DV Cassette Club will be part of Open Source / Open Ear, which opens July 28 and runs through August 11 at Mess Hall in Rogers Park (Chicago). The website states:

The objective of this show is to bring into focus diverse sound practices that resist conventional modes of production, distribution, performance or perception.

Homemade instruments, atonal noise experiments, self organized and improvisational models of collaboration and performance, technological detournement and reappropriated consumer objects suggest a sustained undercurrent of subcultural sounding activity, gathered here for critical reflection, exchange and experimentation.

This exhibition will accommodate a gallery installation of submissions and projects and a series of daytime workshops and evening performances. This will be accompanied by a website, small publication and compilation cd.

Tim Ivison is the mastermind behind Open Source / Open Ear, orchestrating the numerous events, happenings, and performances being put on over the two week duration. You can peruse the Calendar for events that may spark your interest.

Sadly, DV Cassette Club won’t be performing live (I don’t even know that I could without more equipment and five more people). But there are three songs that will worm their way into the show in some form. Check it out, and enjoy some sound.

And the nominees for Best Aerobics Video are:

• OK Go / A Million Ways (100KB/Sec / 300KB/Sec / 750KB/Sec)
• Le Tigre / Deceptacon (Lo / Hi)
• Some Old Finnish Couple / Discotanssin (it really kicks in about half-way through)

The Academy may now place their votes.

There is a moment during Fugazi and Jem Cohen’s documentary Instrument where kids hanging around outside a Fugazi concert are asked what “punk” means. The responses are as varied as the concert-goers being asked. They swing from expletive laden rants about breaking things and not caring, to commentary on the teen DIY culture that spawned bands like Fugazi.

Recently Nike has sponsored an East coast skate tour. To promote the tour, they produced a poster “inspired by Minor Threat’s album cover.”

The image above is a side-by-side comparison of the original album cover (left) and the Nike poster (right). The similarities are obvious. However, this “inspired” version was done without the permission of Minor Threat or Dischord records. The question that arises is, is it OK? Indie culture has long been appropriating corporate images and logos and twisting them for a laugh and to give the finger to the man. It’s all been fair game and talk of creative commons. So now that a corporation turns around and returns the favor, everyone is up in arms. So where is the foul?

Nike issued an apology today stating that the poster was designed “by skateboarders for skateboarders,” to shift blame from the Nike corporation and point the finger at a group of street rats (Nike approved the design, then paid for the printing and distributed it). I understand that Minor Threat and skateboarding culture goes hand in hand, but Minor Threat and corporate culture do not go hand in hand. The entire ethos behind Ian MacKaye and his cohorts was to buck corporate trends in favor of a more human approach. Dischord records does not sell t-shirts, patches, sweatbands, hoodies, tea cozies, or tube socks. Merchandising has never been part of the label’s mission. The idea that Minor Threat would sign off on using their image to shill some sneakers is preposterous. As a result, Dischord has put out a statement: “Nike stole it and we’re not happy about it.”

Jason Kottke thinks that Dischord sounds “more like a big company afraid of losing their intellectual property.” He goes on to say, “Isn’t punk all about taking without permission?”

Punk is all about taking without permission? When I read that statement I was reminded of the kid interviewed in Jem Cohen’s documentary who stated that punk was about breaking stuff and hurting people. Anyone who has attended a Fugazi concert knows that the last thing Fugazi promotes is violence. They’ll stop a show mid-song to lecture anyone who is involved in a fight. There are versions of punk about being crude, hateful, and aggressive and there are versions about treating people fairly and equally. Does Fugazi not qualify as “punk” because they won’t let you kick someone in the head at their concert? Calling out Dischord because they discourage theft is like yelling at some kid because his hair is more fauxhawk than mohawk. Who made up the punk rules?

The definitions of punk are legion. But to accuse Dischord of turning against their own ethics is short sighted. Maybe they are worried about their intellectual property, but whose definition of punk should they be measured against, Kottke’s or theirs? Maybe Kottke’s version of punk is about “taking without permission,” but Dischord’s doesn’t seem to be.

