of this form of homophobia; when the aggressors suddenly realize that THEY are the outsiders and not ME, it's like popping a big ugly balloon. They retreat and go home and complain to each other and then they throw up.
But if the balloon doesn't pop in the face of public disapproval then something more complicated is at work. I'm talking about the men who hate homosexuality but are simultaneously attracted to me, even though they know I'm a man.
This happens in bars near the end of the night. I suppose that these people can deny their attraction to men in most situations, but they can't deny their attraction to a man in a dress, and this gives them a glimpse of themselves that they don't like at all.
Usually they try to take this anger and confusion out on me in an over-the-top, ironically sexual way, trying to "mock molest" me in front of their friends. This is meant to prove that they're "straight," but their obsessive and bizarre behaviour makes them look even gayer than they're pretending NOT to be.
One extreme incident incident sticks in my mind, though; it was a whole new level. I was sitting on a stool and minding my own business when a huge, hulking guy sat down next to me. He leaned close and said quietly and calmly into my ear: "Watching you looking so good and turning me on like that makes me want to pick up a hammer and kill you."
Then he got right up and left the bar. He was so sober and matter-of-fact that I totally believed what he'd said...and I realized the deep, burning, loathing and hatred that a person can feel for themselves, and how often that loathing can be directed at something or somebody else.
It's a common tactic to enrage homophobes by saying they are secretly homosexual themselves, but in some cases I know this is true, especially when their derision is sexualized. Their feelings are composed of some terrible combination of self-loathing, panic, public shame, and thwarted affection. Society and the sick people in it must work REALLY HARD to instill those sorts of feelings in a child...it doesn't "just happen." Fortunately I think it happens less and less, and that can only be a good thing for everybody.
One final point I'd like to make is that there is a difference between "homophobia" and "confusion." The vast majority of encounters that I have are with people who simply don't "get it," not because they HATE me, but because they've never MET somebody like me...they want to know "why," and they ask blunt questions, and they giggle a bit. If I were to label their attitude as "homophobia" then I would approach them differently, but as it is I try to be friendly and honest. I never JUSTIFY what I do, but I'll still EXPLAIN it.
Granted, the way people confront crossdressers is different from the way they confront lesbians or gay men who aren't in drag, but by learning to tell the difference between confusion and homophobia, between curiosity and cruelty, I have made friends and allies instead of enemies. Maybe I can do this now because I'm comfortable enough about myself that I can make other people comfortable too, as long as their intentions are even remotely good.
That's why I'm wary of sharing sensationalistic anecdotes: because even though it's important to know how bad things can be out there, it is equally important for me to remember that the vast majority of people really DON'T want to hurt me. Most of them are simply INTERESTED in me. That says something good about people, and I try to always keep it in mind when I'm out in the world.
I'm wary about telling homophobia-related anecdotes because I don't want to become negative and sensationalistic; my days of sulky victimization are over! We all know that terrible things can happen, but over the years I've become more interested in solutions than retelling my rare moments of drag-related misery.
But even though I feel more at peace with the world than I used to, I don't think it's easy for other people to understand WHY I feel that way. And you can't tackle the roots of homophobia -- let alone discover the ways of combating it -- without looking at specific incidents and coming to some basic conclusions.
So I'll tell you two of my more interesting horror stories, and then I'll share the lessons that those situations taught me.
One way that homophobia manifests itself is a simple "group versus outsider" dynamic. There is something about humanity that feels most confident and secure when it's part of a group, and the simplest way to assert "groupness" is to exclude everybody else. This doesn't always come down to violence -- you can see it happen everywhere, in workplaces or book clubs or patriotic speeches -- but when it involves violence it becomes much more noticeable.
Usually I only have "outsider" dealings with three or four drunk men at a time, but in 2003 I actually faced a mob. It was during the midnight show of the Waterloo Busker Festival. I was wearing a flashy showgirl outfit and watching the buskers with some friends, and about fifteen people in the crowd started to toss pennies at us. When they realized that nobody was going to defend us they got increasingly bold, throwing the coins with full force and finally starting to chant: "Get the fag!" No kidding.
This happened at the edge of a huge crowd of able-bodied, reasonable, and intelligent people. It should never have reached the level that it did, but the reason that we had to run away from a handful of chanting, violent strangers in uptown Waterloo was because NOBODY IN THE CROWD HELPED US. They SAW us and they understood what was happening, but they all looked away, probably frightened.
Here's the first lesson I've learned about homophobia: it only happens if bystanders allow it to. I have been in many other situations where a small group of people have started to get violent with me, but it always stops when a single stranger steps up to defend me. This reverses the "us versus them" belief that is the root of this form of homophobia; when the aggressors suddenly realize that THEY are the outsiders and not ME, it's like popping a big ugly balloon. They retreat and go home and complain to each other and then they throw up.
But if the balloon doesn't pop in the face of public disapproval then something more complicated is at work. I'm talking about the men who hate homosexuality but are simultaneously attracted to me, even though they know I'm a man.
This happens in bars near the end of the night. I suppose that these people can deny their attraction to men in most situations, but they can't deny their attraction to a man in a dress, and this gives them a glimpse of themselves that they don't like at all.
Usually they try to take this anger and confusion out on me in an over-the-top, ironically sexual way, trying to "mock molest" me in front of their friends. This is meant to prove that they're "straight," but their obsessive and bizarre behaviour makes them look even gayer than they're pretending NOT to be.
One extreme incident incident sticks in my mind, though; it was a whole new level. I was sitting on a stool and minding my own business when a huge, hulking guy sat down next to me. He leaned close and said quietly and calmly into my ear: "Watching you looking so good and turning me on like that makes me want to pick up a hammer and kill you."
Then he got right up and left the bar. He was so sober and matter-of-fact that I totally believed what he'd said...and I realized the deep, burning, loathing and hatred that a person can feel for themselves, and how often that loathing can be directed at something or somebody else.
It's a common tactic to enrage homophobes by saying they are secretly homosexual themselves, but in some cases I know this is true, especially when their derision is sexualized. Their feelings are composed of some terrible combination of self-loathing, panic, public shame, and thwarted affection. Society and the sick people in it must work REALLY HARD to instill those sorts of feelings in a child...it doesn't "just happen." Fortunately I think it happens less and less, and that can only be a good thing for everybody.
One final point I'd like to make is that there is a difference between "homophobia" and "confusion." The vast majority of encounters that I have are with people who simply don't "get it," not because they HATE me, but because they've never MET somebody like me...they want to know "why," and they ask blunt questions, and they giggle a bit. If I were to label their attitude as "homophobia" then I would approach them differently, but as it is I try to be friendly and honest. I never JUSTIFY what I do, but I'll still EXPLAIN it.
Granted, the way people confront crossdressers is different from the way they confront lesbians or gay men who aren't in drag, but by learning to tell the difference between confusion and homophobia, between curiosity and cruelty, I have made friends and allies instead of enemies. Maybe I can do this now because I'm comfortable enough about myself that I can make other people comfortable too, as long as their intentions are even remotely good.
That's why I'm wary of sharing sensationalistic anecdotes: because even though it's important to know how bad things can be out there, it is equally important for me to remember that the vast majority of people really DON'T want to hurt me. Most of them are simply INTERESTED in me. That says something good about people, and I try to always keep it in mind when I'm out in the world.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Girls Want to Be With the Metaphorically-Antlered Girls, or, My Second Shy Date with Modern Dance
After last month's soul-searching experience with Dancemakers, I was curious about tonight's performance by Winnipeg's Contemporary Dancers. I was especially curious when Brent Lott -- WCD's artistic director -- candidly stated that it wouldn't be the sort of program that people make fun of when they think of contemporary dance.
As much as I enjoyed the show, I beg to differ. Honestly, realistically, it WAS the sort of program that people (me?) make fun of. I'm thinking mainly of the piece called "In Silence," which had all the sorts of thrashing, reaching, rolling, hair-in-the-face, shouting, and Standard Drag Queen acting-out of old timey poetry (including fingers-down-cheeks for "tears" and pointing-at-audience for "thee," and I really mean "thee"). Plus more reaching.
I'm not mocking "In Silence." Okay, I admit it, I AM mocking "In Silence," because it reminded me of a version of The Go! Team without the fun. Watch this video and imagine that, instead of saying "We came here to rock the microphone," they're saying "In secret we met / in silence I grieve / that thy heart could forget / thy spirit deceive."
Before I tell you what I LOVED about the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers, let me tell you one reason why I think modern dance sometimes comes across as more-pretentious-even-than-Lord-bloody-Byron. Perhaps through no fault of its own, contemporary dance seems (to me, in my limited experience) to be best suited to extreme emotions: unrequited love unto death, crushing agony unto death, the joy of REQUITED love unto joyous eventual off-stage death.
Maybe a primarily nonverbal, physical representation of a theme must forsake the lesser, everyday experiences and simply dive into the furthest swings of the emotional pendulum. Maybe choreographers and dancers find it more suitable to tackle "the agony of the claw-rent soul" than "the long day at work followed by an unsatisfying meal and the broken water heater...again."
This, perhaps, is where contemporary dance tends to leave me cold...I prefer more emotional subtlety to my experiences. When I start to read a Lord Byron poem, my eyes start at the top line and then suddenly hit the last line, without anything between making any sort of impression. I don't like a strong diet of extreme emotion.
Tonight's show was a pretty strong diet: pure love, pure lust, pure joy, pure anguish. Eyes by turns enraptured-wide and agony-squinted. The slow, burning glance over the shoulder. The yearning, the yearning, the yearning.
I loved the premiere of "First Walk to Available Sky," which I would subtitle "Sex-Bombs of the Pantomime Horse." I was even more in love with "Between the Sycamore," which exuded such a palpable energy and simple joy that it transcended everything: the space, the audience, the dancers...it was absolutely, beautifully superb.
All four dancers were in unbelievable sync, seemingly without need of any cues or external stimulus. Grace and strength, clearly-telegraphed emotion, flawless in every way. If there had been a "Music From Sex-Bombs of the Pantomime Horse and Other Pieces" for sale in the lobby, I would have bought it in a second: the music, particularly in the first half of the show, was striking and perfectly suited to the performances.
But oh, the yearning, the reaching! "Reaching-out-but-not-grasping" does seem to be a ubiquitous element of modern dance, one akin to the villain-with-the-black-moustache in silent pictures: perhaps an effective (even essential) storytelling technique, but everytime I see it I go "Oh, yearning, villain, black moustache."
Remember, I'm the endless rationalizer, the constant analyzer. Other people can lose themselves in moments that I simply cannot. Maybe this is why I'm such a cold fish in relationships, because when I need to express "yearning" I simply do not, for fear of committing a fiendish cliche.
Even so, I DID enjoy the performance. I'm sure that it's expected, in a repertory selection, that you'll sometimes say "Huh," sometimes say "Bah," and sometimes scream "LOVE!" I said all three things during the show and I say now unto the world: tonight I saw some of the most wonderful dance I've ever seen.
MY FAVOURITE ANECDOTE WHICH I CAN'T FIND ANY WAY TO WORK INTO THE COGENT PARTS OF THIS POST:
The fourth piece -- "Mouvement" -- featured dancer Kristin Haight doing a great deal of running and thrashing. At first the point escaped me, but gradually I formed the image of a Doberman Pinscher being euthanized at the vet's office. I am not being facetious, this was actually a very powerful impression of a creature in pain...but somehow a dog. Being put down. By a veterinarian.
When the piece was over and the lights came up I felt a little guilty, thinking surely that was not the impression that the choreographer wanted to make.
Then the woman in front of me turned to her friends and said "Did you hear about that dog, that wild dog, that was running around?"
"Ooooh," said her friends.
"They caught it and they TAZED it," said the woman with some satisfaction, and they all stared intently at each other.
As much as I enjoyed the show, I beg to differ. Honestly, realistically, it WAS the sort of program that people (me?) make fun of. I'm thinking mainly of the piece called "In Silence," which had all the sorts of thrashing, reaching, rolling, hair-in-the-face, shouting, and Standard Drag Queen acting-out of old timey poetry (including fingers-down-cheeks for "tears" and pointing-at-audience for "thee," and I really mean "thee"). Plus more reaching.
