The Consolations of the Damned

There is something about the notion of predestination that speaks to me. It is deep-seated. Part of it might be some Calvinist echo that has been deposited into the back of my psyche, like they tried to do through dreams in the summer blockbuster “Inception,” a trigger of some ancient memory, either part of the collective unconscious that we are all share as Americans, or the more specific memories of my Scotch-Irish forebears. But while I was raised Presbyterian, historically among the most dour Calvinists of the bunch, we were California Presbyterians, which doesn’t really count. Growing up, my most salient memory of our church was of a pastor riffing on the prospect of alien life forms while officiating over my grandfather’s funeral. It wasn’t the kind of church where they talked about Calvin’s belief, formed through detailed calculations and a meticulous reading of the Bible, that there are exactly 244,000 elect in the history of the world, predestined for heaven by the ineluctable wisdom of our creator, and that the rest of us are essentially damned from birth.

The notion of there being a limited number of “chosen” to receive a full measure of God’s blessings intuitively makes sense to me, and I don’t think this is just because I was born an American or raised Presbyterian. Sure it is a brutal and rather pessimistic view of the cosmos. But, for better or worse, the idea of a limited elect also seems like a rather clear-eyed assessment of how the world works. It is blessedly devoid of the wish-fulfillment and fantasies of most religions, and doesn’t make any apologies for the seemingly cruel imbalances of fate. Hey, look around without the rose-colored blinders on, and why would anyone think that the universe doesn’t play favorites? No one likes to live in a world where almost all of us stand tried and convicted before we are even born. But who’s to say it’s not true?

“It’s not fair.” That, of course, is the eternal lament of the child, which was followed in our home, as I’m sure it still is in millions around the country, with my mom’s predictable refrain: “Yeah, well life’s not fair.” In other words, get used to it. Which is what I imagine will be the response by whatever deity set this entire mess in motion if we happen to have the opportunity to meet him/her/it on judgment day. It is indicative of the hubris of the modern age that for some reason we believe that we are the ones who should be judging God, rather than the other way around.

Using whatever cosmology you want to set the scales, by this point in my life, it is pretty clear that I am not one of the “chosen ones.” Nor are virtually any of my friends. By just about any standard, we fall short. In aggregate and as individuals, most of us are not particularly moral, or caring, or sympathetic. We certainly don’t have the instinctive empathy for the suffering of our fellow man that seems to be the standard currency in most religious faiths.

But we still have our moments of redemption, and for many of us, these moments tend to happen at the music club and the concert hall. For me, music remains the greatest of the arts (followed closely by literature and then architecture). This past spring, on my most recent trip to L.A., while at a party full of music industry nerds that at the time seemed like just another wasted evening, some 2nd tier record producer told me that one of the great things about music is that it somehow manages to express the essence of an era through sound. Through the resonance of vibrating frequencies in the air, musicians manage to construct an abstract mathematics that conveys what it means to live in that particular place and time on our planet. In my own mangling of this thought: Music comes closest to expressing the essence of our souls. And for the lonely and the fallen to be granted moments of such communion through music speaks more strongly to the existence of a benevolent God than anything I know.

I’ve been granted a few of these moments this summer, the most recent on Sunday, when Iggy Pop and the Stooges played the Riviera Theatre. I’ll not bore the uninitiated with a lengthy rundown of the concert, other than to note that Iggy was in fine fiddle, stalking the stage: part animal, part showman, part dervish. And that the Stooges provided a fitting band of communicants. Mike Watt hobbled out with his broken leg and his grizzled mien. Scott Asheton looked like an ex-biker out to smoke a cig on a break during his 12-step meeting. Only James Williamson, looking well-fed and well-coifed with that flowing blond hair of his, looked a bit out of place; but of course he was just a reminder that original Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton had passed away not long after the band's last tour, in 2009. In other words, the Stooges are scarred stars for scarred people.

The current concert tour is based on a fairly flawed conceit, but a common one in the touring world these days, which is for an aging band to replicate a seminal album from decades past, in this case 1973’s “Raw Power,” the third and final album by the Stooges and the only one on which Williamson played guitar. It may have sounded like a good idea, but the Stooges were essentially a singles (rather than an album) band, with a smattering of great songs on each record. While even the weaker songs on “Raw Power” are solid tunes, you couldn’t help thinking, “Boy I hope they play “Loose” or “I Wanna Be Your Dog” tonight.” Which is why I went a little ape-crazy when they broke into the opening chords of “1970” (off of "Funhouse"): “Out of my mind on a Saturday night/1970 rollin’ in sight/Radio burnin’ up above/Beautiful baby, feel my love/All night, till I, blow away/I feel alright/I fell alright/Feel alright.”