Sidenote: To be fair to Jason Kottke, he may still be recovering emotionally from his legal brush with Sony. Jason, Dischord isn’t Sony. Let it go.

As Maria and I were unpacking and organizing all of our stuff, I was sifting through all of my art books and cringing that I actually owned some of them. Some were purchased as gifts for me, some I bought out of obligation because people I know are featured in them, some were recommended to me and I bought a copy before really thinking about who the recommendation was coming from, and some were just the results of the foibles of youth.

For example, I pulled a copy of “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity” out of a box and visibly flinched. I’ve had this book for over seven years and have never made it past page 10 without throwing up a little in my mouth. The editorial review over at Amazon.com reads, “Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan lead you through a comprehensive twelve-week program to recover your creativity…” It then goes on to state, “This book links creativity to spirituality by showing how to connect with the creative energies of the universe, and has, in the four years since its publication, spawned a remarkable number of support groups for artists dedicated to practicing the exercises it contains.”

“Twelve week program?” “Links spirituality to creativity?” “Energies of the universe?” “Support groups for artists?” How did this worm its way into my library? It was like opening a box of memorabilia only to find the signed Michael Bolton CD your aunt gave you for your birthday in ‘92 - Michael sitting backwards in a chair, arms folded, mullet cascading over his shoulders, and his beady eyes staring directly at you as if, in a horrible case of mistaken identity, you were his lady.

I almost feel like that copy of “The Artist’s Way” owns me more than I own it. I don’t want to own it any more, but it seems to declare ownership of my taste: “You are the kind of guy who would actually have a new-agey book about overcoming your artistic impotence.”

No matter how many rotten apples I may find in my collection of books and CDs, every item says something about the evolution of my taste. From the books I want to resell, to the CDs I’ve been continuously listening to for the last fifteen years.

Books I really need to get rid of:
• The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity
• See above.
• Impressionism
• An overview of Impressionism’s major artists with thick glossy pages.
• Broken Spirits
• Cheeseball artsy photos of dead animals - sensitive goth art.
• Butoh: Dance of the Dark Soul
• You just don’t want pictures of naked writhing Butoh actors in the house with kids. That stuff will scar them for life.

Books I’ve had for years and still enjoy:
• Siddhartha / Herman Hesse
• Neuromancer / William Gibson
• The Book of Three / Lloyd Alexander

CDs I really need to get rid of:
• Breakfast in the Field / Michael Hedges
• The Uplift Mofo Party Plan / The Red Hot Chili Peppers
• Sausage / Riddles Are Abound Tonight

CDs I’ve had for years and still enjoy:
• Zenyatta Mondatta / The Police
• By far the best Police album. Sting was still a little fresh at this point.
• Blind / The Sundays
• What happened to Harriet and David? They really need to put out another album.
• Walk Together, Rock Together / 7 Seconds
• A staple of my jr. high years that was very formative in my tastes and social views.
• World Machine / Level 42
• The best of 1980’s cheesy pop. Everything fell into place for this album.
• Margin Walker (13 Songs) / Fugazi
• I remember when Spencer Barton lent me this cassette in 9th grade - the opening bass line to “Waiting Room,” the headshot of Ian MacKay on the front covered in some white junk. Perfect.
• Crazy Moon / The Stench
• Another Spencer Barton contribution to my delinqunece. I was so excited that someone was making music like this in Utah.
• I Wonder / Bad Yodelers
• Same as above.
• S/T / Crowded House
• This was my introduction to Neil Finn’s songwriting. I’m still a fan of all his work.
• So Far / Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
• Neil Young did his best work on this album.
• Document / REM
• It was all downhill from here.
• Bone Machine / Tom Waits
• Not necessarily the best of his albums, but the one I’ve had the longest.
• Nothing Shocking / Jane’s Addiction
• More consistent than Ritual de lo Habitual.
• I Against I / Bad Brains
• Their crazy energy and political lyrics were perfect for my little 10th grade leanings. Lent to me by the only black kid in our high school.