I'm not mocking "In Silence." Okay, I admit it, I AM mocking "In Silence," because it reminded me of a version of The Go! Team without the fun. Watch this video and imagine that, instead of saying "We came here to rock the microphone," they're saying "In secret we met / in silence I grieve / that thy heart could forget / thy spirit deceive."
Before I tell you what I LOVED about the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers, let me tell you one reason why I think modern dance sometimes comes across as more-pretentious-even-than-Lord-bloody-Byron. Perhaps through no fault of its own, contemporary dance seems (to me, in my limited experience) to be best suited to extreme emotions: unrequited love unto death, crushing agony unto death, the joy of REQUITED love unto joyous eventual off-stage death.
Maybe a primarily nonverbal, physical representation of a theme must forsake the lesser, everyday experiences and simply dive into the furthest swings of the emotional pendulum. Maybe choreographers and dancers find it more suitable to tackle "the agony of the claw-rent soul" than "the long day at work followed by an unsatisfying meal and the broken water heater...again."
This, perhaps, is where contemporary dance tends to leave me cold...I prefer more emotional subtlety to my experiences. When I start to read a Lord Byron poem, my eyes start at the top line and then suddenly hit the last line, without anything between making any sort of impression. I don't like a strong diet of extreme emotion.
Tonight's show was a pretty strong diet: pure love, pure lust, pure joy, pure anguish. Eyes by turns enraptured-wide and agony-squinted. The slow, burning glance over the shoulder. The yearning, the yearning, the yearning.
I loved the premiere of "First Walk to Available Sky," which I would subtitle "Sex-Bombs of the Pantomime Horse." I was even more in love with "Between the Sycamore," which exuded such a palpable energy and simple joy that it transcended everything: the space, the audience, the dancers...it was absolutely, beautifully superb.
All four dancers were in unbelievable sync, seemingly without need of any cues or external stimulus. Grace and strength, clearly-telegraphed emotion, flawless in every way. If there had been a "Music From Sex-Bombs of the Pantomime Horse and Other Pieces" for sale in the lobby, I would have bought it in a second: the music, particularly in the first half of the show, was striking and perfectly suited to the performances.
But oh, the yearning, the reaching! "Reaching-out-but-not-grasping" does seem to be a ubiquitous element of modern dance, one akin to the villain-with-the-black-moustache in silent pictures: perhaps an effective (even essential) storytelling technique, but everytime I see it I go "Oh, yearning, villain, black moustache."
Remember, I'm the endless rationalizer, the constant analyzer. Other people can lose themselves in moments that I simply cannot. Maybe this is why I'm such a cold fish in relationships, because when I need to express "yearning" I simply do not, for fear of committing a fiendish cliche.
Even so, I DID enjoy the performance. I'm sure that it's expected, in a repertory selection, that you'll sometimes say "Huh," sometimes say "Bah," and sometimes scream "LOVE!" I said all three things during the show and I say now unto the world: tonight I saw some of the most wonderful dance I've ever seen.
MY FAVOURITE ANECDOTE WHICH I CAN'T FIND ANY WAY TO WORK INTO THE COGENT PARTS OF THIS POST:
The fourth piece -- "Mouvement" -- featured dancer Kristin Haight doing a great deal of running and thrashing. At first the point escaped me, but gradually I formed the image of a Doberman Pinscher being euthanized at the vet's office. I am not being facetious, this was actually a very powerful impression of a creature in pain...but somehow a dog. Being put down. By a veterinarian.
When the piece was over and the lights came up I felt a little guilty, thinking surely that was not the impression that the choreographer wanted to make.
Then the woman in front of me turned to her friends and said "Did you hear about that dog, that wild dog, that was running around?"
"Ooooh," said her friends.
"They caught it and they TAZED it," said the woman with some satisfaction, and they all stared intently at each other.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
"The Call of Cthulhu"
Because I'm reading a big chunk of H. P. Lovecraft at the moment, I've been breaking the monotony by watching some of the adaptations of his work.
There are two good reasons for why most Lovecraft movies miss the mark. Since his stories are effective mostly because of their tone and their gradual accumulation of facts, it must be difficult to make a straightforward movie out of them, so the script writers tend to fall back on spectacle and totally new sex-and-slimy-monster subplots, all of which make the resulting film decidedly NON-Lovecraftian.
Secondly, as a result of this reliance on spectacle, these invariably low-budget movies tend to fail because they can't live up to their special effects requirements.
When the special effects DO succeed, you get movies like "Re-Animator" which have only a tenuous plot connection (and absolutely no thematic connection) to the stories they're adapted from. And when the effects DON'T succeed, you get total flops like The Curse or Dagon, which are basically eighty minutes of boring Hollywood-style subplot and ten minutes of cheap schlock at the end.
I haven't seen many movies which manage to REALLY capture the "Lovecraft mood," but oddly enough the ones I HAVE seen are the ones I've most recently viewed. I mentioned the wonderful-but-flawed "Cthulhu" back in May...
...but today I saw the HP Lovecraft Historical Society's version of "The Call of Cthulhu," and thanks to devotion, smarts, and a whole lot of luck, it's the most faithful adaptation yet.
I'd assumed that anything produced by such a society would be a half-baked, crappy mess of fan-splooge, featuring a bunch of doughy part-time Little Theatre types doing their level best to upstage each other. What I saw, however, was a totally effective no-budget film that succeeded in almost every way.
By shooting it as a '20s-era silent picture they avoided many of the problems that cheapo home productions face: no need to worry about dialog or sound recording, an easier time integrating effects, and probably fewer problems with set design and lighting. But what REALLY worked was that it managed to capture that elusive Lovecraftian mood in a way that a "talkie" never could.
How the HECK did they pull this off? A model boat pulled across sparkle-covered fabric becomes the perfect image to complement the story, in a way that REAL location footage NEVER would. Lovecraft didn't write about realistic images, he wrote about impossible angles and indescribable landscapes; a REAL cliff-face representing the lost city of R'lyeh would have appeared pedestrian and narrow-minded, but a cardboard-and-scaffold set built in one of the crew member's backyard is FAR more "right."
The acting, too, is brilliant. Nobody is being funny, and everybody manages to walk the fine line between "silent movie overacting" and "just plain camp." Here again the movie benefited from its silent-film conceit: no bad accents, no awkward dialog, no Little Theatre emoting-stereotypes.
All these things -- fantasy-sets, terrific lighting, dedicated acting -- combine with an AMAZING music score to make the best 45 minutes of film I've seen in a long time. Really, it's that good. I don't just mean "a good independent film" or "a good silent movie," I mean a legitimate mini-masterpiece.
And you know what? I think H. P. Lovecraft would have loved it.
PS: During the newspaper clipping montage, guess which city shows up amongst all the bylines? You're right: Kitchener, Ontario. How did that slip in there?
There are two good reasons for why most Lovecraft movies miss the mark. Since his stories are effective mostly because of their tone and their gradual accumulation of facts, it must be difficult to make a straightforward movie out of them, so the script writers tend to fall back on spectacle and totally new sex-and-slimy-monster subplots, all of which make the resulting film decidedly NON-Lovecraftian.
Secondly, as a result of this reliance on spectacle, these invariably low-budget movies tend to fail because they can't live up to their special effects requirements.
When the special effects DO succeed, you get movies like "Re-Animator" which have only a tenuous plot connection (and absolutely no thematic connection) to the stories they're adapted from. And when the effects DON'T succeed, you get total flops like The Curse or Dagon, which are basically eighty minutes of boring Hollywood-style subplot and ten minutes of cheap schlock at the end.
I haven't seen many movies which manage to REALLY capture the "Lovecraft mood," but oddly enough the ones I HAVE seen are the ones I've most recently viewed. I mentioned the wonderful-but-flawed "Cthulhu" back in May...
...but today I saw the HP Lovecraft Historical Society's version of "The Call of Cthulhu," and thanks to devotion, smarts, and a whole lot of luck, it's the most faithful adaptation yet.
I'd assumed that anything produced by such a society would be a half-baked, crappy mess of fan-splooge, featuring a bunch of doughy part-time Little Theatre types doing their level best to upstage each other. What I saw, however, was a totally effective no-budget film that succeeded in almost every way.
By shooting it as a '20s-era silent picture they avoided many of the problems that cheapo home productions face: no need to worry about dialog or sound recording, an easier time integrating effects, and probably fewer problems with set design and lighting. But what REALLY worked was that it managed to capture that elusive Lovecraftian mood in a way that a "talkie" never could.
How the HECK did they pull this off? A model boat pulled across sparkle-covered fabric becomes the perfect image to complement the story, in a way that REAL location footage NEVER would. Lovecraft didn't write about realistic images, he wrote about impossible angles and indescribable landscapes; a REAL cliff-face representing the lost city of R'lyeh would have appeared pedestrian and narrow-minded, but a cardboard-and-scaffold set built in one of the crew member's backyard is FAR more "right."
The acting, too, is brilliant. Nobody is being funny, and everybody manages to walk the fine line between "silent movie overacting" and "just plain camp." Here again the movie benefited from its silent-film conceit: no bad accents, no awkward dialog, no Little Theatre emoting-stereotypes.
All these things -- fantasy-sets, terrific lighting, dedicated acting -- combine with an AMAZING music score to make the best 45 minutes of film I've seen in a long time. Really, it's that good. I don't just mean "a good independent film" or "a good silent movie," I mean a legitimate mini-masterpiece.
And you know what? I think H. P. Lovecraft would have loved it.
PS: During the newspaper clipping montage, guess which city shows up amongst all the bylines? You're right: Kitchener, Ontario. How did that slip in there?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
My Shy Date With Modern Dance
On Thursday night I watched the rehearsal for "60 Dances in 60 Minutes," which will be performed at The Registry Theatre on November 4th. I'd hoped to learn what contemporary dance is all about and -- more importantly -- what makes it entertaining, enlightening, or (God forbid) insufferable to the modern layperson audience-member.
Can I explain the secrets of dance after a mere four hours of exposure? I only saw one single company performing one single piece and I didn't even get to see the end. There are many different approaches to dance, and every audience member is an individual, so I can't just say "This is what it's all about" (as much as that would save me some heavy pondering and how-do-I-express-this anxiety).
Seeing the rehearsal -- and enjoying some whispered chats with Jacob Zimmer, the dramaturge -- hasn't left me with many answers and it hasn't turned me into an instant fan. I learned a few more things about my personal hangups and how they relate to my entertainment choices...at the very least it was a good private therapy session.
But I'm not here to tell you about my childhood trauma; that's what the REST of this blog is about. I'm assuming instead that some of my insights may be interesting to you, whether you loathe modern dance or you think it's the absolute cat's meow.
"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" was first performed in February by the five principle dancers of the Dancemakers company. For the show in Kitchener they'd chosen to add five local dancers to the performance, and they thought it would be interesting to have me -- the clueless, curious, neurotic-but-eloquent spectator -- sit in during one of their rehearsals.
I was nervous. As is always the case with events where audience-appreciation is not tied to long-standing rules of etiquette and judgment, my first concern was how much reverence I was expected to have for their work. How serious must I be? Dost I dare to make jokes about thee art, especially being the only person in the audience and surrounded by its performers and creators, all of whom are extremely fit? I can't speak for other shows, but I can say this for sure: if you don't laugh a bit during "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" then you probably have a really crappy sense of humour.
But the question remains: what should the audience get out of this particular performance? The more abstract a piece of entertainment is -- the more distant it is from convention, the fewer obvious cues transmitted by the performers, the more flexible its parameters -- the greater the potential for hostility, boredom, confusion, or feelings of boorish inadequacy. Nobody likes to feel stupid, especially not those of us who consider ourselves open-minded and experienced enough to be able to "get it."
Most forms of contemporary dance do not, in my experience, present themselves in traditional or unambiguous ways. If the audience doesn't "get" the performance, is that a failure of us or the dance company? Is that even a failure at all?