That is the beauty of the Stooges in a nutshell (so to speak). They have the rare ability to combine both the sexuality and the defiance of youth. As a young punk rocker, I unfortunately only mimicked the angry side. It’s too bad that I didn’t have the good sense to channel Iggy Pop, rather than Johnny Rotten. Because an underappreciated facet of the Stooges is how hard they swing. Maybe a lot of guys don’t get that subtlety, but I think most of the ladies do. It was an aggressive, sweaty pit at the Riv, but one leavened by some heavy hip action from the healthy smattering of women in the crowd. Women were dancing, swaying, fondling their breasts (OK, I actually only saw one woman who was slowly rubbing her nipples, but that’s one more than you usually see at a rock show). For a 62-year old dude to inspire that kind of reaction is a mighty cool thing. Iggy, you still rock.

My August was book-ended by concerts. At the end of the month was the Stooges, while at the beginning, Melissa and I drove up to Milwaukee to see the National, who also rock, but in a totally different way. The Stooges get to your heart through the gut, while the National do it through your mind. Their songs are beautiful, lyrical, and reward repeated listening. But they still have a groove, and they get at some of the same things as the Stooges, just in a different manner.

“I’m a confident liar/Had my head in the oven so you’d know where I’ll be/I’ll try to be more romantic/I’ll try to believe everything you believe…. I was afraid/I’d eat your brains/‘CUZ I’M EVIL.”

The National had 2,000 otherwise seemingly upstanding Milwaukeeians shouting this chorus. To be clear, this song isn’t about a glorification of evil, nor is it the comic book evil of a heavy metal band. It is about something much more poignant and true: Evil as it is experienced by most of us, as a falling short, an inability to get outside our own little boxes. The National dropped a bunch of these moments upon us that night, these perfectly performed little gems that hinted at the dark tides that lurk within.

I have a wandering mind, even during moments of reverie. As the band played that night in Milwaukee, I waxed ecstatic over the idea that in this life, where seemingly the few are chosen, even us soiled and poorly-repaired souls are granted moments of intense joy, albeit in this case a surreptitious joy, found at night, in dark places. It makes me think that even an all-knowing, omnipotent God might have moments of pity, where he allows the damned their pleasures, and so he shielded us in that hall from His blinding gaze, at least for a couple of hours.

Pitchfork 2009

I attended the first two nights of the Pitchfork Music Festival, which is held in Union Park, an otherwise anonymous patch of ground tucked between Ashland Avenue and the Lake Street El.

I am conflicted about these outdoor music fests. On the one hand, they get me out of the house and into the world of music. But I hate their casual nature, their I’m-in-it-for-the-long haul-so-let’s-bring-out-a-blanket-and-get-stoned mentality. I’m sorry, but I love music too much to hang with that kind of crap. There are plenty of occasions when I might want to stare mindlessly at the sky or talk with a friend, but being 50 feet from the stage is not one of those times. And, in my middle age, I have developed an almost complete intolerance for the reprobate behavior of oblivious jackasses.

That said, the lineup for Pitchfork this year was just too strong to pass up. I could have easily gone all three days. In fact, probably the two bands that I most wanted to see, The Thermals and Vivian Girls, were playing on Sunday. But Melissa had to work that day, and we didn’t want to push our baby sitting welcome with her parents.

I caught eight bands over the two days, not counting the ones I only heard on the periphery. Here is my critique of these bands, rated from top to bottom:

1. The Jesus Lizard: I don’t think I’ve ever seen a band change the mood at an outdoor festival like The Jesus Lizard did Friday night. Before their set, it was all beach balls and harmony. If they started blasting Olivia Newton-John’s “Have You Ever Been Mellow?” over the loudspeakers, it wouldn’t have been out of place. Then The Jesus Lizard stepped on stage. The band banged out the opening chords to “Puss”, then David Yow leapt into the crowd and started in with his best yowl. Yow emerged a couple of minutes later, blood dripping from his mouth, a smile on his face. Next to me, a couple of increasingly nervous looking young girls with flowers in their hair hightailed it for the concession stands, but The Jesus Lizard seemed to be conjuring their own animal spirits to take the places of those not up for this kind of full frontal assault. About halfway through the set, some dude so out of his brain he could hardly stand bashed into me at full throttle. He was wearing a lavender shirt and women’s silk culottes. He flashed a smile at me, revealing stained yellow teeth that made me think that he must have just left his day job at the meth lab, apologized for “getting in my way”, and then rushed full-speed into another person in the crowd. The entire experience was electric, and Yow has to be the most intense middle-aged dude this side of Iggy Pop. Perhaps the most fun thing about this is that it came as a total surprise. I’d never been a member of the cult of The Jesus Lizard. The band has some great riffs, but most of their songs have almost no discernible melody, and I always thought David Yow was just another singer with indy rock disease, one in a long line of white guys trying to make up for his lack of singing chops with sheer enthusiasm. But I stand corrected. What I witnessed Friday night was one of the most intense, over-the-top performances by a band that I’ve ever had the privilege to experience. Thanks guys.