Jason Rabb has just launched his new web site. You may know Jason from such bands as the Ents, Gladbirds, Season of the Spring, Ampersand, Soylant, Rope or Bullets, Foil Kit Lampy, Spanky van Dyke or from his solo work. Or you may not know Jason at all, but you should because he’s a talented guy (as are most of the people he works with).

Check out his site and download some of his music. You won’t regret it. And if you’re in Utah, go see Spanky van Dyke live, or if you’re in San Fran on July 24, go see them at Cafe du Nord.

And while you’re out and about, jog on over to UbuWeb to see Otis Fodder’s 365 Project in it’s glorious entirety — complete with extended comments, images, and mp3s. If you missed it in it’s original incarnation, it now has a permanent home on UbuWeb.

And since all good things happen in threes: you really should visit The Child Who Was a Keyhole if you haven’t already. They have a few mp3s you can download to whet your appetite before their full-length album is released (sometime in the next few years).

End plugs.

About a year and a half ago, I came across a little Kawasaki toy keyboard in a Florida thrift store. I harvested batteries from the shelves of talking dolls and remote control cars to get the keyboard juiced up. I flicked the switch, hit the disco beat and was immediately sold. Now I have six keyboards and an organ, each with unique sounds and beats. One even has a built-in tape player so you can play along with your favorite cassettes. My prize possession is my Casio SK-1; just like the one Mar-Tie used to play. You can record sounds and play them back on the keyboard for hours of fun. But can I play the keyboards well? Well, no.

There was one point in my life when I could really play the piano. I used to play concertos in competitions and do fairly well. Then I turned twelve, turned my back on the piano, and never looked back. My mother swore that I would regret that day. Now that I look back on it, I can honestly say that I don’t.

Having been “trained” for years to be an artist, there are many times when I almost wish I never had attended a drawing class in my life. I look at children and self-taught artists (real self-taught artists who were never in a gallery until they died) and there is a joy about producing, a drive to make things, and an unselfconsciousness about the work that is really inspiring. Having attended graduate school, intellectualism now bogs me down every time I sit down to make something. There isn’t the same fun I had as a kid when I would belly up to the kitchen table with a pencil and a piece of scrap paper to draw the monster masks I saw at Taylor Made in the mall. That was fun.

I have commented to my wife (much to her anger) that I wish I was in a terrible car accident or had a lobotomy that would render me incapable of anything. I would have to learn to walk again, talk again, and draw again. But this time, I would not learn to draw at school. Then I could really enjoy art again. Drastic? Yes. Do I really want this to hapen? No. Getting potty-trained all over again would not be worth it.

What killed the fun I used to find in art? Grad school. In graduate school I was tired of talking about art that wasn’t even finished. I almost never wanted to finish a piece after discussing it mid-execution with six different teachers for an hour each. After meeting with my professors, I could see all the piece’s short comings and every way that it was an utterly failed attempt at art. The best I could do was scrap it and do something else, praying that I could do better this time.

After our first year in graduate school, my friends Laurie and Stacza decided to form the Art is Fun Club to combat the fun-crushing committees we encountered every day. The Art is Fun Club was the antithesis of committee meetings. We would get together weekly to do something fun with art. We made soap, had Bad Art Night (where we were commanded to not produce anything “good”), watched a Marx Brothers movie, and created gifts in under 15 minutes. It was very liberating to make something that wasn’t going to be judged or evaluated by our professors.

I have forgotten most everything about playing the piano. I can read music, albeit very slowly, but that’s about it. I can’t remember any of the songs I used to play, I don’t remember any real theory, and playing with both hands at the same time is out of the question. I love it! I can make up my own songs, using my own rules, and no professionals are evaluating my performance at every turn. I write stupid, simplistic songs using the most amateurish equipment. It’s like being a self-taught musician. I’m considering dropping art for 17 years so I can start to enjoy it in the future.