The title "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" gives you an idea of what this performance is about, but here's a more explicit precis: the dancers, singly or in groups, will perform various tasks during a certain time period. How will ten dancers (and the audience) perceive the performance of these tasks in relation to the passage of time?
We have all benefited from (and been victimized by) time's subjectivity. Two hours spent at a good party can feel like ten fleeting minutes, while a ten-minute drive home with a full bladder simply never ends.
"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is -- in its most obvious interpretation -- about the subjectivity of time. Even if you miss the somewhat hasty and informal explanation at the beginning of the performance, you will eventually notice that the dancers are attempting to synchronize their tasks -- like counting silently in their heads -- but they never finish together despite all their highly-polished dancerly-discipline.
Why can't they sync with each other? Because the passage of time, in the absence of coordinated cues like the a visible clock, is a subjective and ever-changing thing. None of us have quartz crystals in our heads. We rely on metabolism and breathing, stride-length and thought-passage to inform us of how quickly the rest of the world is moving in relation to us. When all the dancers close their eyes simultaneously and start counting silently, and then each of them raises a hand when they have reached the agreed-upon number, the dancer who ate a cheeseburger may finish faster than the one with a painful blister on her heel. This is a bizarre and entertaining way of expressing what we deal with every day: there is no way for people to synchronize with each other without external time cues.
To look at it in one way, "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is a series of experiments to demonstrate how individual people perceive time. Sometimes the time intervals are short and sometimes they're excruciatingly long, and due to this occasional excruciating nature, the AUDIENCE is ALSO confronted with their individual time-perceptions: three minutes staring at a motionless line of dancers evokes all sorts of feelings, but one of them is how long three minutes can be when not a heck of a lot is going on.
Back to the rehearsal and my impressions of it. Early on I noticed that the director and the performers were using evocative words to describe the sixty different sections of the performance.
One section was called "witnessing," for example, and another was "the how-to's." There were movements called "abbreviations" and "acronyms," and there were also "koala" and "suicide."
These words were a convenient shorthand for the dancers, of course, but I was fascinated by the fact that the audience would never hear those words (unless they looked at the rundown which was provided at the end of the show). When I saw one dancer carrying another, belly-to-belly, in a tight and motionless embrace, my perception of the act changed as soon as I found out -- thanks to my privileged position as silent rehearsal voyeur -- that they referred to this action as "koala." If they'd called it "frog" or "Kali" then I probably would have viewed it differently.
Why do I bring this up? Because our perception of PLOT is just as subjective as our perception of TIME. "Hamlet" would give a very different impression to a 17th century barmaid, a bored highschool student, and a queer theorist respectively. No plot can contain one single, universal impression for everybody. You can say this about books or movies or any other type of public art you can think of.
Contemporary dance rarely telegraphs its narrative as clearly as a Hemmingway novel, and even if it DID there'd be the same issues of interpretation. When we see one woman suspending and holding another woman closely, what does that mean to us? Is it love? Is it trust? Is it fear or hope or disability? Hemmingway would tell us which it was -- and he'd probably wrestle both dancers to the ground as well -- but would we agree with his assertion? And would our perception of the act be richened -- or cheapened -- if we found it was called "koala?"
Contemporary dance, to me, seems largely ambiguous. The thematic clues given to the audience in "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" are not presented like they would be in an Agatha Christie novel...
...but the point of "60 Dances" is not to discover whodunnit before the pompous detective does. I suspect that the dance company would agree with me that they do not expect everybody in the audience to absorb the information provided in exactly the same way; in fact, the company might HATE that possibility. I suspect that they -- and perhaps most artists who work in relatively non-traditional ways -- want the audience members to make up their own minds.
But here's the thing: I'm not part of the dance company, I'm an audience member, so how many clues to the narrative should I be given? How much of it should be explained, and how clearly? Should there be identifiable characters in the performance with individual motivations, or are they all just "dancers," lab rats in a time experiment...a time experiment which I may not even understand is going on? While watching the rehearsal I found myself fixating on the words "koala" and "the how-to's" and "witnessing" because I CRAVED a plot. I clung to one reoccurring figure -- a girl in a parka with a subtly funny walk -- because she provided me with a sense of character that I find satisfying and fulfilling.
"What is the narrative of a symphony?" Jacob asked when we talked about this, and he's correct. And keep in mind that I was also watching the rehearsal of a performance that was yet to be completed, and watching it in the artificial environment of a closed theatre, without an audience, under bright lights, with a full bladder.
But I think this comes to the root of my general wariness about contemporary dance. I am not familiar with the concepts and history of the artform so I can't construct even a tenuous narrative like "I don't understand the literal soup cans but at least I understand pop art." I am also not privy to the thoughts of the dramaturge or the director or the performers, because they choose to remain silent or (more likely) because I hate reading the tiny print on theatre brochures.
Without knowing the concepts that the company is trying to express, I can't compare them with my own impressions. I don't know whether they've succeeded in getting their ideas across. And if my impression is the opposite of what they intended to convey, has the performance been a failure? Is there such a thing as failure in contemporary dance? Or in an abstract painting? In a symphony?
PS: I am generally confused by the symphonies as well. Sorry.
Back to the rehearsal. "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is not just an experiment in subjective time; if it were then it would be best inflicted on a bunch of undergrads in a controlled manner (hopefully with electric shocks), and not performed on a stage.
No, the AESTHETICS of this performance are important as well. It's as though the success of the aforementioned experiment depends partly on whether the experimenter is wearing footwear which compliments the style of the electroencephalogram.
During the rehearsal there were constant negotiations between the artistic director, the associate director, and all ten dancers about the smallest details of the piece. This process was collaborative and everybody offered suggestions, and while some were practical -- dealing with safety, for instance -- and some related to theme, most of them were based on simple aesthetic considerations.
The discussions about the look and feel of the piece were the only extended and difficult ones I witnessed; should the dancers who perform the "knee burn" be hesitating before they slide, or should they dive right in? When two dancers do an impromptu translation from French to English, should they do it cautiously or should they just shout over each other? And how noisy should each of them be when they all count out loud?
A lot of discussion went into what one particular dancer should do during a three-minute segment. When somebody suggested that she should run to the back wall and press herself against it, associate director Bonnie Kim said "That's great. I love the wall." And everybody agreed.
"Loving the wall" has nothing to do with the theme of "60 Dances in 60 Minutes." There is no thematic reason why that dancer, at that time, should do that particular action. It's not a plot thing, it's not a character thing. It just seemed good.
In another one of our whispered conferences, Jacob agreeed that aesthetic decisions are pervasive and important to him, and they provide another aspect of what the audience may take away from the show: does it feel right? Is it well-paced? Is there enough variety?
Some modern works are composed entirely within rigid initial constraints, which is why they may come across as dry, pedantic, and mechanical. There must always be the consideration of how much one should deviate from (or add to) the central conceit in order to appeal to form and feeling, those most subjective of audience impressions. Does it look or sound good? Does it resonate nicely? Does it move so far from the theme that the point is lost and the audience is distracted?
Sometimes yes, if you're as literal-minded as I am. When the dancers jog or slide or tickle each other, a somewhat grumpy part of my brain wants to know "why are they sliding?" because I can't relate those things to my everyday life. When a stranger walks up to me on the street and spends three minutes explaining to me how to bake a Shepherd's pie, I think he's insane and he probably wants to put me IN the pie, which is not pleasing at all. It's kooky.
Jacob whispers to me about furnishing a room: there are basic rules regarding size and clearance, but there are also aesthetic considerations. It's not generally desirable to eliminate either consideration: you end up with a fully rule-based composition (like a boiler room) or one that looks great but your friends avoid, because the couch is too far away from the coffee table, and you can't see the TV properly, and when you touch the wall it collapses.
If modern dance doesn't appeal to the eye, has it failed? Conversely, if it ONLY appeals to the eye, is it nothing more than an awkward Hokey-Pokey that you're not allowed to join?
Why all this speculation? Why didn't I ask Jacob or director Michael Trent what THEY felt the audience would perceive?
I'm not lazy, honest! I wanted to develop my own ideas about the piece, and I also wanted to glean -- non-verbally, instinctively -- what they subconsciously hoped for and expected. What would be a success for them? What would failure be? Did success or failure even matter?
The primary impression I got was that they enjoy what they do, they are intensely interested in their audience, and they are confident that people WILL appreciate and understand it. During the four hours I was there I didn't actually see them debate their methods of communicating their ideas, but those discussions probably happened long ago, during the initial planning stages, before the February shows ever happened.
And me? My original plan was to go to several rehearsals and try to see the process from different angles, but I don't think I would have learned anything more than I already did, and besides I'd need a lot more exposure in order to make this really be about THEM or YOU instead of ME.
All I REALLY know is that, despite all of my kvetching and analyzing and quizzing, I'm impressed with what they're doing and I can't wait to see the show. I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I won't know why, thank goodness. I think I just will.
But I'll have to take all other performances as they come, much as I would a book, or a film...or even a symphony.
Can I explain the secrets of dance after a mere four hours of exposure? I only saw one single company performing one single piece and I didn't even get to see the end. There are many different approaches to dance, and every audience member is an individual, so I can't just say "This is what it's all about" (as much as that would save me some heavy pondering and how-do-I-express-this anxiety).
Seeing the rehearsal -- and enjoying some whispered chats with Jacob Zimmer, the dramaturge -- hasn't left me with many answers and it hasn't turned me into an instant fan. I learned a few more things about my personal hangups and how they relate to my entertainment choices...at the very least it was a good private therapy session.
But I'm not here to tell you about my childhood trauma; that's what the REST of this blog is about. I'm assuming instead that some of my insights may be interesting to you, whether you loathe modern dance or you think it's the absolute cat's meow.
WARMING UP
"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" was first performed in February by the five principle dancers of the Dancemakers company. For the show in Kitchener they'd chosen to add five local dancers to the performance, and they thought it would be interesting to have me -- the clueless, curious, neurotic-but-eloquent spectator -- sit in during one of their rehearsals.
I was nervous. As is always the case with events where audience-appreciation is not tied to long-standing rules of etiquette and judgment, my first concern was how much reverence I was expected to have for their work. How serious must I be? Dost I dare to make jokes about thee art, especially being the only person in the audience and surrounded by its performers and creators, all of whom are extremely fit? I can't speak for other shows, but I can say this for sure: if you don't laugh a bit during "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" then you probably have a really crappy sense of humour.
But the question remains: what should the audience get out of this particular performance? The more abstract a piece of entertainment is -- the more distant it is from convention, the fewer obvious cues transmitted by the performers, the more flexible its parameters -- the greater the potential for hostility, boredom, confusion, or feelings of boorish inadequacy. Nobody likes to feel stupid, especially not those of us who consider ourselves open-minded and experienced enough to be able to "get it."
Most forms of contemporary dance do not, in my experience, present themselves in traditional or unambiguous ways. If the audience doesn't "get" the performance, is that a failure of us or the dance company? Is that even a failure at all?
THE EXPERIMENT
The title "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" gives you an idea of what this performance is about, but here's a more explicit precis: the dancers, singly or in groups, will perform various tasks during a certain time period. How will ten dancers (and the audience) perceive the performance of these tasks in relation to the passage of time?
We have all benefited from (and been victimized by) time's subjectivity. Two hours spent at a good party can feel like ten fleeting minutes, while a ten-minute drive home with a full bladder simply never ends.
"60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is -- in its most obvious interpretation -- about the subjectivity of time. Even if you miss the somewhat hasty and informal explanation at the beginning of the performance, you will eventually notice that the dancers are attempting to synchronize their tasks -- like counting silently in their heads -- but they never finish together despite all their highly-polished dancerly-discipline.
Why can't they sync with each other? Because the passage of time, in the absence of coordinated cues like the a visible clock, is a subjective and ever-changing thing. None of us have quartz crystals in our heads. We rely on metabolism and breathing, stride-length and thought-passage to inform us of how quickly the rest of the world is moving in relation to us. When all the dancers close their eyes simultaneously and start counting silently, and then each of them raises a hand when they have reached the agreed-upon number, the dancer who ate a cheeseburger may finish faster than the one with a painful blister on her heel. This is a bizarre and entertaining way of expressing what we deal with every day: there is no way for people to synchronize with each other without external time cues.
