Noli Me Tangere

for the record

I'm pretty excited about my new friend, who just this week came from a galaxy far, far away. I went ahead and splurged because my brother Tom and his creatively-inclined wife Kelly are coming into town this weekend, and we're going to record some songs. And now they will sparkle with new clarity and realism, thanks to my new friend, who, for lack of a better name, I call "Mike". Har.

I've loved the idea of putting sounds on tape nearly as long as I've been listening to music. When I was about 13, I became enthralled with my father's old reel-to-reel tape recorder. I liked it because, by reversing the reels and twisting the tape one half turn, I could get the tracks to play backwards. My friend and I were able to investigate the claims of an itinerant preacher who had warned us about "backwards masking" in songs like "Another One Bites the Dust" and "Stairway to Heaven". The results were mostly inconclusive, but we were able to determine that Freddie Mercury was urging us to "tsud eeth stibe nuh-erthuhna" rather than "start to smoke marijuana", as legend had it.

The other thing I loved about that reel-to-reel was the fact that the stereo tracks were distinct, meaning I could record them in two separate takes, and "build" a song one piece at a time. I could sing harmony with myself. With my friend, we could do four-part harmony. It was very limited, but they were our sounds and the end result was always double what we could actually do.

Looking back, part of the appeal was trying to emulate those rock stars that you idolize when you're 13. But even today I still like the idea of recording, and it's more than just enjoying the sound of my own voice. There's a strange compulsion at work to take ideas and work them out in some sort of permanent, optimal, format.

When I began to write songs, I wanted to capture them on tape so I could share them with people without all the distractions and limitations of a live performance. Now, as I contemplate making a costly recording of my songs, I question the value of it all. I can't fully express why it might be valuable, but I can express a real desire to make ideas concrete, to see them fleshed out, in full form, and communicable. I could talk until I'm blue in the face about my favorite harmonic progression, but nobody really cares until they hear it for themselves.

In some ways, it's part of the appeal of having a blog; it's not aural, but it is a record of thoughts, anecdotes, stories, and ideas that's available to the public. These confessions are made in the presence of many witnesses. I'm not sure what value it is to the world, but I do know I have a compulsion to make things concrete that otherwise exist only in my head. Sort of like I'm doing right now.

Two comparisons come to mind. On one hand, this need to produce evidence of my existence feels a little...canine. I've remarked before on a dog's strange, irrepressible drive to pee on everything. They are so strongly motivated to declare, to whomever would pass that way, "Here. I was here." I'm not so unashamed, but I do feel the same urge to leave a mark, to chronicle my journey.

But it's also akin (I think) to the Israelites' construction of stone monuments to remind them of where they'd been, what they'd seen, and what God had done for them. Not that my records are necessarily so noble, but if something is important at one time, I instinctively want to commemorate it, to somehow make it last. And I suspect that at the root of this compulsion is a belief that God cares about individuals, even down to the diminishing hairs on my head, the thoughts rattling around inside, and the weird songs that come out.

"no, actually it's a cardigan."

Yesterday, as I was heading up the last quarter-mile of Roxboro to my house, my thought was interrupted by a Nissan Sentra that was driving along next to me. It was in my lane. No, actually it was moving into my lane, quite rapidly, until it hit me, much like the villain would try to run the hero off the road in a Donald P. Bellasario production. Her rear-view mirror folded mine in as our sides collided, and I quickly honked and slammed the brakes.

With the bitter taste of my last hit-and-run fresh in mind, my first thought was, "this one's not getting away", so I hit the gas, caught up to her and memorized her tag. Since she was making no effort to pull over and exchange information, I pulled up beside her, took off my sunglasses, rolled down my window and stared at her with my best "you betta pull ovah" face. But she just looked at me and mouthed, "I'm sorry". I stayed beside her a while longer, and in an adrenaline-induced moment of deja-vu, felt very much like I was in the speeder-bike scene from Episode VI, only nobody expired in a fiery collision with a sequoia.

But she never stopped, which made me angry. When I got home, I inspected the car and there didn't appear to be any significant damage, but I wish she had just stopped to check. I'm still carrying her tag number, as well as a deep loathing for hit-and-run drivers.

I'm not so angry anymore, but I am a bit torn about what I should do. If I'm not getting any repair, shouldn't I just turn the other [fender] and let it go? After all, she might not have realized the how hard she hit me. Then again, I don't think anybody should get away with that, and even if it hadn't happened to me. If a lady's purse gets snatched, I want the guy apprehended, even if she relented because it was empty. I want justice, even if it's not for me.

What should I do, if there is anything to be done?

congratulations

The problem is not that I'm incapable of committing noble deeds, it's that I'm acutely aware of it when I do.

And then it got weird

Last night, Josh and Matt and I decided to check out the open mic at the 57th Fighter Group, a local military-themed restaurant/bar near my house. It's sort of a strange operation, located at a municipal airport but decorated in full military regalia, with lots of retired war paraphanelia, sandbags, and even a room that's been "bombed out". It's huge, and the only other time I'd been there, it was empty. But last night, the parking lot was packed.

Matt and Josh were in the parking lot as I drove up.

"Who are all these people?"
"I guess some of your friends came to check us out."
"No, really. What's going on here? What are all these cars?"
"Some of your friends from the Gay Bowling league came out tonight."
"You're kidding, right?"

Yes, the metro Atlanta Gay Bowling League was having a BIG, fabulous banquet. Why they chose to do this at 57th, I have no idea. I guess gay bowlers have to congregate somewhere.