ARTnews recently published an editorial declaring “The 10 Most Expensive Living Artists.” Featured on this list are Lucian Freud, Jasper Johns, Jeff Koons, Brice Marden, Bruce Nauman, Robert Rauschenberg, Gerhard Richter, Richard Serra, Frank Stella, and Cy Twombly. The second tier includes Chuck Close, David Hockney, Ellsworth Kelly, Anselm Kiefer, Claes Oldenburg, Robert Ryman, and Wayne Thiebaud. Although these lists consist of painters, sculptors, and artists who are both, the works that command the highest prices are typically the paintings. Johns, Rauschenberg, Stella, Koons, and Twombly all dabble in both 2D and 3D art, but their paintings fetch higher prices. So, roughly speaking, 14 of the top 17 most expensive living artists are painters. Painting gets the most press, painting gets the best real estate in art schools, painting fetches the highest prices at auction.

I am not setting out to debate the ethical merits or moral ramifications of art forms. I am talking pure social phenomenon and popularity, I am talking money, I am talking about self-proclaimed experts of cultural tides, I am talking polls and top ten lists, newspapers, magazines, television, talk shows, clip art, marketing, word of mouth, word count, dollar amount, notoriety, cliches and icons.

Painting has been enjoying a prime spot atop the art hierarchy for generations, its throne only occasionally overturned by sculpture. When painting is on top, sculptural trends lean towards painterly forms and compositions — David Smith’s work of the late 50’s for example. When sculpture steals the lime light, painting moves into sculptural representation — during the Middle Ages, paintings would often be rendered in black and white to resemble bas relief sculpture. When one class tops the other, the underdog takes on the characteristics of the other to glean some attention. Just like the Republicans and the Democrats (but who can really tell them apart any more?).

I’ve never really been one for a two party system, especially in art. I propose there is, and has been for quite some time, a third party. That third party is music. More specifically, I’d say that Rock and Roll can be more popular, democratic, and lucrative than either painting or sculpture. Consider a few points:

• Take another look at the list of expensive artists. It’s a boy’s club. Given, it’s a bit less misogynistic than a list of top grossing pop musicians (Eminem, Mick Jagger, Jay-Z, or the self-inflicted misogyny of Madonna), but there is still nary a woman to be found near the list.
• Is there a CD player in your house (if you’re a real lo-fi snob, turn tables count)? I’ll wager there is at least one. I’ll also wager that there is at least a small collection of music recordings. And if you’re anything like me, there is a bloated music collection that continually outgrows any shelving method. Now compare that with your holdings of paintings and sculptures, actual or reproductions, and the money spent on them compared to music.
• Glance around the contemporary art world. Many of the artists that are making waves are either in a rock band, have been in a rock band, or really want to be in a rock band. Many of the best rock bands have been formed by art school students. They may not be the most lucrative musicians, but they are very influential. I doubt many musicians feel they should watch a Matthew Barney video before sitting down to write or have paintings on the walls of their studio, but you’d be hard pressed to find an artist’s studio devoid of a CD player.
• The vogue in contemporary art is to have a “punk rock” aesthetic or attitude. Much of the art is inexorably tied to a musical culture, whether it be hip-hop, punk, garage, indie, or what have you. Painting is trying to look like musical culture.
• Musicians receive royalties for their work. Few artists get kick-backs when their work is resold at auction, unless you live in select areas of Europe. Australia is working to pass a bill to give artists resale royalties, but America has yet to enact such a mechanism.
• The music industry has a better system of distribution set up than the art world. Venues for record sales and touring are much more plentiful than galleries or museums.
• Music reproductions are viewed as entirely acceptable and even sought after. Reproductions of paintings and sculptures are often seen as cheap knock-offs unless the reproductions are limited editions. But the price tag drops significantly along with the cachet of owning one.
• Despite the high cost of CDs these days, they’re still more affordable than paintings or sculptures.

Perhaps “fine art’s” survival and evolution can be found in taking a few notes from the music world. Contemporary art’s mimicry of musical culture can end up its saving grace. A more grass-roots distribution system, a tasteful employment of reproductions, a resale royalty mechanism, and a good sense of fun could really help to enliven the fine arts and keep them from spiraling into the navel gazing, intellectual boredom imposed on them by the art world literati. It might even keep me from using words like “literati.”