To look at it in one way, "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is a series of experiments to demonstrate how individual people perceive time. Sometimes the time intervals are short and sometimes they're excruciatingly long, and due to this occasional excruciating nature, the AUDIENCE is ALSO confronted with their individual time-perceptions: three minutes staring at a motionless line of dancers evokes all sorts of feelings, but one of them is how long three minutes can be when not a heck of a lot is going on.
THE AUDIENCE AND THE NARRATIVE.
Back to the rehearsal and my impressions of it. Early on I noticed that the director and the performers were using evocative words to describe the sixty different sections of the performance.
One section was called "witnessing," for example, and another was "the how-to's." There were movements called "abbreviations" and "acronyms," and there were also "koala" and "suicide."
These words were a convenient shorthand for the dancers, of course, but I was fascinated by the fact that the audience would never hear those words (unless they looked at the rundown which was provided at the end of the show). When I saw one dancer carrying another, belly-to-belly, in a tight and motionless embrace, my perception of the act changed as soon as I found out -- thanks to my privileged position as silent rehearsal voyeur -- that they referred to this action as "koala." If they'd called it "frog" or "Kali" then I probably would have viewed it differently.
Why do I bring this up? Because our perception of PLOT is just as subjective as our perception of TIME. "Hamlet" would give a very different impression to a 17th century barmaid, a bored highschool student, and a queer theorist respectively. No plot can contain one single, universal impression for everybody. You can say this about books or movies or any other type of public art you can think of.
Contemporary dance rarely telegraphs its narrative as clearly as a Hemmingway novel, and even if it DID there'd be the same issues of interpretation. When we see one woman suspending and holding another woman closely, what does that mean to us? Is it love? Is it trust? Is it fear or hope or disability? Hemmingway would tell us which it was -- and he'd probably wrestle both dancers to the ground as well -- but would we agree with his assertion? And would our perception of the act be richened -- or cheapened -- if we found it was called "koala?"
Contemporary dance, to me, seems largely ambiguous. The thematic clues given to the audience in "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" are not presented like they would be in an Agatha Christie novel...
...but the point of "60 Dances" is not to discover whodunnit before the pompous detective does. I suspect that the dance company would agree with me that they do not expect everybody in the audience to absorb the information provided in exactly the same way; in fact, the company might HATE that possibility. I suspect that they -- and perhaps most artists who work in relatively non-traditional ways -- want the audience members to make up their own minds.
But here's the thing: I'm not part of the dance company, I'm an audience member, so how many clues to the narrative should I be given? How much of it should be explained, and how clearly? Should there be identifiable characters in the performance with individual motivations, or are they all just "dancers," lab rats in a time experiment...a time experiment which I may not even understand is going on? While watching the rehearsal I found myself fixating on the words "koala" and "the how-to's" and "witnessing" because I CRAVED a plot. I clung to one reoccurring figure -- a girl in a parka with a subtly funny walk -- because she provided me with a sense of character that I find satisfying and fulfilling.
"What is the narrative of a symphony?" Jacob asked when we talked about this, and he's correct. And keep in mind that I was also watching the rehearsal of a performance that was yet to be completed, and watching it in the artificial environment of a closed theatre, without an audience, under bright lights, with a full bladder.
But I think this comes to the root of my general wariness about contemporary dance. I am not familiar with the concepts and history of the artform so I can't construct even a tenuous narrative like "I don't understand the literal soup cans but at least I understand pop art." I am also not privy to the thoughts of the dramaturge or the director or the performers, because they choose to remain silent or (more likely) because I hate reading the tiny print on theatre brochures.
Without knowing the concepts that the company is trying to express, I can't compare them with my own impressions. I don't know whether they've succeeded in getting their ideas across. And if my impression is the opposite of what they intended to convey, has the performance been a failure? Is there such a thing as failure in contemporary dance? Or in an abstract painting? In a symphony?
PS: I am generally confused by the symphonies as well. Sorry.
AESTHETICS VERSUS THEME
Back to the rehearsal. "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" is not just an experiment in subjective time; if it were then it would be best inflicted on a bunch of undergrads in a controlled manner (hopefully with electric shocks), and not performed on a stage.
No, the AESTHETICS of this performance are important as well. It's as though the success of the aforementioned experiment depends partly on whether the experimenter is wearing footwear which compliments the style of the electroencephalogram.
During the rehearsal there were constant negotiations between the artistic director, the associate director, and all ten dancers about the smallest details of the piece. This process was collaborative and everybody offered suggestions, and while some were practical -- dealing with safety, for instance -- and some related to theme, most of them were based on simple aesthetic considerations.
The discussions about the look and feel of the piece were the only extended and difficult ones I witnessed; should the dancers who perform the "knee burn" be hesitating before they slide, or should they dive right in? When two dancers do an impromptu translation from French to English, should they do it cautiously or should they just shout over each other? And how noisy should each of them be when they all count out loud?
A lot of discussion went into what one particular dancer should do during a three-minute segment. When somebody suggested that she should run to the back wall and press herself against it, associate director Bonnie Kim said "That's great. I love the wall." And everybody agreed.
"Loving the wall" has nothing to do with the theme of "60 Dances in 60 Minutes." There is no thematic reason why that dancer, at that time, should do that particular action. It's not a plot thing, it's not a character thing. It just seemed good.
In another one of our whispered conferences, Jacob agreeed that aesthetic decisions are pervasive and important to him, and they provide another aspect of what the audience may take away from the show: does it feel right? Is it well-paced? Is there enough variety?
Some modern works are composed entirely within rigid initial constraints, which is why they may come across as dry, pedantic, and mechanical. There must always be the consideration of how much one should deviate from (or add to) the central conceit in order to appeal to form and feeling, those most subjective of audience impressions. Does it look or sound good? Does it resonate nicely? Does it move so far from the theme that the point is lost and the audience is distracted?
Sometimes yes, if you're as literal-minded as I am. When the dancers jog or slide or tickle each other, a somewhat grumpy part of my brain wants to know "why are they sliding?" because I can't relate those things to my everyday life. When a stranger walks up to me on the street and spends three minutes explaining to me how to bake a Shepherd's pie, I think he's insane and he probably wants to put me IN the pie, which is not pleasing at all. It's kooky.
Jacob whispers to me about furnishing a room: there are basic rules regarding size and clearance, but there are also aesthetic considerations. It's not generally desirable to eliminate either consideration: you end up with a fully rule-based composition (like a boiler room) or one that looks great but your friends avoid, because the couch is too far away from the coffee table, and you can't see the TV properly, and when you touch the wall it collapses.
If modern dance doesn't appeal to the eye, has it failed? Conversely, if it ONLY appeals to the eye, is it nothing more than an awkward Hokey-Pokey that you're not allowed to join?
THE PERFORMANCE
Why all this speculation? Why didn't I ask Jacob or director Michael Trent what THEY felt the audience would perceive?
I'm not lazy, honest! I wanted to develop my own ideas about the piece, and I also wanted to glean -- non-verbally, instinctively -- what they subconsciously hoped for and expected. What would be a success for them? What would failure be? Did success or failure even matter?
The primary impression I got was that they enjoy what they do, they are intensely interested in their audience, and they are confident that people WILL appreciate and understand it. During the four hours I was there I didn't actually see them debate their methods of communicating their ideas, but those discussions probably happened long ago, during the initial planning stages, before the February shows ever happened.
And me? My original plan was to go to several rehearsals and try to see the process from different angles, but I don't think I would have learned anything more than I already did, and besides I'd need a lot more exposure in order to make this really be about THEM or YOU instead of ME.
All I REALLY know is that, despite all of my kvetching and analyzing and quizzing, I'm impressed with what they're doing and I can't wait to see the show. I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I won't know why, thank goodness. I think I just will.
But I'll have to take all other performances as they come, much as I would a book, or a film...or even a symphony.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
60 Dances in 60 Minutes - The General Idea
This morning I was invited to attend rehearsals for the upcoming "60 Dances in 60 Minutes" show, which will be performed November 4th at The Registry Theatre. They didn't invite me because I'm a spectacular hoofer with hotcha feet, but because...
...well, just because. Let me explain.
I love to dance in a bar. I enjoy the "Thriller" dance just as much as the next person. I get a kick out of Ann Miller's tapping, and if I ever dust off my barely-worn tap shoes I just might decide to annoy my neighbours again.
But I don't understand "contemporary" dance. Watching a contemporary dance troupe, for me, is like watching sign language: I appreciate the craft and I understand that it has a history and a meaning and a complexity (and perhaps even a syntax), but I simply can't tell one movement from another. "Sun" might as well be "bathtub" for all I know, just as the movements of contemporary dance could be "Reaching for the tragic revelation hidden behind my lover's smile" or "Ouch, my arm!" at any given time.
I am certainly not the only person who doesn't "get" contemporary dance; lots of people find it baffling. And what's the best way to explain it to the uncomprehending majority?
Simple: send in a Mister EveryMuffy to have a look, somebody who is INTERESTED, and somebody who can EXPRESS confusion and revelation and perhaps even boredom in a widely-read (if I do say so) blog. It's even better if that EveryMuffy will do it just for the fun of it.
I know all too well that some ambitious plans don't work out. Maybe I'll find myself totally uninspired by the proceedings and unable to say anything that is interesting. Maybe, while poking around the Registry Theatre, I'll accidentally drop a sandbag on somebody -- please not artistic director Michael Trent -- and get kicked out for causing a ruckus.
But maybe not. If the stars align during the next week then you -- the curious dance outsider -- might read something of interest in this blog. And I might decide that even if I can't express complex emotions with my uncoordinated body, I might at LEAST learn how to finally do The Twist.
...well, just because. Let me explain.
I love to dance in a bar. I enjoy the "Thriller" dance just as much as the next person. I get a kick out of Ann Miller's tapping, and if I ever dust off my barely-worn tap shoes I just might decide to annoy my neighbours again.
But I don't understand "contemporary" dance. Watching a contemporary dance troupe, for me, is like watching sign language: I appreciate the craft and I understand that it has a history and a meaning and a complexity (and perhaps even a syntax), but I simply can't tell one movement from another. "Sun" might as well be "bathtub" for all I know, just as the movements of contemporary dance could be "Reaching for the tragic revelation hidden behind my lover's smile" or "Ouch, my arm!" at any given time.
I am certainly not the only person who doesn't "get" contemporary dance; lots of people find it baffling. And what's the best way to explain it to the uncomprehending majority?
Simple: send in a Mister EveryMuffy to have a look, somebody who is INTERESTED, and somebody who can EXPRESS confusion and revelation and perhaps even boredom in a widely-read (if I do say so) blog. It's even better if that EveryMuffy will do it just for the fun of it.
I know all too well that some ambitious plans don't work out. Maybe I'll find myself totally uninspired by the proceedings and unable to say anything that is interesting. Maybe, while poking around the Registry Theatre, I'll accidentally drop a sandbag on somebody -- please not artistic director Michael Trent -- and get kicked out for causing a ruckus.
But maybe not. If the stars align during the next week then you -- the curious dance outsider -- might read something of interest in this blog. And I might decide that even if I can't express complex emotions with my uncoordinated body, I might at LEAST learn how to finally do The Twist.
The Urgent Care
Three hours in the urgent care clinic, confined to a room full of coughing people, one heartbreaking baby girl who wheezed terribly while crying, another baby who promptly vomited in the corner.
Most of us wore masks and did a complex shuffle to allow old or frail people to sit down. First we wrote our names on an admission sheet, and then we waited to be called for registration. I sat on a small table and read my book, always listening for my name, and also listening to the other names and the deft ability of clinic workers to pronounce Hispanic surnames, Arabic ones, Japanese ones, East Indian ones.
There were very few hitches to break the monotony of everybody staring at everybody else. First was the woman who kept returning to insist that she be allowed to get an H1N1 shot, even though she wasn't in a high-risk group. She'd argue, the receptionist would explain, she'd argue some more, she'd leave the clinic in anger, and five minutes later she'd come back again.