"Well, that's a little random," I thought. "But ok." It was hard for me to imagine how the evening could get any weirder.

First up was Rocky. Rocky is 60-something, barrel-chested, and fond of country music. He wears a giant cowboy hat and a country music shirt. I imagine he's a NASCAR fan and an RV owner. Usually he sits in the back and shakes an egg during others' performances. Last night he recruited a bunch of the regulars to help during his set and then he sang three very twangy original numbers. They were off-key, behind the beat, and absolutely hilarious. The falsetto men’s country chorus punctuated many of the lines with little jokes, like repeating each line in a faux redneck accent after Rocky sang it. Then the tambourine broke, sending silver wheels across the floor, and the evening got a little weirder.

Next up was a young, heavy-set black singer-songwriter. Again, what a black girl was doing playing acoustic guitar at 57th with a bunch of middle-aged rednecks, I couldn’t say. But she had good songs and won us over because she could really write. And she did a great Bill Withers cover.

Finally, there was Indiana Dave. He also wore a thick black mustache, a hat, dark glasses and blue-jeans. I pegged him for a 55, and owner of a large garage workshop. He was pissed off and capital-G-grizzled. He apologized for his getup by saying that he had to disguise himself in case there were any terrorists watching.

“Hi, I’m Indiana Dave. I sing anti-terrorist folk songs.”

[smattering of nervous laughter]

“I come up here to sing songs that fight the camel-poop-sniffin’, sand-eatin’, towel-head terrorists, like that Osama Bin Muhammad Al-Qaeda bastard.”

[less laughter, more nervous]

“This song is called ‘Hang Down Your Head, Bin Laden’. It’s one of my favorites because halfway through the song, he gets killed.”

There was some subtle foreshadowing in the chorus:

hang down your head Bin Laden/hang down your head and cry
hang down your head Bin Laden/for surely you’re goin' to die.

I have to admit, it was pretty catchy. Then, he topped himself by doing an Arlo Guthrie parody:

yes, you can get anything you like
at Osama’s weapons shack

And just when I thought the evening couldn't possibly get any weirder, the banquet ended and a steady stream of very gay bowlers filed out across the stage behind the performer. All I could do was shake my head and laugh.

why i need you, but won't admit it

Recently, as I was walking across campus and enjoying the rebirth of spring, it occurred to me that one of the great challenges of relating to the opposite sex is the issue of confession, or telling secrets. I was thinking of a couple quotes by Rosemary Sullivan, which I got from Jeremy.

When you 'fess up' to someone that you harbor some desire to have them in your life, there is an implicit statement there about the state of your own loneliness. Whether it's a marriage proposal or simply admitting you enjoy their company is only a matter of degree. In either case, to confess a desire for relationship is, on some level, saying, "I find that there is a void in my life, and I like the way you fill it."

The intimacy of this statement is too much for most platonic friendships to bear, so once this confession is made, the only course of action is to let the romantic relationship run its course, eventually reaching one of two possible results: either an eventual unpleasant backtracking, or an ongoing reaffirmation of that need that grows in conviction with each confession.

Some of the same applies to relationships in general. When you look around at people with whom you interact, either by force or by choice, there is a tendency to lump them into two camps: either as obstacles to living well or as a means to doing so.

This first idea is some mutation of the idea that the purity of X-life-dimension is somehow polluted by their presence. "I could get a lot more done at work if Bob would leave me alone, " or "She's really not a good influence on me." Sometimes their crime is bringing nothing at all. I have some relationships that I don't value at all because there appears to be no benefit for either party. In these cases, I mostly view interaction as, at best, a waste of time. This perspective is also found in sweeping statements about the evils of men, or the church, or American culture, whatever: "Our society is really f---ed up. I want no part of it." It is an inability to see the value of people past the more visible flaws of people groups.

But there is another way to look at these faces in your field of vision. The other side of the coin is that they are perhaps meant to be a means--not an obstacle--to living well. And to view them this way also requires an admission. Not an audible proclamation, but an inner acknowledgement at some level of basic need for each other. To believe that these people may be able to help you with your marriage, or your behavior, or your vocation, or your knowledge of God, or your even general satisfaction in life, requires in itself a humble acknowledgement: "I'm better off with them." I suppose there is always a risk of using people for your own gain. Granted, people are not there to serve you, but in a sense, they are.

To see that requires at least a glimpse of humility. To continually reject the authority and possible benefit of others in your life is in itself an act of arrogant defiance that speaks louder than words: "I'm better off without them." This is denial. And we suffer for it, probably more than we realize.

how to embellish your very own scalar line

15 hours before my voice jury, and I've come down with a bad sore throat.

Will Abe's respiratory tract hold up until after he sings? Or will his year end with a muscous-lubed wreck, having tragically hawked one into his prof's lap while trying to sing "Ich"? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion!

Secondly, I came across a couple interesting quotes in my studying:

"The V7/V is the most frequently-encountered secondary dominant. In example 16-8 the V is delayed by a cadential six-four. This is not an irregular resolution of the V7/V because, as we all know, the I6/4-V together stands for V."

and

"When a series of major-minor seventh chords is used in a circle of 5ths sequence, certain voice leading problems come up. For one thing, each leading tone will resolve down by chromatic half-step to become the 7th of the next major-minor seventh chord."

Thanks for clearing that up, Kostka.