I found this in my studio in Columbus. I believe it was a flyer for some club in Pittsburgh.

This is a great quote from Tom Waits. I heard a version of it during an interview on Late Night with David Letterman, but I came across this in print on the Shortlist website:

“I drove on a field trip once, to a guitar factory, to show all these little kids how to make guitars. So we’re standing there, and I’m just waiting for someone to recognize me — “Hey, aren’t you that singer guy?” Nobody. Nothing. We’re there for two hours, watching them put the frets on, and I’m waiting and waiting… A week later, I took the same group of kids on a field trip to the dump, and as I pulled up, don’t ask me how, but my truck was surrounded by people that wanted an autograph. It was a dump, for [Pete]’s sake. I guess everybody knows me at the dump.”

I just purchased tickets for American Music Club’s show at the Old Town School of Folk Music. I’m still a bit light-headed with a I-just-purchased-fabulous-tickets-over-the-phone giddiness. The show isn’t until March, so I’m sure the lustre of my excitement will wear off a smidge by then.

This is something I have been wanting to see for a long time and figured it would never happen as they disbanded after they released 1994’s San Francisco. I haven’t even seen Mark Eitzel live! He and I keep passing like strangers in the night. Mostly because every concert he has in my vicinity is on a Sunday and I have this pesky conscience that tells me to keep the Sabbath Day holy. So it would be more appropriate to say that he and I keep passing like strangers on a Sunday - one on his way to church and the other a philistine with fantastic songwriting abilities.

The Old Town School of Folk Music’s website announced that this was only one of three shows scheduled in the country. This makes it all the more exciting. I can now use my tickets as a means of showing my superior taste and initiative to all of my friends that aren’t so lucky or cultured to attend.

No.

I shall mend my ways. I will only use my tickets for good. Darned conscience.

My wife and I attended the Q and not U concert this last week at the Bottom Lounge. It was an all-ages show, meaning that we had to brace ourselves to feel our age. I thought that some of the crowd would still be in high school, but I really didn’t expect to be the oldest in the room (except for the older gentleman with the moustache who was wandering the floor either looking for his children or his marbles). Many of the concert goers still had their school bags on their backs with their spiral-bound notebooks and homework sticking our of the zippers. I was picturing these kids’ mothers licking a tissue and wiping some oatmeal from their chins before patting them on the heads and sending them off to the nice concert.

Maria and I had to stand against the wall since her back has been giving her troubles and I have bad knees (sure signs of our pre-30’s antiquity). We positioned ourselves to the right of the stage by the entrance to the bathrooms and backstage. I had a good vantage point to watch the crowd and the concert as the show started.

As Black Eyes took the stage, I became distracted by the constant flashing of photo bulbs. I looked around and saw a half dozen kids with digital cameras snapping shots of the band. Continuing to scan the crowd, I spotted at least three more kids with glowing cell phones raised above their heads. I thought that this may be the poor man’s way of having their friends experience the show, or a more modern version of the power ballad cigarette lighter, but they were camera phones taking more photos. After Q and not U began to play, a kid in front of me blocked my view as he held up his behemoth flash to take a few pictures. More kids with cameras in hand bumped into me as they rushed by to get backstage. Moments later, staccato flashes emitting from stage right lit up the band.

I am familiar with press photographers shooting concerts for zines. I know that there are a few people out there with blogs who, for some reason or another, like to photograph every show they go to and gain some amount of social currency. But actual news should be so well documented.

I yearn for the days when a photographer had to know exposure times, f-stops, film speeds, camera models, and had to expend money on film that may be wasted with a bad shot. Now any kid with oatmeal on his chin and a few hundred dollars in his pocket can pop flash blulbs like a paparazzo. Digital cameras are hampering my concert-going experience.