Other hitches were the people who signed the admission sheet without actually having their children present, and then were called to registration to have their ruse revealed. After having already waited ninety minutes in line, these people were sent home to get their children, only to return and go through the whole process all over again.
The rest of us, I suspect, had a subdued loathing for the angry people and the rule-breakers, and then we smiled inside when their efforts were thwarted. WE were sitting quietly and following all the rules. COMPLIANT mothers were entertaining their children for three hours out of their busy day. By vicariously enjoying the punishment of others, we reaffirmed our own worthiness, even though we were wearing hot facemasks and sitting for hours with extremely sick people.
There was a dignified old man who refused all offers of seating, only to collapse gently when a chair became naturally available. An impromptu trio of cynical strangers entertained themselves by the free telephone. A small boy reached out and tilted my book up to see what it was, and perhaps to read the blurb on the back: "Jerry Cornelius copulates, hallucinates, devastates..."
"I don't know how much longer it will take," the receptionist kept saying. "Probably hours. Everybody's in the same situation, you'll have to take your turn."
After I got my H1N1 shot they sent me out the back door, to reduce my exposure to sick and coughing people. A black, swollen bruise has slowly formed and now I have TWO useless biceps. Tiny virus, stay away from me until I am fully immunized.
Most of us wore masks and did a complex shuffle to allow old or frail people to sit down. First we wrote our names on an admission sheet, and then we waited to be called for registration. I sat on a small table and read my book, always listening for my name, and also listening to the other names and the deft ability of clinic workers to pronounce Hispanic surnames, Arabic ones, Japanese ones, East Indian ones.
There were very few hitches to break the monotony of everybody staring at everybody else. First was the woman who kept returning to insist that she be allowed to get an H1N1 shot, even though she wasn't in a high-risk group. She'd argue, the receptionist would explain, she'd argue some more, she'd leave the clinic in anger, and five minutes later she'd come back again.
Other hitches were the people who signed the admission sheet without actually having their children present, and then were called to registration to have their ruse revealed. After having already waited ninety minutes in line, these people were sent home to get their children, only to return and go through the whole process all over again.
The rest of us, I suspect, had a subdued loathing for the angry people and the rule-breakers, and then we smiled inside when their efforts were thwarted. WE were sitting quietly and following all the rules. COMPLIANT mothers were entertaining their children for three hours out of their busy day. By vicariously enjoying the punishment of others, we reaffirmed our own worthiness, even though we were wearing hot facemasks and sitting for hours with extremely sick people.
There was a dignified old man who refused all offers of seating, only to collapse gently when a chair became naturally available. An impromptu trio of cynical strangers entertained themselves by the free telephone. A small boy reached out and tilted my book up to see what it was, and perhaps to read the blurb on the back: "Jerry Cornelius copulates, hallucinates, devastates..."
"I don't know how much longer it will take," the receptionist kept saying. "Probably hours. Everybody's in the same situation, you'll have to take your turn."
After I got my H1N1 shot they sent me out the back door, to reduce my exposure to sick and coughing people. A black, swollen bruise has slowly formed and now I have TWO useless biceps. Tiny virus, stay away from me until I am fully immunized.
Friday, September 11, 2009
L'Accordéoniste
You can never go back. Your childhood, your high school days, your moments of great epiphany and discovery...all gone.
It's the same with those eras we have nostalgia for, especially those we're too young to remember. We're simply buried under too many layers of history and context (and irony, even) to be able to REALLY relive swing, or the renaissance, or cabaret.
So I was hesitant about seeing L'Accordéoniste tonight at the Registry Theatre. I was worried that it would be an austere, overly-cultured, documentary-style gloss of classic cabaret songs. I imagine there's a fine line when performing cabaret; a point where it becomes pure mugging camp or even -- God forbid -- tacky.
But I shouldn't have worried. These folks know where that line is and they walk it perfectly, thanks either to careful planning or just plain passion.
There were no heavy-handed attempts at REALLY invoking a cabaret (if such a thing would even be possible with such a varied repertoire of periods and styles). The Registry Theatre is a wonderfully relaxed place, but even so I doubt they would go for dinner, booze, and pungent cigar smoke. Another of my cabaret stereotypes is that the performers are all tragic and slightly soiled; you expect they're involved in shady love affairs, and it takes every ounce of stimulant they can ingest to keep them going through the daily grind of schlock, torch, and double entendre.
But unless they're hiding it well, the L'Accordéoniste performers do not come across as tawdry people who live tawdry lives. They're highly-regarded musicians with symphonic backgrounds and I bet they've NEVER slept in a bed full of cockroaches.
As for austerity...well, things were a bit upright at first, but once they hit the Kurt Weill selections -- which seemed to be leagues beyond the first numbers in terms of craft and arrangement -- they began to loosen up. Their Latin set was pure fire, and by the time they hit the French Cabaret...well, even the stoic percussionist was cracking a smile, and the audience was firmly in their hand.
Kimberly Barber obviously loves (and feels) this music, and she did a good job contextualizing the selections. Accordionist Mary-Lou Vetere is the most expressive musician I have ever seen, and she's got a classy accordion-gauntlet to boot. I particularly liked the moments when Vetere and Julie Baumgartel eased into tremolo-heavy duets; hearing a violin and an accordion together on a CD is nothing compared to the way they sound up-close and personal.
Peter Tiefenbach and Carol Bauman anchored the songs on piano and percussion, and even added their own comic touches when appropriate. But it wasn't all fun and novelty; some of the best moments were the tragic songs..."The Sailor's Tango" and "Chitarrata Abruzzese" especially.
I leave you with an interview and a performance by the band themselves...enjoy! And if they come to your town, be sure to see them. You can buy their debut CD here.
It's the same with those eras we have nostalgia for, especially those we're too young to remember. We're simply buried under too many layers of history and context (and irony, even) to be able to REALLY relive swing, or the renaissance, or cabaret.
So I was hesitant about seeing L'Accordéoniste tonight at the Registry Theatre. I was worried that it would be an austere, overly-cultured, documentary-style gloss of classic cabaret songs. I imagine there's a fine line when performing cabaret; a point where it becomes pure mugging camp or even -- God forbid -- tacky.
But I shouldn't have worried. These folks know where that line is and they walk it perfectly, thanks either to careful planning or just plain passion.
There were no heavy-handed attempts at REALLY invoking a cabaret (if such a thing would even be possible with such a varied repertoire of periods and styles). The Registry Theatre is a wonderfully relaxed place, but even so I doubt they would go for dinner, booze, and pungent cigar smoke. Another of my cabaret stereotypes is that the performers are all tragic and slightly soiled; you expect they're involved in shady love affairs, and it takes every ounce of stimulant they can ingest to keep them going through the daily grind of schlock, torch, and double entendre.
But unless they're hiding it well, the L'Accordéoniste performers do not come across as tawdry people who live tawdry lives. They're highly-regarded musicians with symphonic backgrounds and I bet they've NEVER slept in a bed full of cockroaches.
As for austerity...well, things were a bit upright at first, but once they hit the Kurt Weill selections -- which seemed to be leagues beyond the first numbers in terms of craft and arrangement -- they began to loosen up. Their Latin set was pure fire, and by the time they hit the French Cabaret...well, even the stoic percussionist was cracking a smile, and the audience was firmly in their hand.
Kimberly Barber obviously loves (and feels) this music, and she did a good job contextualizing the selections. Accordionist Mary-Lou Vetere is the most expressive musician I have ever seen, and she's got a classy accordion-gauntlet to boot. I particularly liked the moments when Vetere and Julie Baumgartel eased into tremolo-heavy duets; hearing a violin and an accordion together on a CD is nothing compared to the way they sound up-close and personal.
Peter Tiefenbach and Carol Bauman anchored the songs on piano and percussion, and even added their own comic touches when appropriate. But it wasn't all fun and novelty; some of the best moments were the tragic songs..."The Sailor's Tango" and "Chitarrata Abruzzese" especially.
I leave you with an interview and a performance by the band themselves...enjoy! And if they come to your town, be sure to see them. You can buy their debut CD here.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Neat Things I Found in My Scrapbox
One of the best things about moving is that I get to rediscover (and often throw out) all the cool things I've been pack-ratting during the last few decades. These things gradually accumulate in a box in the basement, bravely resisting spiders and dampness and being slowly forgotten...until the next move.
Here are some of the neat things I found in my scrapbox this time. At the very least they might add something to the growing internet presence of '90s small-press publishers and authors.
Issue #2 of "Zooomba!" This was an 8 1/2 x 11 'zine produced by Lisa Schwartzman in Waterloo during the early '90s. This issue doesn't have a date on it but I assume it's from 1994. In charming fashion, the cover is a photograph of a tapeworm being pulled from a child's bum.
Lisa was one of the members of "Philler," a CKMS sketch-comedy and audio-weirdness program from 1993 to 1994. Her style of humour was totally left-field...not so much "wacky" as "what the HELL?" She was extremely talented and I'm thrilled to see she's making YouTube videos.
Included in this issue of Zooomba: interviews with King Cobb Steelie, Gwar, and Consolodated. It also contains a brief dream recounted by late CKMS cult-peronality Eddy Schneider: "I had a dream about Groucho Marx last night. Something about duck soup. Pop goes the weasel."
PS: Eddy Schneider was unique. He released three improvisational cassettes of him endlessly riffing on a theme...singing the Star Wars theme for half an hour, for instance. His most beloved cassette was an extended one-man impersonation of race-track noises, which he made by shouting "Vrum-bum-bum-bum!" into a microphone that he virtually swallowed.
Someday I'll put some of his stuff online. You will be amazed.
Volumes 1 and 2 of "Phoenix." Produced and financed by the University of Waterloo's Arts Student Union, this was a nice (but somewhat shortlived) chapbook edited by Shirley Moore, Tamara Knezic, Clint Turcotte, and Lindsay Stewart. I later got to know Clint through the English Society, and I became the sidekick to his "Captain Arts" superhero persona. Lindsay is still very much active in the K/W arts scene...I was always blown away by his contributions to writers workshops and his "Slowpoke" readings at the old Purple Turtle cafe.
"Vampires or Gods?" by William Meyers. I was quite intrigued by Meyer's independent "III Publishing" company. He tended to print books with an illuminatus/conspiracy angle and I was never sure how seriously he took it all. This particular book's thesis is that the mythical immortal heroes -- Osiris, Dionysus, Hercules, Krishna, Quetzalcoatl -- were actually vampires. No, really.
Like all the III Publishing books this one is lovingly produced, but the cover DOES show a chubby man eating grapes in front of a bath towel, which is a bit of a step down in terms of quality and taste.
"The Standing Stone" Issue Number One, October 1990. This 'zine was devoted to fantasy and horror and was published by Gordon R. Menzies. It lasted at least three issues, but this is the only one I have, because it contains a pretty childish story by yours truly. It also has a poem by ubiquitous 'zine contributor John Grey, and a piece of art by Clay Boutilier (with whom I was publishing "Lost Magazine" at the time).
Issues Zero, One, and Two of "The Potassium Revue," 1990-1991. Author of "Virgintooth" (a copy of which is also in my scrapbox), this was Mark S. Ivanhoe's text-only collection of musings and journal entries. Neat stuff, very personal...where is he now?
"Zoomers," a collection of "short sharp fiction" produced by Duncan McLean's Clocktower Press in 1990. Duncan was one of my favourite small-press writer at the time. His fiction was intensely Scottish and entirely unique to my virgin ears. It appears that he's still in the writing game.
This issue also has fiction by Stefano Benni, Jim Ferguson, Gordon Legge, James Meek, and Sandy Watson.
"Demon Colors" by Gary Lynn Morton, a hand-printed and stapled book of stories and poems, 1991?
When I edited "Lost," Gary was a constant submittor. He'd send me enormous manuscripts -- all of which I still have in my "letterbox" -- and his style was a mix of straightforward prose and bizarre hallucination. Best of all, his detailed cover letters were entertaining and revealed the processes behind each work...what inspired him, why he wrote it, how his job was going.