2. The National: I heard two great sets at Pitchfork, either of which alone were worth the price of admission. One was by The Jesus Lizard, and the other was by The National. I keep flip-flopping which one I liked the best, because each brought something entirely different to the table. For me, it is kind of a moral judgment. Do I prefer the intensity of the crazy punkers, reviving their old schtick for the uninitiated? Or would I rather hear a set by a band that I’ve seen before, one show among many in their ongoing coronation tour, but a band on their knife’s edge, at the peak of their powers and popularity? Man, I love The National, and Matt Berninger is probably the most magnetic front man in music today, but I think, if I could only be there for one of these sets, it would be The Jesus Lizard’s. First, the crowd was REALLY into The Jesus Lizard’s set, and the band and audience fed off one another. By contrast, during The National, a guy behind me kept trying to quip clever to his lady friend (“try“ being the operative word), which eventually drove me further towards the stage, where I could enjoy the set free from such distractions. And speaking of distractions, that Aussie fiddler player they tour with was driving me crazy with his head-bobbing, foot-stomping, seaside-inspired fun. “Watch out for scurvy, me matey!” I half-expected him to shout every time he approached a microphone. But the crowd ate it up. Which of course is why playing too many shows like this one is probably the best way to ruin a great band, because those cheers get subliminally stored, like Pavlov’s dog, until the band might as well be backing Bruce Springsteen. That said, The National remain a magical act. My favorite moments: When Berninger introduced “Green Gloves” as a love song and sang it so tenderly that you could almost forget it is about creeping into the homes of his friends and riffling through their shit; and hearing a new song, “Blood Buzz Ohio”, that was a revelation, tender yet powerful, which is just what makes the band so great.

3. Tortoise: I really like early Tortoise, everything through “TNT”. After that, they got a little jazzy for me. I prefer the early concept stuff, heavy on the electronics, where they are just tripping out on sounds rather than jamming on guitars. And the great thing about this set was that it featured a lot of that earlier music. I would have rather heard them play the same set at a smaller indoor club, like the Double Door, where everyone was grooving with what they were doing, but it was also fun to see them outdoors, with the storm clouds threatening overhead.

4. Beirut: I have a soft spot for soaring Balkan melodies. I’ve often wondered why some American pop star hadn’t thought of mining this rich vein of musical ideas. Well, now someone has. I love the accordion. I love the horns. Most of all, I love the music’s maudlin flair. Too often, when an American band kypes musical stylizations from some other part of the planet, they are more concerned with mimicking the superficial elements of the sound but totally ignore the music’s passion, it’s purpose, it’s soul (Vampire Weekend comes to mind, but the culprits are many). Thankfully, Zach Condon and company are swinging for the fences here, and their live show had moments of real beauty. Unfortunately, we spent most of the set standing next to a nearby stage, getting a good spot for the National, so I think that I need to see Beirut again in a more intimate setting. But this taste had me wanting more.

5. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: So clean, so young, so poppy, in that 80’s, Teenage Fanclub-meets-the Psychedelic Furs kind of way, I immediately wanted to love these guys. Then I remembered the brief dalliance I had being a Dashboard Confessional fan after grooving on all the young girls screaming along with them at Lollapalooza a few years back, and I was put on guard. In the four years that I’ve done this blog, I’ve only regretted two of the entries, and my review of Dashboard Confessional is one of them because, upon further reflection, I must admit that Dashboard Confessional pretty much sucks. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart looked like well-scrubbed college kids, singing happy songs, so excited to be there, and I tried not to reflexively love them. Yes, they’ve got catchy bass lines, and that atmospheric, 4AD guitar fuzz is a cool sound, but both the male lead and female back-up singer really didn’t have much resonance, at least live, and all their songs were pretty much plowing the same narrow ground. So I kept telling myself at the time. But I’ve caught myself unconsciously humming “Young Adult Friction” several times in the past three days, so they must be doing something right. A bit of a guilty pleasure, certainly nothing original, but a pleasure nonetheless.

6. Built to Spill: I’ll start off by saying these guys were playing a solid set, and they had some catchy hooks, but after Jesus Lizard’s incendiary performance, it was kind of a drag to stand there and watch them slog through their show. Then Doug Martsch began one of his 5-minute guitar solos, and I made my way to the exit.

7. Lindstrom: Let me note that if this Norwegian trance beat composer was blasting his tunes in my backyard, I would probably have danced for hours. But a lot of this was way too hyper for the setting. It was like we were listening to a soundtrack for some 2nd tier 80’s action movie, like Rutger Hauer was about to burst on stage and kick Lindstrom in the groin.

8. Yo La Tengo: I’ve tried with this band, but I just don’t get it. The set list had been requested beforehand online by the audience, so I guess I can’t blame Yo La Tengo for the song selection. But there was a lot of generic rocking out that totally bored me. I’d occasionally perk up when they’d play one of their catchier songs, like “Stockholm Syndrome”. I was about to wind my way closer to the stage, to give them another chance, when Ira let loose with what had to be at least an 8-minute guitar solo, while the rest of the band kept repeating the same 3-note riff ad nauseum. This sent me scrambling away, figuring I’d get a good spot for the Jesus Lizard show. So I guess that I should thank Yo La Tengo for that.