I suppose I just need to adapt - ignore the camera flashes, turn a deaf ear the blaring cell phones, overlook the cigarette smoke stinging my eyes, and give no heed to my aching knees. Either that, or grow a moustache and wander the concert floor looking for my marbles.

Footnote - Q and not U puts on an amazing show. They are now on my list of Top 5 Live Acts. Sorry I have no pictures to show you.

When I began college nearly ten years ago, I started working for a small, single-screen movie theater known as the Academy. The Academy Theater was located in the sleepy downtown of Provo, Utah. My co-workers were other college students or high school students all biding time for minimum wage. The work was simple - we worked for a half hour schlepping tickets, popcorn, candy, and overpriced soda, then we played cards, did homework, or chatted for an hour and a half while the movie played.

We often commented how we could write a sit-com set in the theater. Each of the employees was a character in their own right. We had the managers - a divorcee with a child and a high school senior who would make out in the dry storage room; the gay Hispanic; the gay, deaf kid; the large and loveable drunk; the womanizer; the long-haired death metal enthusiast; the high school cheerleader; and myself, the straight-man. John Hughes could not ask for a better cast.

Besides the cast of employees, the patrons would provide a sufficient amount of comedy. However, from the hundreds of bizarre and hilarious encounters with moviegoers, the most memorable was Mar-Tie Productions. Mar-Tie was an elderly gentleman, approximately 85, in sandals, a poorly knotted tie, full suit, and a Casio SK-1 keyboard tucked under his arm. His eyes were a crazy, clear blue, his hair was always disheveled, and he always seemed to have some half-chewed nuts sitting in the corner of his mouth.

He introduced himself as Mar-Tie Productions when he tripped into the theater in the summer of 1993 just to see a movie, any movie. He just wanted to get out of the oppressive desert heat. The movie happened to be Sliver starring Sharon Stone and Billy Baldwin. Our box-office worker took pity on him since he was apparently homeless and a little mentally ill. She did not want anyone to have to pay unnecessarily for such an atrocious piece of cinema. She let him in for free, he went inside, and fell asleep for two showings.

Since then, he would come back frequently for free movies/naps in our air-conditioned and near empty house. But each time he came, he insisted on singing for his supper. He would set his toy keyboard on the counter, look into my eyes and say, “What’s your name?” “Chris,” I would reply. “What do you like to do?” “Draw and paint,” I would say. “And your eyes are… brown!” Then he would turn the keyboard on, start up a pre-programmed beat, and begin crooning a sloppy, improvised song all about me. He would hunt-and-peck for notes on the keyboard, the time signatures would change often and erratically, and it was clear that he had little to no musical talent.

He would also regale us with songs about Navajo ladies and their long skirts, what he did when he woke up in the morning, or his fantasies about our manager upstairs brushing her red hair.

He became a mascot of sorts - a slightly off-kilter, tuneless mascot. I don’t say that to belittle him. We loved Mar-Tie. We loved his ridiculous, clumsy songs. We loved his strange fixations with Native Americans and our manager. We loved when customers informed us of the old man on the back row that they were afraid was dead. He embodied all of the quirkiness of our theater and then some. He even seemed to usurp our roles as main characters in our own theater sit-com.

Mar-Tie would disappear every winter and reappear every summer. Each winter we assumed he died, but he would return a few months later insisting that he was only hibernating. But one year he didn’t return. We never took a picture of Mar-Tie Productions. We never knew his real name. All that I have left to prove that he existed are three audiotapes he recorded of his improvised songs and gave to us. I still listen to them. Mar-Tie is still my mascot.

Navajo Lady, 1994 audio tape Mar-Tie Productions

Postscript
07.09.03
The mystery of Mar-Tie has been revealed. On the 365 Days Project, Otis included the article written by Mar-Tie’s grandson, Phil Jacobsen, for the Salt Lake City Weekly shortly after Mar-Tie’s death. Maybe he’s just hibernating.

Mar-Tie Bibliography

• A message group commenting on Mar-Tie’s “performance” with Rainer Maria at Kilby Court in Utah.