I really miss Gary and I wonder what he's doing now. Online searches show that he has continued to submit stories to small press 'zines, but I can't find a central repository of information.
"Rantings" by Jim McAuliffe, a chapbook of fiction and poetry, 1992. I met Jim when I started attending workshops and readings in Kitchener and Waterloo, and I still see him around from time to time...he was still organizing local readings just a few years ago, at least. Jim's style was brash and ballsy and I hope he's still writing...
A 1993 letter from Vladimir Orlev, containing photographs of people with scribbled Russian writing on the back. I've never solved this mystery, but I think he thought that "Lost Magazine" had something to do with missing persons. Strange that he'd send this all the way from Velgograd.
"Waters Boil Bloody" and "1066" by William P. Robertson, two chapbooks of poetry from 1990 and 1992. The cover of "Waters Boil Bloody" appears to feature William being attacked by a sturgeon, which he is about to kill with a large hunting knife.
Many issues of "Radio Void," a great big 'zine from Providence RI. For many small publishers this was the 'zine to aspire to: classy, fun, professional. It's where the two-headed small-press hydra of Christopher Pierson and John Grey combined to create something of genius. I don't know what eventually happened to it.
Issues two and three of "A Theater of Blood," edited by C. Darren Butler. His own work seems to have stopped around 1993, but this was an excellent horror/speculative fiction 'zine while it lasted.
Issue one of "The Stake," from III Publishing. Full-colour cover! Weird fiction! Book reviews by J. G. Eccarius, Mr. "Last Days of Christ the Vampire" himself!
Volume Four of "The Otherside," the University of Waterloo's English Society publication from 1991. Featuring stories and poems by the usual suspects (Clint Turcotte, Lindsay Stewart, Jim McAuliffe) and some stuff by...me! I was so excited by this, I felt legitimized.
"Past Tense" by Irvine Welsh, a 1992 Clocktower Press chapbook of "four stories from a novel."
Yes, it's by THAT Irvine Welsh. It may have been the first thing he ever published, selections from the upcoming "Trainspotting." I wonder if this is worth a million bucks now?
"Reaper's Harvest" Number Two, a big (but somewhat thin) 1990 'zine of over-the-top horror. I think I got this through the usual magazine-trade method. It was edited by David F. Kramer (who appears to be very much in action) and featured a mascot named "Corpsie the Clown."
A big letter "A," number 783 of 1500. One day in 1994, the University of Waterloo students arrived on campus to find these EVERYWHERE. There were literally 1500 of them, enough for every hallway, bulletin board, classroom, and tunnel.
There were lots of theories -- and a bit of an ecological witch-hunt -- but I seem to remember that the final answer (whispered to me by a friend of the anonymous perpetrator) was that it was a celebration of a hard-won grade, though more likely a nifty bit of guerrilla art.
Lots of English Society posters featuring headless teddy bears, assassination photos, and jailed ostriches. We were a bit sick.
Mindsculpture gig posters, stuff from writer's workshops, issues of the mysterious Pauline Poisonous' "Stressed Out" 'zine, some truly horrific work from Full Force Frank (including murder-badges)...there's lots more but this post is long enough already.
What's in YOUR scrapboxes? Anything fun, strange, exciting?
Here are some of the neat things I found in my scrapbox this time. At the very least they might add something to the growing internet presence of '90s small-press publishers and authors.
Issue #2 of "Zooomba!" This was an 8 1/2 x 11 'zine produced by Lisa Schwartzman in Waterloo during the early '90s. This issue doesn't have a date on it but I assume it's from 1994. In charming fashion, the cover is a photograph of a tapeworm being pulled from a child's bum.
Lisa was one of the members of "Philler," a CKMS sketch-comedy and audio-weirdness program from 1993 to 1994. Her style of humour was totally left-field...not so much "wacky" as "what the HELL?" She was extremely talented and I'm thrilled to see she's making YouTube videos.
Included in this issue of Zooomba: interviews with King Cobb Steelie, Gwar, and Consolodated. It also contains a brief dream recounted by late CKMS cult-peronality Eddy Schneider: "I had a dream about Groucho Marx last night. Something about duck soup. Pop goes the weasel."
PS: Eddy Schneider was unique. He released three improvisational cassettes of him endlessly riffing on a theme...singing the Star Wars theme for half an hour, for instance. His most beloved cassette was an extended one-man impersonation of race-track noises, which he made by shouting "Vrum-bum-bum-bum!" into a microphone that he virtually swallowed.
Someday I'll put some of his stuff online. You will be amazed.
Volumes 1 and 2 of "Phoenix." Produced and financed by the University of Waterloo's Arts Student Union, this was a nice (but somewhat shortlived) chapbook edited by Shirley Moore, Tamara Knezic, Clint Turcotte, and Lindsay Stewart. I later got to know Clint through the English Society, and I became the sidekick to his "Captain Arts" superhero persona. Lindsay is still very much active in the K/W arts scene...I was always blown away by his contributions to writers workshops and his "Slowpoke" readings at the old Purple Turtle cafe.
"Vampires or Gods?" by William Meyers. I was quite intrigued by Meyer's independent "III Publishing" company. He tended to print books with an illuminatus/conspiracy angle and I was never sure how seriously he took it all. This particular book's thesis is that the mythical immortal heroes -- Osiris, Dionysus, Hercules, Krishna, Quetzalcoatl -- were actually vampires. No, really.
Like all the III Publishing books this one is lovingly produced, but the cover DOES show a chubby man eating grapes in front of a bath towel, which is a bit of a step down in terms of quality and taste.
"The Standing Stone" Issue Number One, October 1990. This 'zine was devoted to fantasy and horror and was published by Gordon R. Menzies. It lasted at least three issues, but this is the only one I have, because it contains a pretty childish story by yours truly. It also has a poem by ubiquitous 'zine contributor John Grey, and a piece of art by Clay Boutilier (with whom I was publishing "Lost Magazine" at the time).
Issues Zero, One, and Two of "The Potassium Revue," 1990-1991. Author of "Virgintooth" (a copy of which is also in my scrapbox), this was Mark S. Ivanhoe's text-only collection of musings and journal entries. Neat stuff, very personal...where is he now?
"Zoomers," a collection of "short sharp fiction" produced by Duncan McLean's Clocktower Press in 1990. Duncan was one of my favourite small-press writer at the time. His fiction was intensely Scottish and entirely unique to my virgin ears. It appears that he's still in the writing game.
This issue also has fiction by Stefano Benni, Jim Ferguson, Gordon Legge, James Meek, and Sandy Watson.
"Demon Colors" by Gary Lynn Morton, a hand-printed and stapled book of stories and poems, 1991?
When I edited "Lost," Gary was a constant submittor. He'd send me enormous manuscripts -- all of which I still have in my "letterbox" -- and his style was a mix of straightforward prose and bizarre hallucination. Best of all, his detailed cover letters were entertaining and revealed the processes behind each work...what inspired him, why he wrote it, how his job was going.
I really miss Gary and I wonder what he's doing now. Online searches show that he has continued to submit stories to small press 'zines, but I can't find a central repository of information.
"Rantings" by Jim McAuliffe, a chapbook of fiction and poetry, 1992. I met Jim when I started attending workshops and readings in Kitchener and Waterloo, and I still see him around from time to time...he was still organizing local readings just a few years ago, at least. Jim's style was brash and ballsy and I hope he's still writing...
A 1993 letter from Vladimir Orlev, containing photographs of people with scribbled Russian writing on the back. I've never solved this mystery, but I think he thought that "Lost Magazine" had something to do with missing persons. Strange that he'd send this all the way from Velgograd.
"Waters Boil Bloody" and "1066" by William P. Robertson, two chapbooks of poetry from 1990 and 1992. The cover of "Waters Boil Bloody" appears to feature William being attacked by a sturgeon, which he is about to kill with a large hunting knife.
Many issues of "Radio Void," a great big 'zine from Providence RI. For many small publishers this was the 'zine to aspire to: classy, fun, professional. It's where the two-headed small-press hydra of Christopher Pierson and John Grey combined to create something of genius. I don't know what eventually happened to it.
Issues two and three of "A Theater of Blood," edited by C. Darren Butler. His own work seems to have stopped around 1993, but this was an excellent horror/speculative fiction 'zine while it lasted.
Issue one of "The Stake," from III Publishing. Full-colour cover! Weird fiction! Book reviews by J. G. Eccarius, Mr. "Last Days of Christ the Vampire" himself!
Volume Four of "The Otherside," the University of Waterloo's English Society publication from 1991. Featuring stories and poems by the usual suspects (Clint Turcotte, Lindsay Stewart, Jim McAuliffe) and some stuff by...me! I was so excited by this, I felt legitimized.
"Past Tense" by Irvine Welsh, a 1992 Clocktower Press chapbook of "four stories from a novel."
Yes, it's by THAT Irvine Welsh. It may have been the first thing he ever published, selections from the upcoming "Trainspotting." I wonder if this is worth a million bucks now?
"Reaper's Harvest" Number Two, a big (but somewhat thin) 1990 'zine of over-the-top horror. I think I got this through the usual magazine-trade method. It was edited by David F. Kramer (who appears to be very much in action) and featured a mascot named "Corpsie the Clown."
A big letter "A," number 783 of 1500. One day in 1994, the University of Waterloo students arrived on campus to find these EVERYWHERE. There were literally 1500 of them, enough for every hallway, bulletin board, classroom, and tunnel.
There were lots of theories -- and a bit of an ecological witch-hunt -- but I seem to remember that the final answer (whispered to me by a friend of the anonymous perpetrator) was that it was a celebration of a hard-won grade, though more likely a nifty bit of guerrilla art.
Lots of English Society posters featuring headless teddy bears, assassination photos, and jailed ostriches. We were a bit sick.
Mindsculpture gig posters, stuff from writer's workshops, issues of the mysterious Pauline Poisonous' "Stressed Out" 'zine, some truly horrific work from Full Force Frank (including murder-badges)...there's lots more but this post is long enough already.
What's in YOUR scrapboxes? Anything fun, strange, exciting?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Tramps, Dishes, and Bins o' Sin
When the Tri-City Roller Girls put out a heartfelt plea for volunteers, I simply couldn't resist. "Yes!" I said. "Simply tell me what to do!"
I guess they couldn't resist either, because they asked me to be one of the "sin bin" timers. How hard could that be? Errrr...
Today's match -- the first of the season -- was at the spiffy new Wilmot Community Center. Since the Car Share charges me by the kilometer, I did what I always do (and regret later)...I forsook the loopy highway and tried to take the back roads. But here in Canada, May is the month of road construction, and when I realized that Erb Street was closed...
...well, I wish I could show you the totally stupid route I actually drove, trying to be "smart" and find my way. I ended up in BAMBURG. What's "Bamburg," you ask? It's a place you don't want to be in. Forget the fact that you don't actually want to LIVE in Bamburg (we used to call it "Bumburg" when I was in high school), but it's a road to absolutely NOWHERE. Being in Bamburg is like trying to get to the North Pole via Australia. Like, so off the path that the Blair Witch can pick and choose her victims at will, and then have a big party without the police even noticing.
But I did finally arrive at the arena, where I discovered that timing the "sin bin" is at least THEORETICALLY a really difficult thing. The rules involving seating and special exceptions are MAMMOTH, so I figured I'd rely on my volunteer partner to tell me what to do. But she was "Perky Set." Wonderful. Brilliant. Never timed a sin bin in her life.
Fortunately she'd spent plenty of time IN the sin bin, so between us we managed to figure out the rules. And since both teams were uncharacteristically sweet we got by without too many challenges.
The show? Wonderful! It really is an engaging sport and it's great to feel like you're part of something. I'm a Venus Fly Tramp at heart, but I (accidentally) wore Vicious Dishes colours, so I felt like I could sort of remain impartial. Sadly, the Tramps lost. Impartial my butt.
After pumping gas and returning the car (I've taken it out four times and NEVER ONCE has the previous user filled the tank), I decided to try something totally new: I'd refresh my face and go to the after party.
This is a difficult thing. If you've never done drag, think of it as like putting a big pancake over your face and then walking around and trying to look pretty. You can do this for about five hours before you start to look -- shall we say -- like a crack-whore-f*cked-up-clown. But sadder. I am SO paranoid about being ugly in drag. I have NIGHTMARES about it. I'd rather have two broken legs than be a really ugly drag queen, but please don't take me up on that.
I really wanted to go to the party, though, so I got out the wet sponge and dabbed...and dabbed...and reapplied...and eventually I just prayed for dim lighting and went out anyway.
What fun! Booze, booze, booze. Pizza appeared and then just as quickly disappeared. Ben Ong kept everybody dancing. I drank too much and then realized that I'd better leave before the ultimate collapse.
Now? Home and happy. What a wonderful night. I'm exhausted and hungry and spinny, and my shoulder feels like a roller girl just stuck a straw into it and then kicked it with a lead-filled skate, but it was a worthwhile and fun night and I look forward to doing it again.
Here's to the Roller Derby Girls, past and present. Here's to all the work they do, all the rehearsals and planning and money they spend. In a perfect world they'd be rewarded. I hope they feel they are.
I guess they couldn't resist either, because they asked me to be one of the "sin bin" timers. How hard could that be? Errrr...
Today's match -- the first of the season -- was at the spiffy new Wilmot Community Center. Since the Car Share charges me by the kilometer, I did what I always do (and regret later)...I forsook the loopy highway and tried to take the back roads. But here in Canada, May is the month of road construction, and when I realized that Erb Street was closed...
...well, I wish I could show you the totally stupid route I actually drove, trying to be "smart" and find my way. I ended up in BAMBURG. What's "Bamburg," you ask? It's a place you don't want to be in. Forget the fact that you don't actually want to LIVE in Bamburg (we used to call it "Bumburg" when I was in high school), but it's a road to absolutely NOWHERE. Being in Bamburg is like trying to get to the North Pole via Australia. Like, so off the path that the Blair Witch can pick and choose her victims at will, and then have a big party without the police even noticing.
But I did finally arrive at the arena, where I discovered that timing the "sin bin" is at least THEORETICALLY a really difficult thing. The rules involving seating and special exceptions are MAMMOTH, so I figured I'd rely on my volunteer partner to tell me what to do. But she was "Perky Set." Wonderful. Brilliant. Never timed a sin bin in her life.
Fortunately she'd spent plenty of time IN the sin bin, so between us we managed to figure out the rules. And since both teams were uncharacteristically sweet we got by without too many challenges.
The show? Wonderful! It really is an engaging sport and it's great to feel like you're part of something. I'm a Venus Fly Tramp at heart, but I (accidentally) wore Vicious Dishes colours, so I felt like I could sort of remain impartial. Sadly, the Tramps lost. Impartial my butt.
After pumping gas and returning the car (I've taken it out four times and NEVER ONCE has the previous user filled the tank), I decided to try something totally new: I'd refresh my face and go to the after party.
This is a difficult thing. If you've never done drag, think of it as like putting a big pancake over your face and then walking around and trying to look pretty. You can do this for about five hours before you start to look -- shall we say -- like a crack-whore-f*cked-up-clown. But sadder. I am SO paranoid about being ugly in drag. I have NIGHTMARES about it. I'd rather have two broken legs than be a really ugly drag queen, but please don't take me up on that.
I really wanted to go to the party, though, so I got out the wet sponge and dabbed...and dabbed...and reapplied...and eventually I just prayed for dim lighting and went out anyway.
What fun! Booze, booze, booze. Pizza appeared and then just as quickly disappeared. Ben Ong kept everybody dancing. I drank too much and then realized that I'd better leave before the ultimate collapse.
Now? Home and happy. What a wonderful night. I'm exhausted and hungry and spinny, and my shoulder feels like a roller girl just stuck a straw into it and then kicked it with a lead-filled skate, but it was a worthwhile and fun night and I look forward to doing it again.
Here's to the Roller Derby Girls, past and present. Here's to all the work they do, all the rehearsals and planning and money they spend. In a perfect world they'd be rewarded. I hope they feel they are.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Open Ears 2009: Saturday May 3
The Books
My cubical-mate Dave quite literally FREAKED when he heard that The Books were coming to Kitchener. "Whozzat?" I asked. "Who are the books?
He tried to explain a bit about what they did, and he sent me a couple of videos that I barely watched -- I like to see shows without knowing anything about the artists -- and I heard all sorts of things about how they rarely perform live any more, and this was their first show in years, etc. etc.
After so much hype, could The Books actually live up to the impression that I had in my mind?
Yes. And more.
They're funny and genuine. They have a hint of humbleness to them, but they are totally confident about what they do. Their beats and some of their backing instruments are pre-recorded as part of the videos they perform to, but on stage it's still the two of them: one singing and playing acoustic guitar or bass, the other playing a sort of modified cello. They're great musicians. They're personable. They rock.
But that's only half of The Books that we experienced tonight; the other half were the videos that accompanied every song.
The first few videos were a tad gimmicky, and reminded me of a slightly more irreverent Emergency Broadcast Network: video clips and samples combined and synced up to create a new and otherwise unintended meaning. It was good, but it still tasted a bit bland to me.
But then they played "Classy Penguin." This had nothing to do with EBN-style culture-jamming, it was "just" a collection of home movies from their own families, showing the performers themselves growing up and just plain being alive.
Think of it. We were watching two extremely talented young men playing the guitar and cello on stage, while above them we saw a skillfully-edited re-run of their lives to that point. We saw the influences that shaped them and the silly things they did as children. We saw their parents and houses and even got a bass solo from the guitarists' brother. THIS was a turning point for me. Before that I just LIKED The Books. After this I LOVED them.
They got a standing ovation and did two encores. Their second encore was hilarious: a video that one of the band members had made for his child, to help him learn the alphabet. But it was TERRIFYING, an obscure and bizarre acid trip where the letters spun and flipped and made you want to run away. It so much WANTED to do all the things that a Sesame Street-style vignette would do, but somehow it went all WRONG.
Brilliant.
Blue Dot
Afterwards we went to a party/happening/not-a-rave designed and curated by The Blue Dot. This time they'd shanghaied a large section of "The Tannery," a maze-like factory space complete with balcony, enclosed shaft-courtyard, a selection of DJs, and -- as expected from the Dotters -- something interesting happening in every nook and cranny.
Most impressively we saw a performance of Gordon Monahan's "Swinging Speaker." This was absolutely spectacular and dopplarriffic:
Since it was a sort of Open Ears "after party" I got a chance to chat with a lot of familiar faces. Unfortunately there's just no getting around the fact that such a big event requires a larger crowd than those Open Ears folks willing to stay up past their bedtimes, so when the bar closed and it turned into a not-a-rave, I reluctantly skeedaddled. Oh for a post-Open Ears booze buffet, in a calm venue, with enough attendees to make it financially worthwhile! I'll keep hoping.
So this was the end. I might get out to see some of the installations tomorrow, but otherwise my nights of live shows and no sleep are over until next time.
This was the best Open Ears festival I've seen so far. It had enough diversity and a high enough quality to make almost EVERYTHING worthwhile. Never once did I dread a show, and very rarely did I wish that a bomb would drop and put us out of our misery.
As much as I liked The Books, my favourite night was still the double-bill of David Lang's "Elevated" and the improvisational jazz of E.T.C. I have some seriously fond memories of that night and I don't think I went away unchanged.
Here's to whatever 2011 brings...!
My cubical-mate Dave quite literally FREAKED when he heard that The Books were coming to Kitchener. "Whozzat?" I asked. "Who are the books?
He tried to explain a bit about what they did, and he sent me a couple of videos that I barely watched -- I like to see shows without knowing anything about the artists -- and I heard all sorts of things about how they rarely perform live any more, and this was their first show in years, etc. etc.
After so much hype, could The Books actually live up to the impression that I had in my mind?
Yes. And more.
They're funny and genuine. They have a hint of humbleness to them, but they are totally confident about what they do. Their beats and some of their backing instruments are pre-recorded as part of the videos they perform to, but on stage it's still the two of them: one singing and playing acoustic guitar or bass, the other playing a sort of modified cello. They're great musicians. They're personable. They rock.
But that's only half of The Books that we experienced tonight; the other half were the videos that accompanied every song.
The first few videos were a tad gimmicky, and reminded me of a slightly more irreverent Emergency Broadcast Network: video clips and samples combined and synced up to create a new and otherwise unintended meaning. It was good, but it still tasted a bit bland to me.
But then they played "Classy Penguin." This had nothing to do with EBN-style culture-jamming, it was "just" a collection of home movies from their own families, showing the performers themselves growing up and just plain being alive.
Think of it. We were watching two extremely talented young men playing the guitar and cello on stage, while above them we saw a skillfully-edited re-run of their lives to that point. We saw the influences that shaped them and the silly things they did as children. We saw their parents and houses and even got a bass solo from the guitarists' brother. THIS was a turning point for me. Before that I just LIKED The Books. After this I LOVED them.
They got a standing ovation and did two encores. Their second encore was hilarious: a video that one of the band members had made for his child, to help him learn the alphabet. But it was TERRIFYING, an obscure and bizarre acid trip where the letters spun and flipped and made you want to run away. It so much WANTED to do all the things that a Sesame Street-style vignette would do, but somehow it went all WRONG.
Brilliant.
Blue Dot
Afterwards we went to a party/happening/not-a-rave designed and curated by The Blue Dot. This time they'd shanghaied a large section of "The Tannery," a maze-like factory space complete with balcony, enclosed shaft-courtyard, a selection of DJs, and -- as expected from the Dotters -- something interesting happening in every nook and cranny.
Most impressively we saw a performance of Gordon Monahan's "Swinging Speaker." This was absolutely spectacular and dopplarriffic:
Since it was a sort of Open Ears "after party" I got a chance to chat with a lot of familiar faces. Unfortunately there's just no getting around the fact that such a big event requires a larger crowd than those Open Ears folks willing to stay up past their bedtimes, so when the bar closed and it turned into a not-a-rave, I reluctantly skeedaddled. Oh for a post-Open Ears booze buffet, in a calm venue, with enough attendees to make it financially worthwhile! I'll keep hoping.
So this was the end. I might get out to see some of the installations tomorrow, but otherwise my nights of live shows and no sleep are over until next time.
This was the best Open Ears festival I've seen so far. It had enough diversity and a high enough quality to make almost EVERYTHING worthwhile. Never once did I dread a show, and very rarely did I wish that a bomb would drop and put us out of our misery.
As much as I liked The Books, my favourite night was still the double-bill of David Lang's "Elevated" and the improvisational jazz of E.T.C. I have some seriously fond memories of that night and I don't think I went away unchanged.
Here's to whatever 2011 brings...!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Open Ears 2009: Wedesday April 29
Tonight was one of extreme contrasts. Open Ears is, at its best, capable of surprising you with a mix of contrasting styles and approaches...two hours and two blocks can span the corners of the globe and the moodiest of moodswings. Tonight was one of those nights.
But first, let me mention the common threads woven through this year's festival: the ubiquitous on-stage Macbook, the ever-present whispered spirit of R. Murray Schafer, and the venue-bracketing duo of mismatched photographers who -- for lack of an introduction -- I think of as "Yo-ho Jack" and "Bungie!"
Elevated with David Lang
The show started with a friendly, goofy-looking dog attempting to get a treat out of a glass mason jar. It pawed and chewed, knocking the jar around. The dog didn't have a plan, its approach showed no evidence of learning or consideration...instead, endearingly, he just worked at the problem with no sign of ever giving up.
Despite the sad piano accompaniment, this film was funny at the beginning. People in the audience laughed at the bumbling, innocent, silly and simple animal.
Then the glass jar broke, and the dog started chewing at the sharp edges, trying to reach the treat that was still inside. The piano's downbeat tone took on a totally new meaning. As the animal continued to chew on the broken glass, a palpable wave of disbelief, hostility, and betrayal rose up around us. We, the audience, were shocked to the core.
So, with the film "Treat Bottle" (by William Wegman) and a song called "Wed," the show began, and though the rest of the performance was somewhat less visceral, the mood continued to be one of futility. Then futility again. Then a darker, more oppressive futility than the futility that had come before, with an emphasis on "futility."
I loved it all.
The films were accompanied by professional musicians playing in total lock-step: not a note out of place, not a baffling beat dropped. For a totally miserable ten-minute adaptation of "Heroin," Nadine Medawar sang with perfect pitch, yet fragile and halting and emotionally devastating. They went about this performance like a business and it suited the mood perfectly.
The show ended with the film "Elevated" by Matt Mullican, consisting of slow fades of irregularly-cut 1935 New York scenes: Madison Square Garden, Central Park, burlesque shows, Christmas shoppers, Luna Park. Meanwhile the musicians performed "Men" for trombone, english horn, bass clarinet, baritone sax, two pianos, percussion, viola, cello, and double bass.
Most of the instruments played single extended notes, sometimes harmoniously, usually with a slight dissonance. The man at the bass drum kept time in an almost -- but not quite -- regular tempo, signalling the instruments to change their notes after an uncomfortably long span of time. This created a repetative and disturbing drone that might have been somewhat lulling...
...except for the constant staccato tinkling of single piano keys, and the endless scraping of a brake drum, going on and on and on against those scenes of long-ago people smiling and bustling and shopping...
...and after five minutes you began to get agitated...
...and after then minutes you didn't think you could take it anymore...
...but after twenty minutes you realized it could go on forever and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and it felt like the aftermath of a speed-drug high when time is dragging and you're unable to sleep and even the most pleasant things leave you with a feeling of terrible emptiness...
...and after thirty minutes you've stopped hoping for change and lost all track of time...
...and then forty-five minutes later it stops. And you feel so good.
E.T.C.
So while the first show was a rigidly-constrained evocation of the most hopeless emotional depths, the second -- The Ellis Tanguay Cram E.T.C. Trio -- was a wild, joyful jazz improv. It was like finding out that the doctor was only kidding when she said you had cancer, and what's more you just won a car. YAY!
I used to hate free jazz, but over the years -- thanks mainly to exposure at past Open Ears festivals -- I've begun to learn how to relate to it. When the musicians start down a particular path I get a sense of the parameters they're setting themselves, and I can follow along with some degree of competence. When the drummer seems to be ripping the song into impossible and ever-unravelling shreds, I can find the beat makers that hide underneath. In short, I've learned to simply loosen up and have fun, and it helps when the musicians are having as much fun as E.T.C. were.
I'm exhausted after a day of work and shows so I can't give the guys their due, but...wow. They brought me up and made me happy, and I certainly wasn't alone. I could have listened to them all night long.
But first, let me mention the common threads woven through this year's festival: the ubiquitous on-stage Macbook, the ever-present whispered spirit of R. Murray Schafer, and the venue-bracketing duo of mismatched photographers who -- for lack of an introduction -- I think of as "Yo-ho Jack" and "Bungie!"
Elevated with David Lang
The show started with a friendly, goofy-looking dog attempting to get a treat out of a glass mason jar. It pawed and chewed, knocking the jar around. The dog didn't have a plan, its approach showed no evidence of learning or consideration...instead, endearingly, he just worked at the problem with no sign of ever giving up.
Despite the sad piano accompaniment, this film was funny at the beginning. People in the audience laughed at the bumbling, innocent, silly and simple animal.
Then the glass jar broke, and the dog started chewing at the sharp edges, trying to reach the treat that was still inside. The piano's downbeat tone took on a totally new meaning. As the animal continued to chew on the broken glass, a palpable wave of disbelief, hostility, and betrayal rose up around us. We, the audience, were shocked to the core.
So, with the film "Treat Bottle" (by William Wegman) and a song called "Wed," the show began, and though the rest of the performance was somewhat less visceral, the mood continued to be one of futility. Then futility again. Then a darker, more oppressive futility than the futility that had come before, with an emphasis on "futility."
I loved it all.
The films were accompanied by professional musicians playing in total lock-step: not a note out of place, not a baffling beat dropped. For a totally miserable ten-minute adaptation of "Heroin," Nadine Medawar sang with perfect pitch, yet fragile and halting and emotionally devastating. They went about this performance like a business and it suited the mood perfectly.
The show ended with the film "Elevated" by Matt Mullican, consisting of slow fades of irregularly-cut 1935 New York scenes: Madison Square Garden, Central Park, burlesque shows, Christmas shoppers, Luna Park. Meanwhile the musicians performed "Men" for trombone, english horn, bass clarinet, baritone sax, two pianos, percussion, viola, cello, and double bass.
Most of the instruments played single extended notes, sometimes harmoniously, usually with a slight dissonance. The man at the bass drum kept time in an almost -- but not quite -- regular tempo, signalling the instruments to change their notes after an uncomfortably long span of time. This created a repetative and disturbing drone that might have been somewhat lulling...
...except for the constant staccato tinkling of single piano keys, and the endless scraping of a brake drum, going on and on and on against those scenes of long-ago people smiling and bustling and shopping...
...and after five minutes you began to get agitated...
...and after then minutes you didn't think you could take it anymore...
...but after twenty minutes you realized it could go on forever and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and it felt like the aftermath of a speed-drug high when time is dragging and you're unable to sleep and even the most pleasant things leave you with a feeling of terrible emptiness...
...and after thirty minutes you've stopped hoping for change and lost all track of time...
...and then forty-five minutes later it stops. And you feel so good.
E.T.C.
So while the first show was a rigidly-constrained evocation of the most hopeless emotional depths, the second -- The Ellis Tanguay Cram E.T.C. Trio -- was a wild, joyful jazz improv. It was like finding out that the doctor was only kidding when she said you had cancer, and what's more you just won a car. YAY!
I used to hate free jazz, but over the years -- thanks mainly to exposure at past Open Ears festivals -- I've begun to learn how to relate to it. When the musicians start down a particular path I get a sense of the parameters they're setting themselves, and I can follow along with some degree of competence. When the drummer seems to be ripping the song into impossible and ever-unravelling shreds, I can find the beat makers that hide underneath. In short, I've learned to simply loosen up and have fun, and it helps when the musicians are having as much fun as E.T.C. were.
I'm exhausted after a day of work and shows so I can't give the guys their due, but...wow. They brought me up and made me happy, and I certainly wasn't alone. I could have listened to them all night long.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Open Ears 2009: Tuesday April 28
Sunday was my mother's birthday and I had to work on Monday night, so I missed a few minor things...but Tuesday appeared to be the REAL beginning of OE'09.
Jesse Stewart, Improvisations for Solo Waterphone
You want to hear a waterphone in action? Jesse's your man!
But wait, what the heck is a waterphone? It's a very cool, extremely resonant instrument that looks like a cross between a footstool and a sexed-up porcupine. You can tap it, scrape it, pluck it, shake it, then fill it up with water and do it all over again!
Stewart's approach seemed a bit like "A Young Person's Guide to the Waterphone" -- trying every technique once, then moving on to the next one -- but I quickly realized that the effect was infinitely richer if I closed my eyes. With open eyes I found myself intellectualizing in an extremely mundane way ("Now he's rubbing it with something soft...now he's rubbing it the other way!"). But when I was unable to see what he was doing the sounds became rich and mysterious. They became an improvisational composition instead of a demonstration of technique.
I seriously think that Stewart should do this with his back to the audience.
Incidentally, if you've ever heard the soundtrack for "The Hunger," you may have wondered how they made all those wonderful atmospheric noises. Now I can tell you with absolute certainty that they were rubbing a violin bow across the waterphone's spikes. Tell your friends.
tranSpectra
They're the winners of this year's "Stinky Ears" award! (unless something worse comes along, God forbid).
During the endless show -- which made me think of a warm glass of milk growing steadily more tepid beside a collection of videos by The Parachute Club -- I thought of two dozen vicious, evil, absolutely CRUEL things to say about their performance. But I want to be nice about this, because the tranSpectra people are human beings with families and feelings, and there was one exceptionally good moment (see below).
So instead of writing a snarky list of everything I thought was terrible about their show, let me briefly describe what it takes to win a Stinky Ears award. It's open season on whether or not tranSpectra were guilty of these things...you don't have to do ALL of them to win, you lucky devils.
At the end, after the hernia-inducing "Deaths of Children Update," I was just rising to leave when the tranSpectra creatures announced that they were GOING TO CONTINUE. This was like being told by an executioner that more children were scheduled for death, and I must watch until the end. I couldn't take it. I left.
So yeah, all-in-all a pretty grim night, but I DO feel the need to point out that the very capable dancer was Yvonne Ng, who I instantly recognized as the freaky baby from "Silent Hill." I almost stuck around to ask her about it but I wasn't sure if it's the way she'd want to be remembered. In the featurette she talked about how difficult it was to pee.
Jesse Stewart, Improvisations for Solo Waterphone
You want to hear a waterphone in action? Jesse's your man!
But wait, what the heck is a waterphone? It's a very cool, extremely resonant instrument that looks like a cross between a footstool and a sexed-up porcupine. You can tap it, scrape it, pluck it, shake it, then fill it up with water and do it all over again!
Stewart's approach seemed a bit like "A Young Person's Guide to the Waterphone" -- trying every technique once, then moving on to the next one -- but I quickly realized that the effect was infinitely richer if I closed my eyes. With open eyes I found myself intellectualizing in an extremely mundane way ("Now he's rubbing it with something soft...now he's rubbing it the other way!"). But when I was unable to see what he was doing the sounds became rich and mysterious. They became an improvisational composition instead of a demonstration of technique.
I seriously think that Stewart should do this with his back to the audience.
Incidentally, if you've ever heard the soundtrack for "The Hunger," you may have wondered how they made all those wonderful atmospheric noises. Now I can tell you with absolute certainty that they were rubbing a violin bow across the waterphone's spikes. Tell your friends.
tranSpectra
They're the winners of this year's "Stinky Ears" award! (unless something worse comes along, God forbid).
During the endless show -- which made me think of a warm glass of milk growing steadily more tepid beside a collection of videos by The Parachute Club -- I thought of two dozen vicious, evil, absolutely CRUEL things to say about their performance. But I want to be nice about this, because the tranSpectra people are human beings with families and feelings, and there was one exceptionally good moment (see below).
So instead of writing a snarky list of everything I thought was terrible about their show, let me briefly describe what it takes to win a Stinky Ears award. It's open season on whether or not tranSpectra were guilty of these things...you don't have to do ALL of them to win, you lucky devils.
- Interesting, complex subjects applied in a pedestrian, "yearbook poetry" way.
- The subjects must have already been "done to death" -- and done much better -- at least ten years ago, preferably twenty. Bonus points for ecology, poverty, physics, mathematics, warfare, and thinly-veiled guilt at one's own social privilege.
- Total, single-minded pretention. Nobody can crack a smile. The sopranos -- if there be sopranos -- must look stern and sing in a verrrr-eeee seeee-reeee-ussss waaaaaay.
- Sloppiness. It looks and sounds like a rehearsal. The performers appear to be amazed they're getting away with it.
- Far too long. Awkward pauses.
- No empathy with the audience.
- Over-hyped techniques which fall far short of expectations.
- Musical instruments which fail to mesh together and simply sound ill-conceived or poorly executed. Granular synthesis is a plus, as are boopy keyboards.
- Dirty ears (not necessary).
At the end, after the hernia-inducing "Deaths of Children Update," I was just rising to leave when the tranSpectra creatures announced that they were GOING TO CONTINUE. This was like being told by an executioner that more children were scheduled for death, and I must watch until the end. I couldn't take it. I left.
So yeah, all-in-all a pretty grim night, but I DO feel the need to point out that the very capable dancer was Yvonne Ng, who I instantly recognized as the freaky baby from "Silent Hill." I almost stuck around to ask her about it but I wasn't sure if it's the way she'd want to be remembered. In the featurette she talked about how difficult it was to pee.
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